XXII. Emris

The halls are narrow and sterile. Grey metal, grey walls, grey light. A soft hum vibrates beneath the floor, pulsing like a second heartbeat—steady, mechanical, alive in a way I'm not.

My boots hit the floor in perfect rhythm. One step. Then another. Then another. I don't count them, but I know the pattern. I've walked it before.

The air smells like chemicals and steel. Antiseptic. Bleach. Blood that's been scrubbed away but never really leaves. The lights flicker every four seconds. I've timed them. Four seconds on. One second off. Always the same.

I reach the locker room. Rows of metal doors. Mine is number twenty-seven. I don't have to think about it. I press my thumb to the pad and it opens with a hiss. Inside: my uniform, folded with exact precision. Black and green combat fabric. Tactile gloves.

I change. Each movement is slow. My fingers close the zipper. I don't feel the cold of the metal against my skin. I should feel something. I don't.

The mirror above the sink is cracked. Spider-webbed in one corner. I look into it anyway. A girl stares back. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair tied back too tight. There's blood under her nails. I scrape it off against the sink's edge. It flakes like rust.

She doesn't look like me.

She is me.

I blink.

A knock at the door. I turn. A handler stands there—black suit, expression neutral. He doesn't step inside. "Target assigned," he says. "Name and location uploaded to your tracker."

I nod once.

No questions. I never ask questions. That was trained out of me years ago.

He turns and walks away. I follow.

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The car is black. The city is darker. Lights blur past the window—red, yellow, white. I don't look out. I stare at the seat in front of me. Leather. Cracked at the edges. My hands rest on my knees. Still. Perfectly still.

The door opens. I step out.

Building. Stairs. Apartment 4B. My boots are silent against the concrete. I don't knock.

The target opens the door. Middle-aged. Tired eyes. He says something—maybe a greeting. Maybe fear. I don't hear it.

Knife. Jugular. One clean movement.

Blood sprays the wall. Red on beige wallpaper. He gurgles, sinks to the floor. I step over him.

The woman screams. She's in the kitchen. Holding a phone. I walk to her. She drops it. I slit her throat. The phone hits the tile with a soft clatter.

It's quiet again.

I stand there for a moment, watching the blood pool around their bodies. It spreads toward my boots. I don't move.

I don't blink.

I leave.

Back at the compound, the halls are still grey. The hum still pulses. I don't know how much time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. It doesn't matter.

I go to the washroom. I turn on the sink.

The water runs red. I don't remember getting blood on my hands. It's under my fingernails again. In the creases of my knuckles. I scrub. The soap doesn't lather. I scrub harder.

It still won't come off.

I look at the mirror again. The same cracked one. The girl's still there. Still staring. Her eyes are dull.

Someone else enters the room. A trainee. Younger than me. He doesn't look at me. I don't look at him.

I see myself in him—once. Maybe. I blink.

No. I don't see anything.

I dry my hands.

I leave the room.

The lights hum.

The halls breathe.

And I walk.

I am called. I go.

Two guards flank me as I walk the corridor. They don't touch me. They don't speak. There's no need. I know the route. Left at the sealed gate. Right at the surveillance post. Down the stairs where the air grows colder—tighter—like the walls are holding their breath.

Dragunov's office is the same as always. Brutal. Efficient.

A cold wooden desk dominates the center. Mahogany brown. No clutter. Nothing human. Behind it, the wall is lined with weapons—locked, mounted, labeled. Rifles. Knives. Explosives. The snake emblem coils between them like it belongs there, fangs bared mid-strike. His desk chair is black leather, sharp-backed, too tall for comfort.

He sits in it like a king. Or a god.

Dragunov doesn't look up right away. He holds a knife in one hand—turns it slowly. The blade glints under the ceiling light. Spins once. Twice. Clicks against his gloved fingers.

I don't move.

He finally glances at me, mouth curling faintly.

"Efficient," he says. "Precise. Cold."

