Page 28 of Heresy
He has made his move. He has taken a piece of my new life and replaced it with a piece of my old one, and I am left alone, trembling, with the weight of his declaration.
The heavyTHUDof the bolt echoes in the silence he leaves behind. I stay frozen, listening to the sound of his heavy boots fading down the hallway until they disappear completely. The silence that rushes back in to fill the void is different now.It's tainted, charged with the residue of his presence. My hand instinctively goes to my throat, my fingers finding the bare, cold skin where my cheap gold chain used to be. He took it. A small, physical trophy of his victory.
A tremor runs through me, but it's not from fear of violence. It's from the sheer, soul-deep violation of being so completely seen, so expertly and intimately manipulated. The assault in the hallway was an attack on my body, a fortress I have learned to defend. But this... this was an infiltration. He bypassed the walls and went straight for the command center, for my mind, my art, the very core of who I am.
My eyes are drawn to the book on the cot. The poisoned gift.
The survivor in me, the ghost that has kept me breathing for two years on a steady diet of suspicion and paranoia, screams at me.It’s a trap. It’s a weapon. Don't touch it. Don't acknowledge it. To ignore it is to resist.
But the other part of me, the photographer, the artist who has been starved of beauty and inspiration for what feels like an eternity, whispers a different, more seductive command.Beauty. Connection. Art.The temptation to hold something beautiful, to connect with the work that is my entire world, is an overwhelming, physical ache.
I now understand the true, terrifying nature of his siege. He won't just punish me with things I fear. He will tempt me with the things I love most.
The battle rages inside me for what feels like hours, a war between the survivor and the artist. In the end, as always, the artist wins.
My movements are slow, hesitant, as if approaching a sleeping predator. My shaking fingers reach out and trace the embossed letters of Robert Frank’s name on the heavy cover. The texture of the high-quality paper is a shock, a memory of aworld I no longer belong to. I pick it up. It feels substantial in my hands, a weight of history, of beauty, of menace.
I open it to a random page. Tucked inside, lying against a stark black-and-white photo of a lonely diner, is another photograph. A single, high-quality, glossy print that doesn't belong.
It’s a picturehetook.
My photographer's eye takes over before my mind can process the horror. The composition is stark, brutally beautiful. A masterclass in shadow and light. It's an image of a heavy ball-peen hammer resting on a scarred, dark wood table. Beside it sits a single, empty whiskey glass. And beneath the hammerhead, a dark, almost imperceptible stain mars the wood.
My breath catches in my throat. I don't know the specific story behind this image. I don't know whose blood that is, or what skull this hammer might have crushed. But I know this is not a picture of a tool. It’s a portrait of a weapon after it has been used. It's a still life composed of violence and finality.
It’s a confession. A threat.
And he took this picture. He arranged this scene of brutal consequence and captured it with an artist's eye. He is showing me his work.
I stare at the photograph, my mind reeling. He is speaking to me in the only language he knows I will truly understand. He has taken his world of violent, absolute power and framed it. He is showing me his monstrosity and, with his technical skill, daring me to appreciate its terrible beauty.
He is not just a monster. He is a photographer. And he is showing me his art. The game has changed. This is his first move in a war I don't know how to fight.
TWELVE
A PUBLIC BRANDING
HEX
The morning light is a dirty gray smear against the windows of my first-floor office. Below me, the sounds of Serpent Cycle Works are a familiar, grinding rhythm—the clean, professional noise of our legitimate face. But my focus is fractured. On a secondary monitor, next to spreadsheets and encrypted messages, is a small, black-and-white window. The feed from her cell.
She sits on the cot, reading the book of Robert Frank's photography I had left for her. An offering. A test. She hasn't moved in an hour, a portrait of unnerving stillness. My mind is a labyrinth, trying to decipher the puzzle of her, trying to map out the psychological campaign I vowed to wage. She is a distraction I can't afford and an obsession I can't shake.
The door to my office crashes open, slamming against the wall.
I don't flinch, but a cold, hard anger snaps into place. No one enters my office like that. I look up, my eyes narrowed, ready to deliver a lesson in respect.
It's Fuse. His face is pale, his eyes wild with a fury that eclipses his usual hot-headedness. His right hand is wrappedin a thick, white cast. This is not a temper tantrum. This is something else.
"Prez," he says, his voice a raw, ragged sound. "We got a problem."
I lean back in my chair, my own internal chaos instantly shelved, the cold, calculating President taking full control. "Report."
"It's Static," he says, the name of the ex-prospect catching in his throat. "The Santos grabbed him on his way back from his mother's place. They just dumped him at the end of the street." Fuse swallows hard, his gaze flickering with a shame and rage that are at war with each other. "They carved him up, Hex. They left a message."
My blood turns to ice. They took a boy I cast out, a lamb I sent from the flock, and slaughtered him on my doorstep. I stand up slowly, the scrape of my chair the only sound in the room. "What message?"
Fuse's eyes are burning. "Their initials. Right on his chest. 'SS'. Like a fucking brand."
