They thought they'd buried me in that warehouse.
Instead, they woke something I didn't know was sleeping.
The man who came through that back door — masked, tall, silent — didn't expect me to fight.
He didn't expect the knife hidden in my boot.
He didn't expect me to drive it under his ribs and twist.
I expected all of it.
Killian arrived sixty seconds later.
Covered me with his jacket. Checked my hands. Held me against the wall like he was afraid I'd fall apart.
But I didn't fall.
I haven't slept since.
And I don't want to.
It's been twenty hours.
We're holed up in an old artillery range north of Aurelia.
A safehouse inside a ghost town.
It smells like metal and dried sweat and gunpowder.
Exactly right.
Killian sets the dummy up against the concrete wall. It's tall. Broad. Featureless.
Like most of the monsters in my life.
He holds out the Glock.
My palm hesitates.
Then closes over it.
"It's heavier than it looks," I mutter.
"So was the truth," he replies.
I look at him.
That line shouldn't make my chest ache.
But it does.
He steps behind me. Hands gentle. Professional.
But not emotionless.
Never that.
"Stand like this," he says, adjusting my posture. "Knees bent. Core engaged. Shoulders firm."
I nod.
"Now line the sight with your target. You're not aiming at a body. You're aiming at a threat."
I stare at the dummy.
Something in me starts to slip.
Melt.
Form into something sharper.
"Breathe in," he says. "Half-hold. Breathe out."
I do.
The silence deepens.
"Now," he murmurs. "Squeeze. Don't pull."
I fire.
The shot echoes like judgment.
It hits the shoulder.
Not fatal.
But close.
He nods.
Again.
I fire twice more.
Torso. Neck.
The noise kicks dust from the walls.
I lower the gun.
Killian studies me.
"You've done this before."
"I haven't."
"Then you're a natural."
"No. I'm just angry."
He doesn't correct me.
Doesn't tell me anger is dangerous.
He knows better.
Anger is survival now.
I reload.
Click.
Reset.
Aim.
This time, I picture a face.
Perfect teeth. Photogenic smirk. Lies dressed in cologne.
Jackson.
My ex-fiancé.
The man who kissed Alyssa in front of every camera in America.
The man who leaked a sex tape that didn't exist.
The man who smiled when he handed me over to the wolves.
My finger tightens.
"Phoebe," Killian says, a note of warning in his voice.
But I'm already firing.
One shot.
Between the eyes.
The dummy jerks.
Another.
Heart shot.
I lower the weapon.
And I smile.
Killian steps closer.
Too close.
"Who did you picture?" he asks.
I don't answer.
He already knows.
He pulls the gun from my hand.
Sets it down.
Then lifts my chin.
"You're changing," he says.
I meet his gaze.
"No. I'm remembering."
He exhales.
Long. Heavy.
"This isn't revenge," he says. "It's war."
"There's no difference in this city."
He touches my wrist.
Just lightly.
But it grounds me.
Reminds me I'm still flesh, not just fury.
"You want more lessons?" he asks.
I nod.
But I don't mean combat.
I mean everything.
We go again.
This time he shows me how to reload under pressure. How to disarm a man taller than me. How to use my elbow like a blade.
I bruise fast.
But I don't stop.
At one point I fall, hard, on my back.
He's there before I can curse.
His hands hover.
I grab one and pull myself up.
My knees sting. My palms are scraped. There's blood on my lip from biting it too hard.
I wipe it away.
"Again," I say.
He studies me.
Then nods.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The sun is starting to rise outside the dusty window when we finally stop.
I sit on the ground, sweating, shaking, buzzing.
He sits next to me.
Not touching.
But not far.
I look at my hands.
Gun oil. Dirt. Blood.
Not from others.
From me.
I flex them.
"I don't feel weak anymore," I whisper.
He glances sideways.
"You never were."
I shake my head.
"No. But I let people think I was. Let them make decisions. Apologize for being loud. For being angry. For being too much or not enough."
I turn toward him.
Eyes sharp.
"And now?"
He doesn't blink.
"You're terrifying," he says.
I smile again.
Good.
He leans back.
Watches the ceiling.
"There's a line," he says. "And once you cross it, there's no going back."
"I crossed it in that warehouse."
He nods.
"I've never killed anyone before," I add.
"You didn't kill him."
"I stabbed him in the gut and ran."
"You wounded. You escaped. You survived."
I pause.
Then ask, "What if I'd killed him?"
He looks at me.
Voice flat.
"Then he'd deserve it."
I shiver.
Not because it's cold.
But because I believe him.
And I'm starting to believe me too.
There's a silence between us that feels like breathing through glass.
Finally, he breaks it.
"There's something else."
I glance over.
He pulls out his phone.
"No signal," he mutters. "But I caught a transmission. Scrambled. About a body being found near the docks."
I freeze.
"Who?"
"They didn't say. But I recognized the voice. It was the man who used to run perimeter at your father's estate."
"Graves?"
He nods.
"Then it's a message."
"Or a cleanup."
Either way, it means things are accelerating.
We both know it.
Killian stands.
Walks to the far table.
Pulls something from a bag.
Brings it to me.
A phone. New. Wiped.
And a passport.
My face.
Different name.
Phoebe Laurent.
My mother's name.
He kneels.
"This is our way out. If we choose it."
I stare at it.
At the identity I could step into.
If I abandon who I am now.
But I don't.
Not yet.
I close the passport.
And look him dead in the eye.
"I'm not done with who I am."
He nods once.
"Then we keep going."
I stand.
My legs hurt.
But they hold.
I walk back to the dummy.
It's full of holes now.
Chest. Neck. Head.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then lift the gun one last time.
Aim at the eye.
Fire.
The dummy shudders.
A puff of rubber explodes.
I lower the weapon.
Smile.
And whisper—
"Next time, it won't be a dummy."
Behind me, Killian says nothing.
But I can feel the shift in the air.
He's not just training me anymore.
He's watching me become something else.
Something even he might not be able to stop.