Page 134 of Psycho Pack

Has it really only been a few days since I took Ivy?

Maybe even less.

Time has no meaning when you're riding the edge of sanity, dancing with madness like an old friend. The drugs they pumped into me at that facility certainly didn't help. But even before that, everything was... disconnected.

Fractured.

I trail my fingers along the wall as I walk, feeling the cool stone beneath my skin. So different from the sterile metal walls of the lab. From the rough concrete of the facility where they tried to break me again.

They should have known better.

You can't break what's already shattered.

My reflection catches my eye in a gilded mirror, and I pause. Silver eyes stare back at me, too bright. Too sharp. The white hair nearly every Vrissian has falls in disheveled choppy layers around my face.

I look exactly like him.

Except for the eyes.

His were blue.

Were.

Past tense.

Because I ripped them out before I killed him.

A soft laugh escapes me at the memory of the day I escaped that shithole and watched it all burn to the ground, and I watch my reflection's lips curve into that familiar grin that makes me look so different from the man who forced me into this world.

But there's a softness to my grin that wasn't there before.

It's less sharp, less malignant.

I look almost normal.

My grin falters.

Disgusting. Here I am, following an omega around like a lost puppy, letting her feral beast pet me like a house cat.

Caring.

The thought makes my lip curl in disgust. I was supposed to be better than this. Stronger. I wasn't supposed to need anyone. That's what he bred me for, after all. The perfect killer.

Cold.

Calculating.

Emotionless.

But he fucked up somewhere along the way.

Because I do care.

Not just about Ivy.

About this pack of broken toys.

Even about that idiot Whiskey, though I'd rather gargle glass and cyanide than admit it out loud.