Page 8 of Kill, Sleep, Repeat: Vol II

She lifts the knife again, her arm trembling as she sets herself up for another throw. Her hands are shaking. I don’t say anything. I’m waiting for her to break, for her to prove to me that she’s ready for something more than what she’s been doing.

The next throw goes deeper. Not much, but it hits the wood with a better sound. The thud is louder. She’s getting there.

Her arm shakes when she lowers it, exhaustion lining her features, but I don’t care. I’m not here to coddle her. I’m here to make sure she survives. I watch as she picks up the knife and throws again, her motions more deliberate, more controlled. She gets a little closer with each throw, her frustration feeding her focus.

She’s starting to get it. She’s starting to understand that hesitation is dangerous.

“Again,” I say, but it’s not a request. She picks up the knife and throws. This time, she sinks it an inch deeper.

“Good,” I say, but there’s no praise in my voice. “Now ten more. Same spot.”

Her eyes flash, disbelief crossing her face.

“You want to learn or not?” My voice cuts through the air like a blade. “This isn’t about you, Sophie. It’s about both of us. So if you’re going to waste my time, I’ll leave. But if you want to get out of here alive, you’ll stop playing and start doing.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I don’t need her to. She picks up the knife again, throwing it with a sharp, controlled force. One throw after another. I watch the sweat start to bead on her forehead as she works, her movements growingmore precise with each repetition. She’s angry, but it’s a good kind of angry. It’s the kind of anger that pushes her past her limits. By the time she’s on throw number ten, her arm’s trembling, but she hasn’t quit.

I take a long look at her, trying to think of something to say, but come up empty. She may never speak to me again, but she’s still standing. That’s something.

“Good enough for today,” I say. “Back to the hotel.”

“I want to go back to my dorm. You know, like a normal college student.”

“Tomorrow. Tonight, I need you with me.”

I expect her to push back, but she doesn’t.

6

CHARLOTTE

The heat wraps around us the moment we step out of the warehouse, sticky and suffocating. It’s almost a relief compared to the stuffy air inside, but I’m not looking for relief. I’m looking for the guy who’s been trailing us.

I don’t tell Sophie yet. It’s better if she figures it out herself. Shehasto figure it out herself. She’s been silent since we left the warehouse, trudging along like the weight of the night is dragging her down. Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn’t.

In the back of the car, I tell the driver to take us to the hotel. The chaos of the city filters through the windows, but my mind stays locked on the man following us. He could be anyone—agency, enemy, someone in between—but he’s out there, and I know he’s not far. Sophie sits beside me, her body stiff, her eyes fixed on the blur of lights outside. She doesn’t say a word. Neither do I.

Back at the hotel, she storms inside like the heat followed her in, dumping her frustration into the room. She flings herself onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the force. Her limbs go slack, but it’s not the kind of relaxation that brings relief. It’s the exhaustion of someone holding herself togetherby a thread. Her gaze stays locked on the ceiling, her chest rising and falling faster than it should. I can feel her anger crackling through the room.

I lean against the doorframe, letting the silence stretch. “You’re angry.”

She doesn’t respond.

“That’s good,” I say, my voice cold enough to slice through her quiet. “Use it. You’ll need it.”

I step forward, keeping my tone even but firm. “I know you think I’m being hard on you. But you hesitated with Smith. And you were unfocused tonight. You can’t afford to hesitate, Sophie. Not now, not ever. You know that.”

Her head turns slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. “I get it.”

“You don’t.” I move closer, shrinking the distance between us. “This isn’t just about you. Every hesitation, every second you waste, every time you miss—it puts us both at risk. And if you think I’m going to let you fail just because you’re having a bad day, you’re wrong.”

“Who said I was having a bad day?”

“It’s pretty apparent, Soph—you don’t have to say anything. It’s in how you’rebeing.”

“And how am I being?”

“Emotional.”

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