A pause. The knife spins again.

"Just how I made you."

I don't speak. My hands stay at my sides. Fingers curled too tightly to notice.

"You've done well." He leans forward, the chair creaking under his weight. His eyes gleam—something like pride, but meaner. Hungrier. "Better than before. No hesitation. No noise. No deviation."

Deviate.

Deviated.

That word makes something in my chest shift. A pressure. A flicker behind the eyes. Gone before I can follow it.

He taps something on the datapad in front of him. The screen flickers. A photo appears. Printed. Old-fashioned. He slides it across the desk, slow and deliberate.

"You will find him again," Dragunov says. "The Winter Soldier."

The name barely lands.

Soldier.

Winter.

Nothing.

"He was your last mission," Dragunov continues, voice sharper now, testing. "And you failed to complete it."

I blink at the photo.

The man's face is familiar. Stubble, long hair. Eyes that look like they've seen too much. The edges of the paper curl where it's been handled. My fingers twitch, just once.

Dragunov notices.

He smiles.

"You went off-script," he says. "You hesitated. Grew... attached, perhaps?" He spits the word like it's poison. "Weakness. I thought we'd corrected that."

My gaze doesn't leave the photo.

His name doesn't come to me.

But something in his eyes—

I almost remember—

No.

Gone.

Empty again.

"I've ensured you won't fail this time," Dragunov says. "No mercy. No memories. Just obedience."

His hand moves the photo back. It disappears beneath the desk surface. Like it never existed.

I stare at the space where it was.

Dragunov leans back again. Folds his hands. Still watching me. Still waiting.

I feel nothing.

I am exactly what he made me.

Dragunov hasn't moved in over a minute.

He just watches me. Still. Calm. Like I'm a puzzle he's already solved, and now he's waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

The lights hum above us. White. Harsh. A flicker in the left panel buzzes out of sync. Too fast. Then, too slow.

I don't blink.

The snake on the wall seems to shift in the corner of my eye. Coiling tighter. Ready to strike.

He leans forward, forearms resting on the metal desk. The leather of his gloves creaks when he folds his fingers together.

"Okhota nachinayetsya, zmeya," he says, voice low, deliberate. The hunt begins, serpent.

It lands like a gunshot.

No.

Worse.

Like a needle sliding into the base of my skull.

My breath catches halfway out. Muscles jerk, seize, lock.

My knees tremble—then snap still. Back straightens. Neck locks. Joints scream from the sudden rigidity. My jaw clenches so tightly my teeth grind like bone on stone.

I am not in control anymore.

The floor tilts. Or maybe it's me. My balance doesn't exist now unless I'm told it does.

A spike of heat floods behind my eyes. My heartbeat hammers in my throat—then fades to static.

Find the target.

Eliminate obstacles.

Obey the voice.

You are the weapon.

My thoughts burn out one by one. They melt like wax—soft, pointless, forgotten.

No more names.

No more faces.

Only commands.

Breathe. Move. Kill. Repeat.

Dragunov smiles. It's not kind.

He stands slowly, walks around the desk. His boots echo with each step, sharp as a metronome against the tile.

I don't track him with my eyes. I don't move at all.

He circles me, examining. Measuring. Proud.

"You feel it now, don't you?" he murmurs, stepping close. "The clarity. The silence."

You are not a girl.

You are a knife.

Knives do not feel.

My body reacts without hesitation when he stops behind me.

I drop to my knees.

My spine stays straight. Chin high. Eyes fixed forward but empty. I don't blink. I don't breathe unless I'm told.

Dragunov crouches. Places his hand on my head.

Like I'm a dog that's learned a new trick.

He strokes my hair once, slowly. "There she is."

Execute the mission. Complete the objective. No mercy. No deviation.

My lungs expand, mechanical.

My heartbeat slows, perfectly timed.

Emotion is gone.

Emris is gone.

Only the weapon remains, the Serpent.