Igor awoke in a cramped, windowless cubicle, his body screaming in protest from the rough handling he'd endured. Every muscle ached, a dull throb radiating from his lower back to his neck. Groaning, he pushed himself upright, one hand pressing against his sore spine, the other rubbing at the tender spot where they had stuck him with the needle.

  The air was heavy, stale, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and metal. Darkness swallowed the room, leaving only the faint glow of tiny LED lights in the door as his sole reference point. Squinting, Igor stumbled forward, tracing his fingers along the cold, featureless walls until they met the door’s smooth surface. His fingers fumbled for a handle, a latch—anything. Nothing.

  A chill ran through him. The door had no means of opening from his side. He was trapped.

  Tick. A single light flickered on, casting weak, sterile illumination over the cramped space. Tick. A screen blinked to life, its cold glow revealing the stark reality of the room—a featureless box, a single chair, and a computer waiting ominously in the center.

  A deep, mechanical voice crackled through an unseen speaker in the wall. "Hello, Subject 8. Please put on the headphones at the computer. Otherwise, suffer the consequences."

  Igor tensed. The command was direct, but the unspoken threat in the voice sent a shiver down his spine. He hesitated, suspicion clawing at his mind. "What consequences?"

  "Death."

  The voice was calm, unwavering. There was no room for negotiation. Igor’s hands curled into fists, but he knew resistance was useless. No weapons. No escape. Just an unmarked door locked from the outside and the ever-present gaze of whoever—or—whatsoever was watching him.

  With a slow breath, he lowered himself into the chair and slid the headphones over his ears.

  The computer came to life in an instant. It whirred and clicked, then began flashing images in rapid succession—faces, places, symbols—blurring together so quickly they made his head spin.

  "You will obey. Obey the angels."

  The voice slithered into Igor’s ears like a parasite burrowing into his brain. His thoughts felt like they were sinking, drowning in a sea of static commands. He fought to resist, but the headphones clamped down tighter, sealing him in an inescapable prison of sound. His muscles tensed. His breath hitched. The chair beneath him groaned as unseen locks tightened around his wings, immobilizing him. The flashing images on the screen pulsed in time with the voice, drilling deeper into his subconscious.

  Igor's struggle faded. His mind dimmed. Then, blackness.

  He woke to the sensation of rough hands dragging him. His boots scraped against metal flooring as blue-haired men in black suits hauled him forward. Beside him, Tak was being pulled along, his face blank, his body slack, just like Igor’s.

  They reached their destination: a mile-high steel cage. Towering floodlights bathed the arena in a harsh, sterile glow. Chains rattled. The scent of rusted metal and old blood hung in the air.

  "Subject 8 and Subject 9, we order you to kill each other. It’s kill or be killed."

  The electric collars around their necks—gone. The wing harnesses—unlocked. A test of their instincts, of their obedience.

  Their hands found weapons laid at their feet—Igor’s fingers curled around a massive sword, its weight grounding, its poisoned tip gleaming under the lights. Tak gripped a wicked scythe, lighter but deadlier in its curve.

  Igor’s senses were submerged in a cloud of static and flashing images, the world around him blurring into nothingness. The command had been implanted deep in his mind, but there were cracks. In the space between the images, moments of clarity would flicker, brief and fleeting like a spark against the dark. For an instant, he could hear his breath, feel his pulse. Then the voice came again, deep and insistent, drowning him out, smothering his resistance.

  When the order came to fight Tak, Igor’s body moved before he had a chance to think. The weight of the sword felt foreign in his grip, like it wasn’t his. But for a moment-a—single, precious moment—moment-the fog lifted. His mind cleared just enough to realize what he was about to do. A flash of guilt, a flicker of horror, shot through him as he saw Tak lunging at him. No... Stop. This isn’t me... But the thought was crushed, suffocated by the voice that pulsed with power in his ears. "Obey. Fight."

  Igor's body obeyed. The sword came down with a brutal force, his hand guided by invisible strings. Yet for a heartbeat, just before the steel met Tak’s sword, Igor regained himself. He saw Tak's face cold and lifeless.

  Igor stopped his sword.

  He almost broke himself free of their mind control by sheer willpower.

  Then a voice commanded him over the intercom.

  A crisp command, filtered through static, clinical, and cold:

  “Execute. Do not hesitate.”

  The words hit like a neural shock. He had lurched forward without thought, body moving before his mind caught up. Each syllable drove deeper than bone. They hadn’t come from inside his head, but they had still controlled him. Like a puppeteer tugging a string he hadn’t even known was there.

