Page 83 of Hero Worship

My blood turned to ice. Beside me, Xander tensed, but maintained his drugged façade, even as my mind raced through possibilities. How had we blown our fucking cover?

Roche’s tone was pure chipped ice as he said, “Tell me, Agent Valentine, did you find out the truth about your father before or after they arrested him for all those missing girls?”

“You must be mistaken—” I started, but Roche cut me off.

“Oh, no. I’m afraid I’m not. Did you really think I wouldn’t investigate you after your little performance at my party? That I didn’t have people watching you? I know all about your littlemeetings with the Russians and your little…” He gestured to Xander. “…Russian connection. You should have been more careful. Sloppy work for a former fed. But then, you Americans never did have any style.”

A soft click echoed through the room as metal shutters slid into place over the doors. The ventilation system hummed to life, and I caught the faint scent of something sweet beneath the antiseptic air. I immediately covered Xander’s mouth and nose and ducked my face under my shirt, but it was inevitable. Whatever gas he was filling the room with would eventually make it into our lungs.

“You’ll make the perfect additions to my collection,” Roche purred, taking a step back. He turned and paused when he found Misha standing there with a gas mask in his hands. “Here, boy,” Roche demanded, holding out his hands. “Give it here.”

Misha slowly lifted his eyes from studying the gas mask to look straight at Roche. “No.”

“What did you say to me?” Roche’s voice held genuine shock as they stared at their supposedly broken pet.

"I said no." Misha's hands trembled, but his voice grew stronger. "You think the drugs make me mindless, that I'm just a doll who can't think or feel or remember. You tried to use our shared struggles with gender to manipulate me, to make me think you were the only one who could understand. But I remembereverythingyou've done to me. You're not an artist or a visionary. You're just a murderer who happens to be non-binary, using identity as another tool to control people."

“Defiant brat!” Roche lunged for him, but Misha was already moving.

Xander's stance shifted subtly, their practiced sway vanishing as they positioned themselves to intercept if Roche got too close to Misha. We'd planned for multiple scenarios, but their protective instincts were genuine.

Misha ran across the room, opened another cabinet and flung two more masks at Xander and me, his movements far more coordinated than his drugged state suggested he was capable of. Roche scrambled to grab for Misha, but Misha slipped away, always just out of reach.

“You slippery eel!” Roche accused, still trying to catch Misha. “You lying bitch!”

I made sure Xander's mask was secured first. They shot me a quick, reassuring nod before I slipped on my own and rushed to help Misha. I grabbed Roche’s head from behind and slammed them face first into the nearest cabinet. The glass door shattered and Roche screamed, flinging themself to the floor. The sounds they made as he rolled around with giant shards of glass in his face felt justified.

“The override!” Misha pointed to the panel by the door. “Red button. Hurry!”

I dove for the control panel even as Roche started yanking hunks of glass out of their face. Pain shot through my bad knee as I landed hard, but adrenaline pushed it to the background. There would be time for regret later. My fist found the emergency override just as Xander stomped a pointed heel down on Roche’s hand.

With a hiss and a groan, the ventilation system stopped pumping gas into the room, but the gas that was already there had nowhere to go. Roche gasped, reaching desperately for a nearby cabinet.

“You can’t,” Roche gasped. “My security…”

“Your security is currently dealing with a series of equipment malfunctions,” Xander said, removing his heel to crouch beside Roche. “I’m afraid they’ll be busy for quite a while. We’re going to have plenty of quality time to spend together.”

“The…the…police…” Roche’s voice was growing more and more strained from breathing in the gas.

“They’ll be very interested in this workshop,” I agreed, watching them fight against their own chemical cocktail. “And what’ll be left of you. Eventually.”

A garbled sound escaped Roche as the gas finally put them under. Their body fell limp against the cold floor, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of chemical sleep.

“There are restraints in the cabinets,” Misha said. “The ones he uses to hold his subjects while the preservation fluid does its work.”

My hands clenched into fists. “Perfect.”

“The gas will keep them under for about an hour,” Misha continued, his voice muffled by the gas mask. “Long enough to secure him properly. Will the security be busy for that long?”

Xander's lips curved into a cold smile as they kicked Roche over onto their back. The gesture was pure them, confident and precise even in violence. “Trust me, Xavier can keep them busy however long we need.”

Xander met my eyes through the gas mask, and I could read their expression even through the plastic: they were ready to ensure Roche faced consequences for every person they'd hurt. This was the Xander I knew, the calculating strategist who'd helped plan this operation, not the docile creature they'd pretended to be.

I looked at Misha. In the end, he’d saved us, but the kid had been through a lot already. No need to traumatize him further. “Are you sure you want to be part of what comes next? We can secure you an exit now if you’d rather.”

Misha glared down at Roche’s still body, fingers twitching. “They spent months drugging me, raping me, torturing me. If anyone deserves a pound of flesh, it’s me.”

I nodded. I couldn’t agree more.

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