Chapter 6 · free to read
Twenty years I'd hunted a shadow with my walk. Now it climbed toward me wearing my face like a coat it had grown into first.
He didn't lunge. He never lunged. He just arranged the room until you walked where the page already said you would.
He went for the light, not me. Of course he did. Take the light and the room goes back to the dark he could still write.
He put my gun to his own head. And my finger — my traitor finger — went slack. Voss had wound that mercy into me at four years old and called it obedience.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.