Chapter 18: Seraphina

Seraphina – POV

Blood tastes like copper and memory.

It coats the inside of my mouth, not because I'm hurt—because I bit down hard enough to feel something. To stay focused.

The first body drops before he even sees me.

A slit throat, swift and clean, arterial spray catching the edge of the hallway. He gargles on betrayal, eyes wide, recognition dawning too late.

I watch him fall. I don't blink.

"Fuck," Rafael mutters behind me. "That was fast."

"You wanted war," I whisper, licking the blood from my blade, "Now watch me burn it down."

The compound on the outskirts of St. Petersburg is quiet. Too quiet. Which means they're either gone—or waiting.

But I know the men they trained.

They're arrogant. And sloppier than me.

We enter like shadows—Rafael trailing me in silence, like the beast I've unchained and pointed toward the ones who made me their weapon.

This isn't a rescue mission.

This is a message.

We move through the halls of the satellite safehouse—one of many owned by them. The organization that bred me. Trained me. Lied to me. Sold me.

I remember this place.

I remember learning how to disassemble a man in thirty seconds flat in the training room three doors down.

I remember the cold tile floor where they taught us to shoot between the eyes and not flinch when our sisters missed and blood hit the walls.

This is where they made me.

And now, I'm going to unmake it.

The second man turns the corner with a rifle in hand. I duck low, twist his wrist until the bone cracks, and drive my knife between his ribs. He gasps—once—and slumps against the wall.

Rafael drags the body into a room, silent, efficient. "You're enjoying this."

"I'm purging."

"You look like you're fucking dancing."

Maybe I am.

Each movement is precise. Brutal. Beautiful.

It's what they wanted, isn't it?

To build something lethal.

To sharpen a girl into a blade.

Now they can choke on the edge.

We reach the door to the command room. I pause, press my palm to the cold steel.

Rafael leans beside me, his voice low. "You sure you want to do this now?"

"No."

I meet his eyes—calm, steady. "I want to make them suffer. But tonight, I'll settle for dead."

He nods. "Then let's make it ugly."

We kick in the door.

Two men inside. One's already reaching for his gun—he doesn't get far. Rafael pins him to the wall with a bullet to the leg, then the shoulder. Keeps him alive.

The other—Zorin.

One of the men who trained me. One of the men who sold me.

He smiles when he sees me.

It curdles my stomach.

"I see you've adjusted well," he drawls, bloodied and smug. "To being his whore."

I don't speak.

I just walk toward him, slow, controlled.

"You were always the best," he says, tilting his head. "But you were never loyal."

I press my knife to his throat.

He laughs.

"I'll gut you like a dog," I whisper.

He leans closer, breath hot against my face. "Do it. But you'll never outrun what we put in you."

He's right.

So I won't run.

I'll embrace it.

I'll become the nightmare they built in the dark.

Then I slit his throat.

And for the first time in years, I fucking breathe.