My hand hovers over her neck.

  The Brute leans in. Air whistles through his mask. He wants the snap of cartilage.

  Grace squeezes her eyes shut. Her neck is a thin, pale stalk. Vulnerable.

  Beneath the surface, the artery thuds against my fingertip. It begs to be stopped.

  Snap it. Feed the Echo.

  I pull my hand back. I wipe my palm on my thigh. Hard. Removing grease that isn't there.

  "No."

  The word lands on tile and metal.

  The Brute stiffens. His hand stays on his sword. "Sir? She is vibrating with hysteria. She creates disturbance. Scrap her."

  I step into his space and point a scarred finger at Grace. "Look at the hands."

  She tries to hide them in her sleeves, but I am faster.

  "Rough. Scored deep from friction. That is a grip that does not slip."

  I grab her shoulder. I shake it. Once. Her feet do not move.

  "Look at the frame. Compact. Dense. A short pillar holds more weight than a tall one."

  I turn my dead eyes to the Brute. I let the silence stretch until he shifts his weight.

  "You want me to scrap a functioning unit just because it makes noise? That is inefficient, Unit 8."

  I release her. Her arms snap to her chest, hiding the shoulders I just evaluated. She stumbles back, colliding with Rory. He pulls her into his shadow, shielding her from the Brute's line of sight.

  "But the temper of her spirit," the Brute grates. He steps closer. He blocks the white light between us. "She is volatile. Volatility breaks the line."

  "That is what the brand is for, Unit 8," I say. My voice is a flat line. "The brand weeds out the hysteria. By the time she reaches the Nursery, she will be silent."

  The word Nursery slips past my teeth.

  A phantom scent hits me. Crushed petals. Heavy, cloying perfume. Thick enough to coat the back of the throat. I do not know this smell. But the skin remembers.

  The Brute flinches. A microscopic jerk of the head. He hates that place. I file the reaction in the meat of my brain.

  Why did I say that? I meant the barracks.

  I do not correct myself. Weakness is fatal.

  I lean in. I invade his space. "We do not waste meat. Not until it is spent. Do I make myself clear?"

  The Brute stares at me. The silver mask reflects a face of scar tissue and cold logic.

  He hesitates. A long, dangerous second.

  His hand drops from his sword.

  "Clear."

  Grace watches the hand drop. She understands. The end isn't coming.

  Panic distorts her face. She lunges. "No! No, please! Just finish it! You promised!"

  I turn to the squad. "Apply a silencer."

  A Collector grabs Grace. He shoves a ball of rough wool into her open mouth. The begging dies in her throat. It turns into a wet, muffled choke.

  Behind her, Billy goes rigid. He stares at a point on the white tile that does not exist.

  Maud reaches out. Her trembling fingers pluck a piece of lint from Grace's muddy blue cloak. "Mustn't meet the King in dirty clothes, dear," she whispers to the air. "Must be tidy."

  The line moves.

  Grace looks back at me. The begging in her eyes has hardened. I stand still and let her hate land. It settles in my gut, a bitter, necessary fuel for the Echo.

  They drag her.

  I wait for the rejection. For the flesh to lose its grip on the bone. For the Voice to scream TRAITOR as my face slides onto my chest.

  Nothing happens.

  My reflection in the Brute's breastplate holds. The scar tissue remains firm. The mole on my cheek does not move.

  It worked.

  Relief floods the chest. I breathe it out.

  The line shuffles into the processing chamber. The iron door groans open, revealing a fresh expanse of aggressive white tile.

  We step inside. The smell hits. A chemical slap. Bleach. It eats the rot in my sinuses. The air is too clean. It smells like things being hidden.

  Two grey smudges at the edge of my sight solidify into Grimm and Stitch. The technicians. They freeze. Statues in aprons. Grimm's hands are black with oil. Stitch pauses mid-wring. The sponge weeps pink water.

  My lungs seize. The breath I just released is sucked back in.

  I was just next door. In the Deep Vault. I tore that room apart. I rampaged through the corridor.

  Have they been here the whole time? Did they hear the screams through the wall? If they heard, I am compromised.

  I scan them. Grimm is a wall of pale meat shielding the corner. Stitch vibrates. He stares at the grout lines.

  The room is spotless. The tiles reflect the overhead glare. The grout has been scrubbed raw. The handprint that once smeared the wall is gone.

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  I curl my lip. I let Maximus's disdain fill my chest. It smothers the fear of being discovered.

  "Inadequate."

  My voice is low. A vibration in the floor.

  Grimm sidesteps, trying to block the corner with his bulk. He fails.

