A thrill courses my system as I imagine her furious and wild, eyes as vibrant as the sea, a harbinger of justice as she attacks. She’s the most beautiful vision like this, so full of passion.
What could drive an individual with shallow affect, with no past violent tendencies, to suddenly lose control and commit murder?
I know the answer—but does she?
Her drive to balance the scales and deliver retribution is a part of her nature. It’s why she chose her occupation. Why she’s so good at reaping vengeance for her clients.
And Ericson Daverns was unfinished business.
But then there’s the darker side of her nature, the part of Blakely that enjoyed causing pain, suffering. It’s why she wanted to take the job to the extreme to truly make Ericson suffer for his sins.
Oh, Blakely, what has my little monster done?
I pull back a section of bandage and examine the burned flesh of my hand. Damaged but my body is already generating new cells to heal the skin. We adapt. We recover. We grow stronger.
Blakely is like those damaged cells; her brain generating new growth to repair and replace the scorched memories. Coding over the old data, learning and adapting to her new emotions.
I did not fail. I knew I could not fail…not with her.
The treatment is a success.
Pulling my desk drawer open, I remove the one object I was able to save from the fire before it took the cabin. The journal of subject 6. I page through the entries to find the drawing of Blakely I sketched in the park.
My fingers trace her features reverently. The hard expression she wore when she believed no one was watching. The delicate curve of her lips, the way she bit her lip so enticingly.
She swore she was not like me—she vowed she’d never be a killer. She refused to take my life, and I witnessed her confliction over that choice. Yet, she seemingly murdered her target.
Why take one life and not the other?
What sets me apart from Ericson?
Maybe the answer will be in new brain scans. Or a whole new emotional map. Or maybe it’s something I can’t quantify with data.
Some look for love in flowers and sweet professions of adoration and devotion. Ours is not sweet. Ours is not naïve. Ours is a sick and cruel love born in a lab. Violence and obsession are only a measure away from passion, and our depraved passion owns us wholly.
Blakely belongs with me.
She is my proof. My cure is out there right now, wandering the world, a fledgling in her own right. She’s going to need protection, guidance. She’s going to need her maker to help her transition. Blakely is going to need me as much as I need her.
Soon, little monster. We will be together soon.