Page 86 of Because I Killed Him
What happened?
Edmund heels the door shut. A vein pulses in his neck as he drags both hands through his hair, wrestling the strands back into place. His saber clinks against his leg, shifting with each movement. He adjusts it carefully, the way you might cradle a broken rib, then exhales a long, steadying breath. He sits at the table, smooths a napkin over his lap with shaking hands, and says, “I’m not hungry anymore.”
Jack stands there blinking, as if his body hasn’t caught up to his mind. Then he drops back onto his seat with a kind of reluctant, shaky relief. Beside him, Dickie fumbles for his napkin, his head turned away. In the wall mirror’s reflection, I catch him swiping the napkin roughly across his eyes.
I glance at Charlotte.
She’s crouched low like a shadow in the corner, fixated on Edmund’s missing jacket, the crooked saber, and the blood and bruises he wears like a second suit.
She doesn’t ask what happened.
Neither do I.
I hunch over, overwhelmed by a rush of guilt so intense I feel like I might vomit. I understand what Edmund meant by introducing me now. It was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the feet of every Blue in the room, daring them to try to take me from him.
And one of them did.
For the first time since Irene’s attack, I head straight to my suite after class, though not because I want to. I don’t think I make any decisions at all. My body takes me there on its own, legs moving and eyes fixed ahead. An urgent curiosity stirs inside me, pushing me forward and making me activate my Bond the second I step into my salon.
I pull up Tattletale. The site lags, briefly buckling under user traffic. When the homepage finally loads, the top article is about Edmund, featuring a patchwork of surveillance stills and a headline in all caps: BLOODY TANGERINES.
The article reads as if the Tattler were at the cafe in person, perched on the edge of a marble tabletop, jotting down every detail in ink made of gossip. There’s also a video, but it’s scrubbed of sound, probably to protect the source.
I hit play.
The footage begins as Jack grabs Charlotte and me by the arms. We vanish offscreen. The Blues rise in our place, sudden as a gust that snuffs a flame. They spread out like they’re merging with the decor, silk jackets brushing against carved wood, faces bleached by the ceiling light, their mouths parted enough to show teeth.
Edmund stands alone at the center of the cafe.
The camera holds him there, singled out, as the Blues close in. It’s a slow glide into position, each step a perfect echo of the last as the circle tightens around him.
One of the Blues steps forward and issues a challenge.
Edmund’s hand hovers in midair long enough for me to notice a tremor. His fingers twitch, then lock into a fist. He steadies himself and extends his Blood Ring until it scans across the man’s own with a flicker of yellow light.
The challenge is official.
Around them, the Pinkies move fast. The robots drag back tables and clear chairs, knocking over crystal glasses that crash and spin, with cutlery scattered across the marble like bones. Within seconds, a narrow strip gleams amid the wreckage. It’s a crude but functional piste.
Both men draw their sabers with a flash of graphene, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
The Blue challenger advances first, leading with his right. His stance is centered and low, and his blade is angled to bait. Edmund shifts his weight subtly before switching his saber to his left hand… and something changes. His body settles into control, like a ripple of muscle memory falling into place.
Then he drives in.
The sudden burst of speed is so powerful it seems to crack the air. His broad frame moves ruthlessly, and when he strikes with his saber, his entire body strikes with it. A surge of energy radiates from the motion, like a pressure wave flowing through his bones.
The blades clash once, again, then lock in a bind. Edmund disengages to the inside, then feints, flicking high to draw the guard. The Blue reacts half a second too late. Edmund follows through with brutal efficiency, his saber arcing in a diagonal slash that looks like a modified cut six, but it’s too fast to track.
The graphene edge cuts clean, slicing through the Blue’s side as if the man’s flesh were boneless.
He stumbles, then collapses to the floor. Blood floods the grooves in the marble, thick and fast, spilling like a bottle shattered at the neck.
The crowd recoils as one, staring at the deep, glistening line carved through the Blue’s torso.
Edmund stays where he is, breathing hard, his blade low and dripping. He lifts his saber to begin sheathing it when another Blue barrels in from the left flank.
No challenge. No Blood Ring scan. No honor.
