Chapter 20 · The Crime They Built

The gun was still in my hand. Senna was still breathing hard three feet away, her back against the reactor core housing.

And I'd just watched myself kill someone.

Not in a dream. Not in a flash of half-formed memory. On screen. Ten years ago. Standing right next to Victor Lane in a sterile white room, putting two rounds through a man's chest while he begged.

"Kira." Senna's voice was careful. Too careful. "Put it down."

I looked at the pistol. My finger wasn't on the trigger anymore. I didn't remember moving it.

"That wasn't me," I said.

"I know."

"That was someone wearing my face."

Senna nodded slowly. Her hand was still raised, palm out, like I was a spooked animal. Maybe I was.

"They made me do it," I said. The words tasted wrong. Sounded wrong. Because the girl in that footage hadn't looked scared or drugged or controlled. She'd looked calm. Professional. She'd reloaded and checked the body and walked out.

Senna took half a step forward. "Kira, listen to me—"

"No." I shook my head. The gun felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. "You saw it. I was there. I did that."

"You were seventeen.