  Tak lunged first, swinging the scythe in a blur of silver. Igor barely twisted in time, the blade missing his ribs by inches. He flared his wings, surprisingly, his wings that had previously been unusable, launching himself upward, his body moving without true control. He shot toward the ceiling of the cage, flipped upside down, and pushed off like a missile—his sword aimed directly at Tak.

  Tak moved to intercept, streaking toward Igor like a shooting star. Too slow.

  Steel met skull. The sword pierced through.

  A sickening crunch. A spray of crimson.

  Tak's body seized midair, then dropped like a stone, smashing against the ground with a gut-wrenching splat.

  Igor landed gently. A predator descends after the kill. His face, his chest, his arms—painted in blood.

  And the floor—wet beneath Igor’s knees. Blood pooled, slick and hot, soaking into the threads of his gloves. He could smell it. Metallic and thick. The overhead lights buzzed louder, their white glare burning into his eyes.

  Then, as suddenly as he had fought, his body collapsed. His mind sank back into blackness. A marionette with its strings cut.

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  Igor woke with a jolt. His body ached. A deep, throbbing pain radiated from his wings and lower back, as if he had fallen hard. He shifted slightly, wincing. His quilt lay in a crumpled heap beside him, untouched. Something felt wrong.

  He didn’t remember coming home.

  Didn’t remember getting into bed.

  The last thing he recalled was the cubicle. The screen. The voices.

  His breath hitched. A cold sweat clung to his skin as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His clothes—these weren’t his clothes. A stiff, unfamiliar fabric brushed against his skin. Where was his uniform?

  Panic rising, he moved carefully, stepping into the dimly lit corridor. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of an air vent. The servants' bathroom was close. He slipped inside, locking the door behind him.

  Igor turned to the mirror—and nearly recoiled. He touched his reflection, then his cheek.

  Blood.

  Splattered across his face.

  Smearing his neck.

  Dark streaks trailed down his throat, soaking into the collar of his stolen shirt. Crimson smeared his cuffs, soaked into the fabric over his chest, and flaked dry beneath his fingernails. Not fresh, but recent enough. His stomach twisted. Had he been in a fight? Had he—?

  Frantic, he ran trembling fingers over his skin, searching for a wound—nothing. He yanked the shirt off.

  Rust-colored stains covered his chest, misted over his arms like a grotesque painting. The blood wasn’t his.

  The blood wasn’t just on him—it felt etched into him, like it had always been there. But he didn’t remember.

  His pulse pounded in his ears. What happened?

  His mind raced. He tried to piece it together—the rally, the van, the voice in the cubicle. But after that… nothing. Just an empty void where his memory should be.

  Did he kill someone?

  No. No, that couldn’t be right.

  He scrubbed at the stains, his hands moving frantically. Soap. Water. A hand towel. The blood clung to his skin, resisting, as if it belonged to him now. He rubbed harder, his skin raw, until at last, the worst of it faded.

  His reflection still looked haunted.

  Pressure returned. A blooming heat behind his eyes, then silence. Thought slid away from him like water through glass. He grabbed at it, desperate to hold onto something—anything—but it was gone. Not forgotten. Erased.

  He clutched the sink. His hands trembled. If the blood wasn’t his... then whose was it?

  Igor collapsed onto his bed, pulling his heavy quilt over himself. Sleep took him instantly.

  That wasn’t normal.

  Most nights, he spent hours staring at the ceiling, his mind refusing to shut off. At best, he snatched four or five restless hours. But now? It was like his body had given up. Like something had drained the fight out of him.

  Then—

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

  A sharp, grating noise ripped through his dreamless void.

  Igor groaned, curling deeper into the blankets.

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

  Then came the pain.

  A searing shock tore through his neck. His body jolted against his will. His collar. The damn thing was programmed to wake him—forcefully.

  Another shock. Then another. Each one worse than the last.

  Igor gritted his teeth, trying to cling to sleep. His limbs felt like lead, his entire body heavy, unwilling to move. But the collar had no mercy.

  The tenth shock finally broke him. With a strangled growl, he rolled out of bed and slammed his hand against the door button. The beeping stopped.

  Breathing hard, he sat there for a moment, head pounding, body aching. He felt cold—unnaturally cold. He grabbed his warmest, yet lightest, outfit from the neatly stacked uniforms every servant was required to wear. The routine was automatic. Muscle memory.

  Dressed, he trudged toward the bathroom, rubbing his face.

  Igor’s head ached as he slowly regained consciousness, his body stiff and disoriented. The cold tile beneath his bare feet seemed to ground him, but his mind still felt like it was spinning. His breath was shallow, and there was a strange, almost metallic taste on his tongue. He instinctively reached up to his chest, expecting to feel a wound, but there was nothing.

  Nothing, except the blood.

