The Kennel smelled like old garbage and wet concrete. Perfect. Right where I belonged.

  I slid down the wall and landed on my butt, jeans soaking up cold moisture from the floor. My hands were still shaking. Couldn’t get them to stop. Couldn’t get anything to stop—not the shaking, not the images, not the sound of Brick’s crackling body.

  Thud.

  God.

  I buried my face in my palms, but it didn’t help. The scene played on a loop behind my eyelids: Brick coming at me, teeth bared. My claws—my claws—tearing through flesh. The spray of blood, dark and hot. His body crumpling.

  My stomach lurched. I pressed my forehead against my knees and tried to breathe.

  “Nikki—”

  “Shut up, Handy.”

  The wristband pulsed with a soft blue glow, insistent. “I must point out—”

  “I said shut up!”

  Silence. Good. I didn’t want to hear his voice right now. Didn’t want to hear anything except the drip-drip-drip of water somewhere in the dark and my own ragged breathing.

  I killed him.

  The words sat in my chest like stones. Heavy. Cold. Real.

  I’d killed a person. An actual human being with thoughts and a life and—

  No. He wasn’t attacking me for fun. He was hired. Sent. He would’ve killed me without blinking if his clients didn’t cared.

  But I still did it. Me. My claws. My strength.

  My monster.

  A sob tore out of my throat before I could stop it. Then another. Then I was crying for real, ugly and loud, tears hot on my face and snot running down my lip. I wiped at it with my sleeve but more came. It wouldn’t stop.

  “Nikki.” Handy’s voice was quieter this time. Almost gentle. “You’re experiencing a trauma response. Elevated heart rate, hyperventilation, acute emotional distress—”

  “Thanks for the diagnosis, doc. Where should I send the co-pay?”

  “It was a justifiable act of self-preservation. The probability of your survival was 3.7%. He would have killed you.”

  I laughed. It came out wet and broken. “Wrong, he wasn’t going to kill me. He needed me. If he wanted to end my life, he would have done it sooner.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “I meant his actions would lead to your termination,” Handy stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Pandora’s interest in you is biological, not personal. Once they have harvested the necessary genetic material, your life functions would be deemed redundant.”

  “I killed him, Handy. My hands… I felt it. That makes me a monster, right? That’s the definition.”

  The wristband went dark for a moment. When Handy spoke again, his tone had shifted. Less chipper AI, more… something. “The label ‘monster’ is inaccurate. My data banks define monstrous behavior as lacking empathy. Your current physiological state—crying, elevated cortisol from guilt—is a clear indicator of an empathetic response. Therefore, you cannot be a monster.”

  “Tell me how I’m supposed to live with this.” My voice was a whisper now. “Tell me how I’m supposed to be a person again after—after—”

  I couldn’t finish. The words died in my throat.

  “One breath at a time,” Handy said. “That’s how.”

  I wanted to throw the wristband across the room. Smash it. Make it stop trying to help. But I didn’t have the energy. I just sat there, slumped against the wall, tears drying on my face, and stared at nothing.

  The wolf was still there. I could sense it, prowling beneath my skin. Restless. Hungry. Satisfied with the kill.

  No.

  No, I wasn’t doing this anymore.

  “Handy,” I said. My voice was hoarse. “I’m done.”

  “Done with what?”

  “With this. With fighting. With sabotaging Pandora. With trying to—to be some kind of hero. I’m not. I can’t.”

  “Nikki, you can’t simply stop. Pandora won’t—”

  “I don’t care what Pandora will or won’t do.” I wiped my face with both hands. “I’m not doing it. I’m rejecting the wolf. I’m shutting it down.”

  “That’s not physiologically possible. The transformation is part of your DNA now. You can’t reject—”

  “Watch me.”

  The words came out flat. Final. I meant them.

  No thanks.

  “Nikki, please listen—”

  “No.” I stood up, legs wobbly but steady enough. “You listen. I tried. I really did. I tried to control it, tried to use it for something good, tried to stop Pandora and save people and—and I failed. I killed someone. I’m not doing this anymore.”

  “Brick Crusher was a ruthless bounty hunter. He—”

  “I don’t care!” My voice bounced off the walls, too loud, too sharp. “I don’t care what he was. I still killed him. I’m still covered in his blood. And if I keep going, I’m going to do it again.”

  The wristband dimmed. Handy said nothing.

  Good. Let him process. Let him run his stupid calculations and figure out a way to argue with me. I didn’t care. My mind was made up.

  I sank down onto the ratty blanket I’d been using as a bed. The fabric was rough against my palms. I stared at the concrete floor, at the cracks and stains and bits of trash scattered around. Home sweet home.

  This was my life now. Hiding in a glorified dumpster, running from shadows, trying not to turn into a killing machine.

  No. Not anymore.

  I was done running. Done fighting. Done pretending I could be something I wasn’t.

  From now on, I’ll stay in my normal life. Stay quiet. Keep the wolf locked down so tight it couldn’t breathe. If I didn’t use it, if I didn’t feed it, if I didn’t let it out—maybe it would go dormant. Maybe it would fade.

  Maybe I could be human again.

  It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. But it was the only thing I had. I clung to it, because looking at the truth meant looking at his face again.

  I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and closed my eyes.

  No more sabotage. No more missions. No more anything.

  I was done.