In the room's half-light, two glossy black eyes fixed on me like marbles. I blinked, stunned.
My gaze darted around, chest heaving. Ashur was braced over me on the bed, holding me down. I stared up at him, throat tight, my body trembling.
The Doctor's twisted face flashed in my head. The leather-clad little girl. That lab they kept me in as a child.
Damn my past—it was no different from a nightmare.
Damn me.
Damn all of it.
Tears streamed. I shook all over, and his grip on my arms was still rough. Our faces were close; at this distance he looked strange, dangerous—unknowable.
'I thought something happened,' he said. 'When I came in, you were trying to scream.'
No sound came out of me. I just stared.
His hands closed over my narrow shoulders. Under his broad, heavy ones, I felt too small.
I tried to shove him away, voice breaking—but he didn't move.
I locked my unsteady gaze on his, dragged air into my lungs. Ashur's here. We're in a safe house. That woman with the perfect blonde hair isn't here. The Doctor isn't here. The leather girl isn't here.
They were nightmares. Not real…
(Except they were real. They were never just nightmares—they're my past. My memories. So dark and ugly that remembering them feels like a nightmare.)
Sweat plastered hair to my forehead. My hoodie clung to my skin; the bullet wound burned.
'I—It was a dream.' I said it more to myself than to him. I needed the reminder just to pull myself together.
He broke eye contact. After a long beat, he shifted back, widening the space between us, and let me go. He flicked on the bedside lamp; thin white light washed the room.
'Your doctor left,' he said.
I pushed up on an elbow, grabbed the jug, and drank straight from it. Setting it down, breathless, I asked, 'How long was I out?'
He stepped away from the bed, hands in his pockets, eyes settling on the bloodstained bandage on my thigh. 'A full day.'
I stared, swallowed hard, and sagged against the headboard, heat prickling under my skin like fever.
'Are you… a-afraid of the Doctor?' His rough voice cut in.
I looked at him, startled—maybe I'd been talking in my sleep. My hands balled; I dragged my hate-filled gaze to the half-open door. 'No. I'm not afraid of him. I hate him.'
His smirk scraped my nerves raw. I shoved damp hair off my neck and glared.
'You're afraid of the Doctor,' he said again, tilting his head.
I glowered harder. He gave a small, odd smile, eyes flat and chilling. 'Strange, isn't it… you see someone in your nightmare—and I'm his nightmare.
I froze. How did he keep doing this—disarming me, minute after minute? I could talk to him for hours and he'd still find a way to surprise me.
To ditch the topic, I rasped, 'I thought the Organisation didn't let anyone with a physical impairment keep working. So why was the doctor they sent us… mute?' I sank back into the pillow and added, 'I've never seen an operative with a disability. As far as I know, they either get exiled, or they're sent to Recycling.'
Something flickered in his eyes. I'd forgotten he'd once been sent to Recycling.
In the Rose Organisation, Recycling was a slaughterhouse. When you were no longer useful, they killed you—then made the most of what was left.
I studied Ashur. Had he once been useless to them, too? Dumped in a pit to die? And the boy the Viper was supposed to kill… killed the Viper.
He leaned back against the wall, arms folded, that cold stare pinning me. 'There are three core branches in the Organisation. Red Rose—the elite and hackers. Blue Rose—the assassins and special operatives. And White Rose—the ones who've reached the highest tier of loyalty.'
I blinked, thrown. How had I never heard of White Rose? I'd always thought it was just Red for hackers and Blue for field and spy work.
He paused, then went on, quieter:
Some operatives reach a level of loyalty that earns them the White card—the White Rose,' he said. 'It means they give the Organisation permission to use them as it wishes.'
I breathed, stunned. 'You mean they agree to be made deaf, or blind, or mute?'
He nodded. 'The Organisation needs people like that for its black ops. They call them Shadows. Usually deaf, sometimes mute—most of them are blind. They just do the job. No goal except erasing the Organisation's enemies.'
I stared. He went on, cool and steady: 'Some are chosen at random—or m… maimed in childhood on purpose. They're the richest in the Organisation, the most connected, the most powerful. And since they've already chosen the White card once, they're trusted. They don't b… betray. Ever.'
I blinked hard. He must've read my face, because he gave a thin smile, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, 'White Rose is always a hidden trump card. Almost nobody knows about them—only a few.'
My frown deepened. 'Then why are you telling me?'
He smirked. 'B… because you told me my activation code. That gives me permission to answer a few of your questions—just not the one about my… special trait.'
"He looked at me straight on, expressionless, and said:
'And since you're curious, I'll tell you this… Don't get too curious about me.
Because the day you uncover my genetic secret… th—they'll kill you.'"