Page 214 of Because I Killed Him
Inside his bubble, he flips through streams of helix maps and edited cell lines, drifting across the wall display. Every few seconds, he shifts—pacing, mumbling, tugging at his hair—then perches on the corner of his desk, pops the tab on an energy drink, and drains it without a care for the human swamp rotting outside.
It’s obscene… this line, this heat, this waste of time.
I lean against the wall and ask myself whether I’m truly up for this, whether I can endure a whole year of bi-weekly lectures and private tutoring sessions with this man. Or whether, at some point, I’ll wish I’d aimed that rock a little better.
Deep down, I know the truth. No matter how bad this is, there’s a worse option waiting, because no other professor will accept me. If I walk out now, I go right back to first-year Cloning Theory, with a room full of fresh hatchlings who think they know pain.
So I stand there, sweat dripping down my neck, irritation mounting, until something rustles in my peripheral vision. Students start to retreat, pulling away from a corner near the far wall, where a monkey crouches on the floor, its tail flicking over a fresh pile of feces. The smell drifts over the sweat and stale coffee, making the heat feel twice as oppressive.
People groan as they recoil from the stench and move closer into my corner. That’s when I see Rosamund.
She’s sprawled out like royalty on a couch beside her pet, sweat beading along her hairline, her silk dress clinging damply to her skin. She looks asmiserable as the rest of us. I didn’t realize she had a tutor, but it makes sense that she chose Jerome. Dad says the Prews have been clawing at Winston’s coattails for decades, willing to do anything for a taste of him… or, in Rosamund’s case, of his son.
Rosamund lifts her water, takes a drink, then, like a spider sensing a heartbeat trembling through its web, her eyes snap up and lock onto mine.
“Hoppola,” she murmurs, the word slipping out on a smile as wet as her hairline. She leans back against the couch and studies me, her eyes filled with the same poison she poured down my throat before the Cloning Theory exam. I know she’s trying to drag me back to the fear and the pain of that moment.
Instead, a realization dawns on me, so clear and impossible to outrun that I don’t even try: Rosamund and I can’t keep butting heads like this forever. Sooner or later, one of us will snap, and when that happens, the space between us will close for good. Even if she’s Edmund’s twin sister. Even if, once, before Bliss rotted her brain, she might’ve been someone decent. None of that matters because there’s no room for both of us here.
I don’t know when our collision will happen, whether today or tomorrow, only that it’s already been set in motion. So, I stand my ground with an unflinching stare. For the first time, there’s no rage simmering inside me or hate rising in my throat. Rosamund can’t break what’s already been destroyed. I don’t have a saber to swing, but I’m not afraid of her anymore.
If the moment is now, let her come.
Rosamund’s smile twitches, tightening into a thin, dark line. Her eyes scan my body, then lift again as if measuring how much it will take to crush me properly this time. She stands from the couch in a smooth motion, silk whispering around her thighs.
“Everyone out,” she says.
Every head turns toward her. A few students exchange glances, caught between fear and confusion. None of them are Blues, but they all know Rosamund is. Worse, they see her hand resting on the saber hilt in her scabbard. One by one, the students shuffle out, coughing into their sleeves to block the stench of feces.
Now it’s just the two of us. And Jerome, inside his Sono-Chamber, stilloblivious as he swipes through data, beads of energy drink dribbling down his chin.
Rosamund turns on me with a slow, stretching smile. “I know my brother kicked you out of his entourage.”
“We both agreed,” I reply.
The corner of her mouth curves, beautiful if you don’t know what it hides. “So, you’re on your own now?”
“My own is enough.”
We drift sideways, circling each other at the edge of the room. My shoulder brushes the wall, and Rosamund slides closer to the door.
“So, you’re willing, then?” she says.
“My restriction doesn’t include fists.”
Cold amusement lights her eyes. She places her palm on her saber’s hilt tenderly, like a lover’s hand on a pulse point. “No fists. No blades either… unless you force me.”
I grit my teeth. “Then what exactly is this, Rosamund?”
She lowers her shoulder, and the monkey scrambles up her silk dress, twining its tail around her throat. Then her gaze jumps past me toward the reeking pile of feces in the corner. When she looks back, her voice drops into her chest. “I’m going to kill you, Miss Waldsten. But only after I’ve finished humiliating you.”
She points a finger at the feces on the floor. “Eat it.”
The room around me seems to shrink. For a second, I’m sure I misheard. But Rosamund’s smile says I didn’t.
A dry, broken laugh escapes me. Then my vision collapses to a single point:her throat. My boots grind into the sticky floor as I lunge, every muscle straining to bury her where she stands. Her saber hisses free, drawn so fast that the graphene blade sparks. I’m unarmed, and my left leg is still stiff, but I don’t care. My body barrels toward her anyway, the same way Charles charged me, only this time I’m him. No blade. No plan. Just fists, fury, and the stench of shit I’llneverswallow.
“Lore—!”
