Page 115 of Prey

“Useful,” I answer finally. “For the first time in my life, I feel useful.”

His smile behind the tactical mask is proud. “Welcome to the family business.”

Looking back at the flames consuming the place where children were broken for science, I realize he’s right. This isn’t just Nikolai’s war anymore, or just the Architects’ mission.

It’s mine too.

And I’m very good at it.

40

NIKOLAI

Iwatch Jenna through the rearview mirror as she cradles the six-year-old girl who finally fell asleep in her lap. The kid’s been whimpering for three hours straight—soft, broken sounds that make violence twist in my chest. But Jenna just keeps singing under her breath, some half-remembered lullaby, her hand smoothing circles on the girl’s back.

Eight children in this transport van. Ages five to twelve. All of them broken in ways that will take years to fix, if they ever fully heal. The oldest boy sits rigid against the far wall, eyes tracking every movement I make through the mirror. He knows what I am—recognizes the predator even when I’m trying to be gentle.

The convoy splits at the Illinois border. Raphael takes the second group—the operatives we pulled from Prague—to the compound in Wisconsin; Marcus heads to Michigan with the third. We’re bound for the summer camp facility outside Springfield—converted two years ago by Dr.Sarah Parker after we funded her research into trauma recovery. Fifteen of the kids will end up there.

“Almost there,” Jenna murmurs to the children, though most don’t respond. The girl in her arms stirs but doesn’t wake. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

I want to believe we pulled these thirty-seven kids out of hell in time for it to matter. But I’ve seen what happened to the ones we couldn’t save—subjects who made it to eighteen only to eat a bullet or hang themselves with bedsheets because the conditioning never really ends.

The safe house appears through the trees, warm lights glowing in windows. Dr.Parker’s team is waiting—former child psychologists, trauma specialists, people who understand what these kids survived because they lived through their own versions of it. Parker herself escaped a different program in the ‘90s, before Project Architect refined their methods.

“Alright,” I tell the transport team as we pull up. “Same protocol as always. Medical assessments first, psychological evaluation second, placement decisions third. No one forces anything.”

Unloading takes forty minutes. Each child has a color-coded file—red for severe trauma, yellow for moderate, green for stable. Most of these files are red. The six-year-old girl who won’t speak gets carried by Raphael like she’s made of glass. A nine-year-old boy with broken legs from a “training session” won’t let anyone but Damon touch him—something about Damon’s controlled physicality calms him when everyone else triggers fight-or-flight.

Jenna refuses to leave her six-year-old until the girl is settled. When they try to separate them for the medical exam, the kid goes feral—kicking, screaming, clawing at anyone who gets close.

“Let me stay,” Jenna tells Dr.Parker. “Just until she’s checked out.”

I watch from the doorway as Jenna sits beside the examination table, holding tiny fingers while Dr.Rodriguez checks for injuries. The girl’s eyes stay locked on Jenna’s face like she’s the only safe thing in the world. When the doctor finds old fractures, infected wounds, signs of systematic abuse, Jenna’s jaw goes white with rage.

The boy who’s been watching me finally speaks when Dr.Parker approaches him. “He’s one of them,” he whispers, pointing at me. “He’s dangerous.”

Parker follows his gaze, takes in my tactical gear, the controlled way I move. “He’s the one who got you out,” she says gently. “All of you. He and his team risked their lives to save you.”

The kid shakes his head. “Men like him hurt us. Every day. I know what they look like.”

Cold settles in my stomach. He’s not wrong—I am exactly like the men who tortured him. Made by the same program, conditioned with the same methods. The only difference is I chose a different target for my violence.

I back away from the group and step outside into the night air. My phone buzzes—updates from the other safe houses. Marcus reports that the Michigan facility is successfully handling ten children. Raphael confirms thirteen kids at the Wisconsin location are being processed.

All thirty-seven accounted for. All thirty-seven alive.

Jenna finds me twenty minutes later, standing in the parking lot staring at nothing. Her face is streaked with tears, exhaustion written in every line of her body.

“What is it?” she asks.

“That boy. The one who was afraid of me.” My voice sounds rough even to my own ears. “He saw what I am. What I was made to be.”

“He saw an adult in a mask who reminds him of his captors because they are all he knows,” she corrects, stepping closer. “He’ll learn the difference. They all will.”

“Will they?” I turn to face her. “Because he’s not wrong, Jenna. I am like them. Same program, same conditioning, same fundamental rewiring. The only difference is who I choose to hunt.”

She reaches up, touches my face. “That difference is everything.”