8. Scarlett

The reekof decay is what I steel myself for as we breach the door of Grandmother's abandoned high-rise hideout. But there's no putrid stench of rot and death. Instead, an almost overwhelming stick of chemicals sears my nostrils and waters my eyes.

"Jesus," I hiss.

"We cleaned up," Lyssa murmurs, blinking hard as well as we both adjust. "The Syndicate doesn't need any more heat right now so I made sure it was done right."

"What the hell did you do, hose the place down with bleach?"

"Something like that. Now shut up and let's move."

We move in silent tandem down the concrete stairs, ears straining for any hint of sound or movement, but there's nothing. And then we arrive at the penthouse.

The suite has been ravaged, furniture overturned and valuables stripped away with ruthless efficiency. "Was there a safe somewhere?" I ask Lyssa.

"Yeah. But it was emptied out, unsurprisingly."

"I should…have a look through." I don't want to. I don't want to ever look into that torture room again where I spent so many hours in misery—and then pulled my parents out of it, too.

Lyssa pauses, puts a hand on my arm to get my attention. "You up for that?"

I bristle at the implication that I'm some fragile thing that needs coddling. Hasn't she seen how lethal I can be? "I'm not breakable." I feed the spark of my own anger to keep the sick feeling of fear and revulsion at bay. "This place holds no power over me anymore. And finding Grandmother is what matters." Without another word, I push past her into Grandmother's bedroom, and head straight for the torture room.

It's alright once I'm in. It's worse in my mind than in reality, and especially now that I know I'm free, I can handle it.

Having Lyssa right there with me helps too, even if I snapped at her before.

"I'm gonna kill that bitch so fucking hard," I hear her say under her breath as we look around the torture room.

But there's nothing in here to find except bad memories. "She'd never keep anything in here anyway," I point out. "This room only had one function."

"Yeah. Her sick, sadistic pleasure." Lyssa pauses, then says, "Sorry. I know this is tough. It was weird for me, too, the first time I…went back."

"I feel okay with you here," I say, then wish I hadn't. "Come on. Let's keep looking."

We head down the stairs to the next level and keep on looking. Even my old "room"—if it can be called that—doesn't bother me all that much. Why would it, empty and barren as all the other rooms? They were purposely interchangeable, just like all of us. For the first time I regret not getting to know the other trainees when I was here. It was never encouraged, and schedules were arranged so that we barely even saw each other. The guards would never allow chatter in the hallways, and the only other person I saw regularly, apart from Grandmother, was Ariadne.

I met the other trainees only during punishment or when we were pitted against each other for so-called training, which inevitably left each of us bleeding. And on one occasion I was called in with all the other recruits for something called a gauntlet.

That's something I try hard not to think about. Something that I dream of in my worst nightmares.

But once or twice, I'd catch the eye of another recruit—another woman—in passing. And once or twice I swear I saw acknowledgment in the other's face.

Acknowledgment that we all had our reasons for being here.

When we hit the training rooms level, my feet slow. Lyssa sees my hesitation as we pass the changing rooms, their metallic tang of old blood and stale sweat unleashing a flood of visceral recollections.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

I swallow hard. "Bad memories. I…nearly killed Ariadne in here once."

Lyssa raises her eyebrows. "That's a bad memory? I thought putting that psycho down for good was your ultimate goal."

"It is. But I…I lost control. The rage I felt…"

I trail off, unable to give voice to the truth—that in those blinding moments of fury, I terrified myself. That I was disgusted by my own actions.

"You really need to get hold of that anger," Lyssa says casually. "You'll be a much better fighter when you do." She heads into the changing rooms and I follow, but once more, there's nothing there. "Speaking of Ariadne, where's her room?"

"It's on this floor, actually." Grateful for the redirect, I lead Lyssa further down the dark hallway outside the training room. Approaching the door of Ariadne's apartment, I frown at one tiny detail I've never noticed before—not on any door in the whole high-rise, except for the penthouse suite's security.

A lock.

I've never been this close to Ariadne's room before, only knowing she lived in here because I'd seen her head "home" after training so often.

It's not a sturdy lock, by any means. But it's still more than any of the rest of us had. Lyssa makes short work of it with one powerful kick, the door crunching inward. The living area is as utilitarian as usual, same lounge setting found in every other living room in the place, and not a personal touch in sight.

But then we get to the bedroom, and I freeze in utter bewilderment.

It's a saccharine, frilly explosion of pink and lace. Fuzzy blankets, stuffed toys, twinkling fairy lights, and glitter fly at me in a jarring visual onslaught.

"What the fuck…" is all I can say. It's so utterly at odds with Ariadne's harsh, brutal persona.

"Weird," Lyssa mutters, her nose wrinkling in distaste as she takes in the bizarre decor.

"It's way more than weird." I scan the space with new clarity. "None of the other recruits were allowed anything like…this." I gesture vaguely at the cluttered toys and kitschy furnishings. "I mean, that I know of. But I've seen a few rooms—" I wasn't always the good little soldier when I lived here. Sometimes I snooped. And I'm pretty sure everyone else did, too. "—and besides that, this…aesthetic? If you can call it that? It doesn't fit Ariadne at all."

Lyssa moves deeper into the sickly-sweet space, her expression morphing into a contemplative frown. "You're right. It doesn't." Her gaze cuts sharply towards me. "But actually, it feels…familiar, somehow. Like I've seen something similar, but can't place it."

The wrongness of it all coalesces into a horrible realization. "It's like her emotional growth was stunted. Stuck in some…moment of childhood. Maybe teen-hood," I allow, as I open the closet to see the back of the door peppered with posters of movies and bands that were big fifteen years ago. "What the fuck?" I mutter again, shaking my head.

Lyssa has already begun rifling through drawers, overturning pillows and stuffed toys. "Which means there could be answers here about what fucking psychological experiments Grandmother was up to. We need to tear this place apart."

I join in, trying to focus instead of pausing every few seconds from sheer incredulity. I reach under the frothy canopy of the bed, and something crinkles. I pause to move the bedding up, and pull out a handful of shredded paper, scraping out a few more strands from the waffled pink rug that runs under the bed.

"Check it out," I say to Lyssa, carefully gathering the pile together. "Shredded documents."

Lyssa is at my side in an instant. "Interesting." She sifts through the fragments. "Could be useful intel, if we can reconstruct them."

"Not like I've got much else to do out at the farm," I say. "Long as you bring me some scotch tape."

There's nothing else in the room. And nothing else of use in the high-rise, even after hours of searching. At last, we exit the way we came, and the Lyssa drives me back to my new prison, the abandoned farm.

But it's not really a prison. I could get away easily enough if I wanted to. Could flee the state entirely, never give Lyssa the chance to take me out at all. Or try my luck alone with Grandmother and Ariadne.

I won't run, though. Lyssa knows it as well as I do. I'm committed to seeing this through, whatever happens in the end.

As Chicago recedes behind us on the way back to the farm, all I can think about is that strange, grotesque room and those shredded papers. What information do they hold, and why were they under Ariadne's bed? Did she hide them there—and if so, why?

Or are they just the bait for another trap from Grandmother?