  A heavy canvas tarp is draped over a shape. Large. Irregular. It is leaking. The fluid creeps across the tiles.

  Grimm's forehead is a map of sweat. Droplets stand out on his forehead like blisters.

  "Sir," Grimm stammers. "We weren't expecting you. The schedule said—"

  "The schedule is irrelevant."

  The Brute shoves Rory forward. Rory stumbles. He hits the floor hard. Grace follows. Then Billy. They look around the room. They see the needles. The slab.

  Grace makes a sound. A high whine behind the wool gag.

  "Set them up," the Brute grates. "Strap them down."

  I raise a hand.

  "Wait."

  I have to stop this. I have to buy them time.

  Delay risks instability.

  I walk to the nearest table. I extend a finger. I drag it across the metal surface.

  I hold it up. The finger is clean. To a human eye, it is spotless.

  I stare at it like it's coated in sewage.

  "Filth."

  The word hangs.

  Stitch blinks. "Sir?"

  The skin on my cheek loosens. An oily slide of flesh.

  You are slipping. You are becoming wide again.

  I grind my teeth. I force the jaw back into place.

  Maximus does not accept failure. He does not accept mediocrity.

  Silence. I am the architect. I do not build on dirty foundations.

  The pressure in my skull recedes. The skin tightens. I am silent until the technicians' ragged breathing is the loudest sound in the room.

  I advance on Stitch, moving with the crushing certainty of a closing door.

  "Look at it," I snarl. I shove my clean finger in his face.

  Stitch shrinks back, clutching his sponge.

  I point to the prisoners. To my neighbours. "This is premium stock. High-value assets. And you want to process them in a pigsty?"

  I grab Stitch's collar. I haul him close. "Are you trying to sabotage my work, Stitch?"

  "No!" Stitch squeaks. Eyes bulge. "No, sir! I cleaned it! I swear!"

  Stitch scrambles back. He drops the sponge. It hits the floor with a wet slap. He falls to his knees. He grabs the hem of his sleeve and scrubs the tile. He spits. Rubs.

  Grimm's eyes flick to the tarp. Then back to me.

  The blood from the tarp is a dark, sluggish tongue reaching for my boot.

  I pin Grimm with a stare, watching the pulse jump in his neck. "Are you going to watch your technician scrub until his bones are through the skin? Help him. This floor is an insult."

  He forces himself into a crouch, his heavy shadow stretching across the black leak.

  I let my focus drop to the leak, then track it back to the sweat on his lip. "Unless you have something else you need to finish first?"

  Grimm goes rigid. "You're right," he stammers, the words tripping over each other. "It's a mess. Contaminated. We need to clear the floor. Everything needs to be scrubbed before we start." He waves his hands at the Collectors. "Out! Get them out!"

  The Brute growls. A deep rumble in the chest. "Sir, moving them back and forth is inefficient. Why not just finish it?"

  I pick up a scalpel from the tray, inspecting the edge as if the Brute has already vanished. "I do not repeat myself to subordinates. Move them. Stack them in the hallway. Lock them in the Deep Vault. I do not care."

  The Brute hesitates. He looks at the prisoners huddled in the corner. He looks at Stitch, who is now dry-heaving as he scrubs.

  "Move them out," the Brute grates.

  Iron snaps taut. The prisoners are hauled toward the door. Boots skid and scramble on the floor.

  Vera resists. She plants her feet. A Collector grabs her arm.

  His hand rests on her sleeve. The gauntlet trembles against the wool.

  Vera looks up at the mask. Her eyes are wide, the pupils two fixed points of ice. "Get off me!" she screams. "Don't touch me!"

  The Collector flinches. His hand drops from her arm. He takes a step back, as if the fabric burned him.

  The Brute shoves past. "Unit 11!" He grabs Vera by the hair. He drags her out.

  Unit 11 stands there. Frozen.

  I watch him. He stares at the hand that touched her. The gauntlet is still trembling.

  "Unit 11," I say.

  He turns to me. The silver face reflects nothing but my own scars.

  "Go."

  He follows the line, his steps heavy.

  I don't move. I stand in the bleach fumes. The blood from the tarp creeps closer. It touches the toe of my boot.

  The door slams.

  Silence.

  Grimm throws a towel over the blood and stomps. Stitch has stopped scrubbing. He rocks back and forth, staring at a white tile as if it is a window.

  He knows something.

  I step forward. "Report."

  Stitch flinches. "Sir! The Deep Vault! We saw it!"

  "Saw what?" I keep my voice bored. Flat.

