Chapter 39: A Taste of His Own Medicine

Killian had never believed in using people as bait.

It was a tactic reserved for cowards, the desperate, or the reckless. He didn't need pawns—he relied on strategy, precision, and complete control. Manipulating people like disposable tools? That wasn't how he operated.

Until Simon Vale betrayed him.

Now, everything had changed.

Luna stood silently in Killian's office, watching the man she'd once thought incapable of cruelty transform into something colder. Sharper. Not broken—but honed. Like the betrayal had filed away any last softness he had left. Elijah's voice came through the intercom. "Circle servers just lit up. They've intercepted the drop." 

Killian didn't react. He simply stared at the screen in front of him—live surveillance footage of Simon Vale at a private airstrip, dressed in a tailored suit, holding a briefcase he thought would buy his way back into favor with the Circle, his face a mask of desperate arrogance. 

"He still thinks he's playing them," Killian murmured, a low, dangerous growl vibrating through the room. "He'll learn soon enough that there are no second chances." 

Luna shivered, the air thick with impending violence.

"I wasn't planning to use anyone," Killian said quietly, almost to himself.

Luna looked at him. "I know."

He turned slightly, just enough for her to see the storm brewing behind his eyes. "But Simon made himself useful… in the only way left to him."

She didn't ask for clarification. She already knew.

Killian had decided to make Simon a warning.

A taste of his own medicine.

Not as a tactical necessity.

But as punishment.

The plan came together faster than anyone expected. The moment Simon had confessed to being a Circle insider, Killian hadn't said much. He'd simply walked out of the interrogation room and sat silently in his office for almost an hour. 

No yelling. No raging. 

Just stillness. 

But Luna had seen it. The way his hand flexed around his glass. The distant, surgical stare in his eyes, a predator locking onto its prey, calculating every move, every weakness.

And when he finally spoke, it was only one sentence.

"We'll use him."

It wasn't strategy.

It was retribution.

And it was going to be brutal.

Simon Vale had begged.

Not for mercy, exactly—but for redemption. For leniency. For a way out.

Killian had nodded, offered a seat, poured him a drink. Had even spoken gently at first.

"I won't hand you to the authorities," he'd said. "You'll be more valuable alive."

Simon had looked hopeful then.

"Instead," Killian added, "you're going to walk right into the Circle's arms."

Simon paled. "What?"

"You'll carry intel," Killian said. "Information they'll want. But what you won't know is that every single file will trace back to you. You'll be their fall guy when this goes up in flames."

"I don't understand—"

Killian leaned forward, his voice colder than ice. "You sold us out. Now I'm selling you back."

Simon had tried to argue, to plead.

But Killian didn't raise his voice.

He simply looked him dead in the eye and said, "You wanted to play both sides. Now you get to see what it feels like to be caught in the middle."

The drop was made at a private airstrip.

Simon carried a briefcase filled with falsified counterstrike data—meticulously fabricated to look authentic, riddled with silent trackers and embedded traps. The Circle would think they'd won another round, a fatal miscalculation indeed.

But what they were really doing was exposing themselves—one breadcrumb at a time.

Elijah's team monitored every angle. Satellite feeds. Heat signatures. Drone footage.

"They picked him up," Elijah reported from the control room. "He thinks he's safe."

Killian didn't even blink.

"Let him think that."

Avery crossed her arms. "So what happens next?"

"We give it time," Killian said. "Let the Circle trust him again. Let them feed him back into their ranks."

"And then?" Luna asked quietly.

"Then we pull the thread and watch their network unravel."

Later that night, Luna stood beside Killian in the house, watching the city flicker through floor-to-ceiling windows. The war below hadn't paused—but something in the air had changed, a tense quiet, a prelude to a devastating storm.

There was a cold satisfaction in the stillness.

"You weren't planning this," she said softly.

"No," Killian replied.

"You never planned to use anyone."

He nodded. "I didn't. But he forced my hand."

She turned toward him. "You made him a warning."

"I made him an example," Killian said flatly. "One every traitor will remember."

Luna studied him. "And if someone else betrays you?"

"I won't hesitate again."

Her chest tightened.

She wasn't afraid of him. Not really.

But this version of Killian—the one who didn't blink, didn't flinch, didn't soften—he was terrifying in a way no gun or headline could match.

"Does it ever get to you?" she asked.

"What?"

"The cold. The ruthlessness."

He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "No."

"You're lying."

A pause. Then a low reply: "Maybe."

She stepped closer. "I don't know if I admire it… or hate it."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she said, barely above a whisper. "Because it's still you."

He didn't respond. Not with words.

But his eyes lingered on her face for just a second longer than necessary. Something unspoken passed between them—something buried beneath strategy and war.

A flicker of something neither of them dared name.

Then, just as quickly, he stepped back.

"We should rest," he said.

Luna nodded. "Of course."

But as she turned away, his voice stopped her again.

"Luna."

She looked back.

"I wasn't planning to use him," Killian said quietly. "But when someone betrays me… I don't believe in forgiveness."

"I know," she said.

And yet, part of her wondered what would happen if she was ever the one to let her guard down—if she ever became too vulnerable in a world where survival meant staying two steps ahead.

But she didn't ask.

And he didn't offer reassurance.

Because mercy didn't exist in Killian Blackwell's world.

And tonight, the Circle had just learned that the hard way.