Page 96 of Assassin Anonymous

Stuart.

His voice is soft and warm, like he’s comforting a scared child.

“This is all there is,” Stuart says. “That thin line between life and death. Only people like us can navigate it. So, c’mon. I get this wasn’t the smoothest way to go about things. But let’s put all that aside. Let’s work.”

That black, noxious thing in me bubbles to the surface.

And I am tired again.

A different kind of tired.

I am so tired of fighting that thing inside me to a standstill every night just for it to rear its head every morning. I’m tired of the effort it takes to be different, when being the same is just…

Math.

“You’re free now,” Stuart says.

I grip the hand on my shoulder and throw my whole body forward, flipping Stuart onto his back, and scramble on top of him.

“You wanted me, here I am,” the Pale Horse says.

And I hit him in the face so hard I break a finger.

Then I do it again.

And again.

There’s a voice in the back of my head trying to tell me something.

I ignore it.

Adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid gold. That thing I denied myself. Pretending I didn’t need it. Slowing time and allowing me to savor every swing of my good arm, hammering him until my fist is wet and shattered. Until all that rage bubbles out and spills onto the floor and the most savage part of me fills every square foot of this stupid giant apartment.

Until I breathe smoke and taste metal and the building shakes because I am a god.

The voice persists, and I can just barely make it out, but it’s not strong enough. This feels good. So good. It’s not going to bring Kenji back, but it sure is going to make me feel better.

It dawns on me that it’s probably past midnight.

The one-year anniversary of killing Lucas.

This is a hell of a way to celebrate.

And just as I’m about to deliver another shot to his jaw, with the express goal of splitting it clean in half, he wriggles and I slam what’s left of my fist into the soft part of his throat.

It crumbles.

Because the trachea has the tensile strength as a soda can. You have to be careful how you hit it. Just right, the person can’t breathe. Can’t breathe, can’t fight. Do it too hard, they’re unable to take in air and they choke to death.

He’s choking to death.

He reaches for the crushed remains of his face, gasping, gargling blood, spitting it up, going flush. The sight of it snaps me out of my rage just long enough for the voice to slip through.

Sara.

Don’t slip.

The trick to not falling.

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