  It wasn’t real, he told himself. It couldn’t be. The mirror reflected his bare torso, smooth and unmarred, yet his vision kept flickering—streaks of dark red staining his skin, his hands, his chest. Blood. It was everywhere. But it didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been injured. He couldn’t remember—

  A knock at the door broke his spiraling thoughts, and he jumped, his heart racing.

  “Igor?”

  The voice was calm, detached. Too calm. Igor turned sharply toward the door, his breath caught in his throat. The blood, the blood was still there, but no—it wasn’t, not really. His fingers trembled as he wiped at his chest again, but the red stain wouldn’t disappear. It clung to him like a memory he couldn’t quite reach.

  The door opened just slightly, and Marlow’s tall frame appeared in the crack. Igor froze.

  “You still look... a mess,” Marlow said, his voice mild, almost amused. “You should’ve locked the door.”

  Igor didn’t respond, his gaze darting from his reflection to Marlow, then back to the blood on his chest. His skin felt cold, clammy.

  “I’m fine,” Igor muttered, his voice thick with an edge of uncertainty.

  Marlow took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’re still going to pretend that’s nothing?” he asked, gesturing to Igor’s chest with a lazy flick of his hand, as though it was obvious.

  Igor’s eyes widened, his pulse quickening. He looked back at his reflection, and for a fleeting moment, the blood seemed to swirl and shift, like it was moving under his skin. But it was just his mind, playing tricks on him. It had to be.

  “Get out,” Igor said, his voice low, but his hands were shaking. “Now.”

  Marlow didn’t move, still standing there in the doorway, his gaze steady and unblinking. “If you say so,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you might want to check again. Some stains don’t just disappear.”

  Igor turned back to the mirror, his breath coming faster now. The blood was still there, or—no—it wasn’t. He knew it couldn’t be real, but it felt too vivid. Too... alive.

  Marlow’s footsteps retreated, but Igor couldn’t pull his eyes away from the reflection. The blood was gone now. Or maybe it was never there. But something lingered—a feeling, a sense that there was more to this, something that he wasn’t seeing, or worse, something he wasn’t remembering.

  ------

  Maisie’s Room, Post White Angel’s Rally:

  Maisie touched her braid with trembling fingers. The tightness of it made her stomach lurch—she didn’t remember doing it. Didn’t even know how to make it that neat. Her fingers brushed over the strands, as if searching for a clue, but the braid felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. A knot twisted in her chest. Her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

  She opened her drawer and froze. Her shoes were caked with dirt. Mud. Dark streaks smeared across the fabric. But she hadn’t stepped outside since the rally. She hadn’t even gone near the door. Her mind felt like it was floating in a fog, but this? This was concrete. Real. Too real.

  Maisie closed the drawer and backed away, heart hammering. Every piece of this—her braid, the mud, the missing moments—was a jagged shard in her chest, and she couldn’t find the edges of the pieces. Nothing fit.

  __

  Igor’s irritation simmered beneath the surface, but he knew better than to let it show. His masters were unforgiving, especially when it came to his moods. He swallowed the frustration that threatened to spill over, making a silent vow to speak even less than usual—if that was even possible for him.

  He knocked on Maisie’s door, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Mistress, I’m here to assist you,” he said, his voice betraying nothing, keeping the words as neutral as he could manage.

  “Come in, Igor,” Maisie’s voice came, muffled and heavy with sleep.

  He pushed the door open, stepping into the room to find Maisie groggily emerging from the covers, her hair tangled and her eyes still clouded with the remnants of sleep. He silently observed her slow, sluggish movements before turning to her wardrobe, methodically selecting clothes. His day always revolved around her needs, her comfort, and it never seemed to change.

  “So…” Maisie murmured, her voice soft and uncertain as she rubbed her eyes. “How did I get home last night? I don’t… I don’t remember anything after the rally.”

  Igor paused, his fingers halting in their search through her wardrobe. His gaze flickered briefly toward her, but his expression remained unreadable. “I’m not sure, Mistress,” he answered, his voice careful. “I found you here when I came this morning.”

  A silence hung in the room, heavy with unspoken questions. Maisie didn’t press, but the faintest furrow appeared in her brow. Something was unsettling about the gap in her memory. Something that felt… wrong.

  Igor handed her the clothes he had chosen—a practical set of black slacks, short boots, a jacket for warmth, and a long-sleeved shirt. “Here are your clothes,” he said, his tone remaining impassive, almost detached.

  Maisie barely spared them a glance before dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “Yes, yes. You may leave now. Come back when I call for you.”

  Igor bowed slightly, the weight of the dismissal settling in his chest as he turned and left the room. The door clicked softly behind him, but even as he stepped away, a strange unease lingered in the air. Neither of them knew how she had gotten home, and that uncertainty gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit.