Page 19 of Rogue Doll

He slides something across the table. A necklace—simple silver chain with a small pendant. Looks like costume jewelry, the kind you'd find in any department store. Up close, I can see the craftsmanship—the clasp reinforced, the links imperceptibly thicker than standard.

"Twist the pendant counterclockwise and pull," Killion instructs. His fingertips brush mine as he demonstrates, the brief contact sending an electric jolt up my arm. "It contains a dose of tetrodotoxin derivative. Not enough to kill, but enough to mimic death for approximately forty minutes. Slowed heartbeat, minimal respiration. They'll think you've died from their interrogation."

“Are you kidding me? This is all I get?” I stare at the necklace, mind racing. The pendant feels heavier than it should, warm from Killion's touch. "So instead of being tortured to death, I get to play dead and hope they don't decide to chop me into pieces just to be sure?"

"It buys time," Sienna says quietly. For the first time, I notice the similar pendant around her neck—different design, same purpose. Her fingers touch it unconsciously, a gesture that speaks volumes about past missions, past close calls. "Sometimes that's all we have."

"When?" I ask, fingers closing around the pendant. The metal edges dig into my palm, grounding me in the reality of what's coming.

"Tomorrow night," Harlow answers, already standing, his chair rolling back with a soft hiss against the polished floor. He checks his watch—Patek Philippe, hand-wound, probably worth more than most people make in a year. "Sienna will handle your prep. Killion will run point on the operation. Good luck."

He leaves without another word, the door whisking shut behind him. The room feels different with him gone—less sterile, more charged with something I can't quite name. The scent of his cologne lingers—something with notes of cedar and privilege.

Sienna follows, pausing at the door to give me a look I can't fully interpret—warning? Sympathy? Assessment? Her fingertips tap that same rhythm against the doorframe—one-two, pause, three. But then she's gone too, leaving me alone with Killion.

We sit in silence for three heartbeats. I can hear the building's ventilation system cycling, the distant hum of generators, the soft electronic whir of the surveillance cameras adjusting their focus.

"This is fucked," I finally say, turning the necklace over in my hands. The pendant catches the light, throwing tiny reflections against the wall like miniature distress signals.

"Yes," he agrees, surprising me. No justification. No patriotic speech about necessary sacrifices. Just acknowledgment of the obvious. His chair creaks as he leans back, scrutinizing me with those impossible-to-read eyes. “Wasn’t my call.”

I study him, trying to peel back the layers, find the man beneath the killer. The fluorescents highlight the tiny scars that map his face—one above his eyebrow, another at the corner ofhis mouth, testament to a life lived in the shadows. "Are you setting me up to die?"

His eyes snap to mine, something dangerous flashing in their depths. The tablet between us goes dark, plunging half his face into shadow. "If I wanted you dead, Landry, I'd kill you myself. Cleanly. Respectfully." The words come low, intense, vibrating with a truth I can't ignore. "I don't outsource my executions."

"How comforting," I mutter, but oddly enough, it is. In this upside-down moral universe I've landed in, Killion's direct approach to murder feels almost ethical. The pendant grows warmer in my palm, as if absorbing my rising body heat.

He leans forward, close enough that I catch his scent—gun oil and something spicy, expensive, with undertones of strong coffee and sleep deprivation. "Listen carefully. This operation is high-risk. The survival rate for bait missions is?—"

"Spare me the odds and just tell me what's really going on," I cut him off. "Why am I being sent in as bait."

For a moment, I think he'll shut me down, pull rank, remind me I'm just an asset. The air between us thickens with tension, with possibilities. But instead, his voice drops lower, almost a whisper. His breath fans warm against my cheek as he leans in closer, eyes darting to the corners of the room where surveillance might be watching.

"There are layers here you're not seeing," he says carefully. "Watch your back. Some traps aren't set by the enemy you can see."

The cryptic warning hangs between us, unexpected and sharp as a blade. My throat constricts, a cold sweat breaking out across my back despite the room's carefully controlled temperature.

"So, why tell me this?" I ask, genuinely confused. "Why warn me at all?"

Killion stands, towering over me, all controlled power and lethal grace. His shadow stretches across the table, across me, like a physical manifestation of his influence. But his eyes—for just a second—show something almost human. The overhead light catches the gold flecks in his irises, turning them from cerulean to something complex and layered.

"Because you remind me of someone," he says, words tight with something that might be regret. His knuckles whiten as he grips the back of his chair. "Someone I couldn't save."

I hold his stare, probably the longest I’ve allowed myself to do so. There’s something there, I can't put my finger on what it is and if Killion knows, he sure as hell won’t tell me. The man is a locked box unless he chooses to share intel —and he only shares when he has a reason.

“Why Nova?” I ask.

He straightens. “Field names are safer when you’re on mission.”

“Yeah, I get that but why’d you pick the name ‘Nova’?”

His gaze narrows. “You don’t like the name?”

“No, actually, I do. Feels…right. I’m just curious…why you picked it.”

“Don’t read into something that’s not there,” he warns, immediately irritated. “It’s just a name, Landry.” He moves toward the door, spine straight, shoulders set. His boots make no sound against the floor—the practiced silence of a predator. At the threshold, he pauses, not looking back.

"Get some rest. Tomorrow we make you into perfect bait." The professional mask slides back into place, cold and efficient. The door panel reads his biometrics with a soft blue glow. "And Landry? Don't trust anyone. Not even me."

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