Page 27 of All The Pretty Little Lies

I see the flicker of doubt in Zaire's eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw that tells me he doesn't quite believe my promise. But I can also see the resignation, the willingness to give this one last shot. For me. For us.

"Alright," he says, his voice barely audible above the distant hum of the city. "One last time. But we do this smart, Oscar. No unnecessary risks."

I nod, relief washing over me like a cool breeze. "Thank you," I whisper, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. The familiar texture of his tattoos beneath my palm grounds me, a reminder of the unbreakable bond we share.

As we stand there, the city stretches out before us like a glittering canvas. The Charles River snakes its way through the urban landscape, its dark waters reflecting the lights from the buildings that line its banks. In the distance, the iconic Citgo sign pulses with a steady rhythm, a beacon in the night that has guided countless Bostonians home.

The air carries a mix of scents - the briny tang of the harbor, the rich aroma of coffee from the all-night diner down the street, and the faint whiff of exhaust from the cars far below. It's a smell I've come to associate with home, with the life we've built here in the shadows of this city.

I take a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill my lungs. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel a spark of hope ignite in my chest. It's small, and fragile, but it's there.

"We should bring Alex and Talon in on this," Zaire says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. "If we're going to pull this off, we'll need all hands on deck."

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. "Alex can start digging into The Collector and see if he can find any digital footprints. Talon's contacts in the underground fighting scene might have some useful intel as well."

As if on cue, the sound of the front door opening reaches us, followed by Talon's booming laugh. I can't help but smile; his energy is infectious, a stark contrast to the brooding atmosphere that often surrounds me these days.

"Speak of the devil," Zaire mutters, a hint of amusement in his voice.

We make our way back inside, the warmth of the penthouse enveloping us like a cocoon. Talon is in the kitchen, his massive frame dwarfing the sleek, modern appliances. He's rummaging through the fridge, no doubt in search of a post-workout snack.

"Anyone want to order delivery?" he calls out, his voice muffled by the refrigerator door. "There’s nothing good in here." He steps back, shutting the fridge, and takes notice of Zaire and me. “Why do you both look so serious? Did someone die? Please say it was Victor.”

“We’d be celebrating if that son of a bitch dropped dead, asshole.”

“Fair point.” Talon comments. “So, what’s going on?”

"We've got a lead," I say, leaning against the kitchen island.

“Well, shit, I’ll order pizza. Sounds like we have a lot to talk about, and I’m not doing it on an empty stomach.”

VESPER

I driftin and out of consciousness, my mind a hazy fog of disjointed thoughts and fragmented memories. The sterile white walls of my prison blur together, days and nights blending into an endless stream of nothingness. How long have I been here? Weeks? Months? Years? Time has lost all meaning.

The drugs course through my veins, keeping me docile and compliant. When lucidity briefly returns, I'm aware of my body's betrayal - swollen and tender from the constant hormonal assault. They come for me regularly, faceless figures in masks and scrubs, harvesting the precious eggs my treacherous bodyproduces on command. The prick of needles, and the cold touch of medical instruments have become as familiar as breathing.

At first, I fought. I screamed. I clawed. I bit. But my captors were prepared, always one step ahead. Now, I lie here limply as they prod and poke, too weak and broken to resist. The harvesting process is clinical, devoid of any humanity. I'm nothing more than livestock - a living incubator for the precious genetic material they covet.

In a twisted way, I find a sliver of comfort in this clinical violation. At least they're not forcing themselves on me, using my body for their carnal pleasure. The thought of being sex trafficked, actually passed around like a plaything to anyone with enough cash, makes my skin crawl. This sterile harvesting is a mercy compared to that nightmare.

I cling to the hope that my eggs may never result in a child. It's a cold comfort, but it's all I have. The thought of a baby growing somewhere out there, my flesh and blood, never knowing me - it's almost too much to bear. I imagine tiny fingers and toes, eyes that might mirror my own, a smile I'll never see. The phantom weight of a child I'll never hold pressed on my chest, threatening to crush me.

But then I remind myself: maybe it won't happen. Maybe my eggs will fail to fertilize, or the embryos won't implant. Maybe the pregnancies will end early before a real child can form. It's a terrible thing to wish for, but in this hellish existence, it's the kindest outcome I can imagine.

The drugs pull me under again, and I drift into a haze of half-formed dreams. I see myself in another life, cradling a baby, singing lullabies, and feeling the rush of maternal love. But it fades like smoke, leaving me hollow.

When I surface again, the door creaks open, and I brace myself for the familiar routine. My body tenses instinctively, even as my mind remains foggy from the constant stream ofdrugs. They wheel in the cart, its metal surface gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. The tools clink softly, a symphony of impending pain.

As they prep me for the procedure, I catch sight of a new face among the masked figures. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and I see a flicker of...something. Pity? Remorse? It's gone in an instant, replaced by the same clinical detachment as the others. But that fleeting connection lingers in my mind, a tiny spark in the darkness. There is something achingly familiar about the curve of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. I struggle to place him, my drugged mind grasping at wisps of a memory that dance just out of reach.

The lead doctor snaps on latex gloves, the sound making me flinch. "Begin sedation," he orders crisply. A cool rush floods my veins as the anesthesia takes hold. Cold gel on my abdomen, the pressure of the ultrasound wand. I've been through this so many times, I could narrate each step. The needle slides in, and I bite back a whimper. No matter how many times they do this, it never stops hurting.

I fix my gaze on the ceiling, counting the tiles to distract myself from the sensation of my body being invaded once again. One...two...three... The familiar face watches silently from the corner, his expression unreadable behind the surgical mask. Four...five...six...

The procedure seems to stretch on forever, each second an eternity of discomfort and violation. Finally, mercifully, I hear the words I've been waiting for: "We're done. Good yield this time."

As the team packs up their equipment, that new face lingers. He hesitates, as if wanting to say something, but then turns and follows the others out. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with him - the one I've come to think of as The Shadow Man. His voice is deeper than the others, a rich baritone that sendsinvoluntary shivers down my spine. He's never been present for a harvest before, always lurking on the periphery of my drugged consciousness.

---