  "Something came out." Stitch swallows. "It wasn't human, sir. It was black. Wet."

  He mimes a shape with his hands. A large, twisting shape.

  Meat.

  "And where is this monster now?"

  Grimm steps forward. "It dissolved, sir. Out in the corridor. Melted into nothing."

  "And then?" I press. "What happened next?"

  Stitch swallows again. The muscle in his throat jumps. "Then… you were there."

  The silence stretches.

  They saw the monster dissolve. Then they saw the master arrive from the same spot.

  To them, it looks like I summoned it. Or banished it.

  Or became it.

  I have to crush the thought.

  I laugh. A sharp bark.

  "You saw a shadow. A hallucination brought on by fumes." I gesture to the broken vat out in the corridor. "The Catalyst is volatile. The vapours are neurotoxic. They rot the perception."

  Stitch shakes his head. "But the chewing noise. The smell of open gut."

  "Are you questioning my assessment?" I step closer. "Are you telling me you allowed a Class 5 bio-hazard to manifest and then stood around to watch it wiggle?"

  Stitch pales. The blood drains from his face, leaving it the colour of raw dough. "No! I mean, maybe it was a hallucination."

  "It was a hallucination," Grimm agrees quickly. He nods, sweat flying. "Definitely a hallucination."

  "Good." I turn my back. "Then we don't need to file an incompetence report."

  I walk to the tarp. My boots stick to the tacky floor.

  "Now. Show me what you are hiding."

  Grimm hesitates. His hand trembles on the canvas. Then he pulls it back.

  I brace myself. I lock my knees.

  It is Ward.

  Or what is left of him.

  The headless torso lies on a bed of rust. Tubes burrow into the meat of the neck. Yellow fluid pulses through the lines. The chest rises. Falls. A mechanical, jerky rhythm.

  The heart is exposed. Ribs cracked wide. An iron clamp squeezes the muscle. Pulse. Squeeze. Pulse. Squeeze.

  My stomach heaves.

  End it.

  I reach for the tubes. I want to tear them out. To give him peace.

  Compassion is a weakness.

  My jaw slides. A millimetre to the left.

  The mask is slipping again.

  I snatch my hand back. I channel the revulsion into something else. Something colder.

  I sneer at the machinery. "Disgusting."

  I point at the clamp. "Mechanical force on biological tissue? It will necrotise in a week. Useless."

  Grimm looks wounded. "We were grafting a silver-perceptor directly to the stump. To bypass the need for a head entirely. A soldier with no face to rot. The Perfect Collector."

  "You are painting rust silver," I spit. The words tumble out of my mouth before I can think them. "This is the Old Way. I am building something eternal."

  I pause. The Old Way? Eternal? The Echo is feeding me lines from a script I haven't read.

  Stitch's mouth twitches. A nervous tic. Or a smirk. "Eternal takes time, sir. And time is the one resource we are bleeding. Unless you have a new method?"

  The scar tissue on my face burns. The need to punish is overwhelming.

  I lunge.

  I grab Stitch's wrist. I twist. He yelps. A notebook falls from his sleeve.

  I pick it up. I flip the pages. It is a log. Times. Locations. Movements.

  My movements.

  And on the last page, a sketch. A spider.

  Belladonna.

  I stare him down. "You chirp to the birds outside."

  Stitch shakes. "I just wanted insurance! In case the facility fell!"

  "You are incompetent," I snarl. "And worse, you are loose-lipped."

  I turn around. "I need silence. I need order."

  I point at Grimm. "Grimm. You are now responsible for Stitch's mouth. If he leaks a truth I did not authorise, I will cut out your tongue."

  Grimm stares at Stitch. He looks at his mouth like it is a bomb.

  "And Stitch?" I lean in. "If Grimm loses his tongue, I will take your eyes."

  Silence. Stitch swallows. Grimm watches the throat move.

  I turn my back on them. I do not check to see if they obey. I know they will.

  The path is true. The Echo of Maximus strengthens.

  It remains Faint, but its flame, once a cold ash, is now a lifeless ember.

  ||

  See? I project the thought toward the dark spot in my skull.

  I broke these men with a sentence. I fed the Echo with their fear. No butchery. No blood. I am better at this game than you.

  Movement catches my eye.

  Low on the wall. A grate.

  A flash of something pale in the darkness. An eye? A hand?

  It vanishes.

  I stare at the rusted bars.

  It creates a draught. A cold breath on the back of my neck.

  I am the master of this facility. I hold the keys. I hold the whip.

  So why do I feel like the rat?

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