She goes home, but she never arrives.
Not really.
Because home is not a word for creatures like her.
Home is the kennel they stop locking when you stop trying to run.

Detroit is cold in November.

The kind of cold that gets into the bones of the buildings, that seeps through the cracks in brick and muscle alike. The sky hangs low, bruised and heavy, the clouds sagging like an old roof. The snow hasn't started yet, but it threatens. It always threatens.

Cici lives in a building that should've been condemned two years ago. One of the windows in the stairwell has been shattered for months, taped over with a garbage bag that flaps like a dying wing. The hallway smells like mold and something electrical burning faintly behind the walls.

She doesn't mind.

This place is quiet. Forgotten. Like her.

She lives in a studio apartment on the third floor. No elevator. No fire escape. Just a bolt lock, three dead ones, and a bar across the door.

Inside, the space is bare. Sparse. Not in the aesthetic way, not the kind you post on Instagram with a white mug and a book you'll never read. No. This is absence. Stripped down to the sinew. Just a mattress on the floor. A folding chair by the window. One cracked mirror leaning against the wall like even it couldn't stand upright for long.

There's no art. No photos.

No past.

Only shadows and silence.

Cici drops her keys into a rusted bowl by the door. Her boots leave streaks of filth across the floor. She doesn't clean them. Doesn't clean anything, really.

She peels off her coat like it's made of skin she no longer needs. Underneath, her tank top is stained at the collar, ripped at the hem. Her arms are littered with half-healed bruises. Her knuckles scabbed.

She hasn't spoken to another person in days.

Not since the last assignment.

Not since she clawed a man's throat open and watched his life leak out of his mouth like oil.

She should eat. She knows this. There's a can of beans in the cupboard. Three granola bars. A carton of milk long expired.

Instead, she lights a cigarette and sits on the floor in the farthest corner of the room.

She always sits there.

Back to the wall.

Eyes to the door.

Like the fights never ended.

Like the cage is always coming back.

She tries not to think about the past. That's rule one. Rule two is simpler: don't remember love.

It's been so long, she forgets what warmth feels like.

Not the warmth of a fire. The warmth of a hand. A voice. A laugh that belongs to someone who wants you to stay.

She thinks, sometimes, in broken pictures. A daisy. A lake. A squirrel named Moonbean.

But it always slips away.

She won't let herself reach for it.

Because when she reaches, her hands bleed.

The nights are the worst.

Nights are when her body betrays her, jerking in her sleep, gasping for breath. She dreams of chains. Of bells. Of crowds that roar every time she breaks something.

She hasn't used a bed in years. Her mattress is a suggestion. She curls up beside it, fetal, sometimes crawling under the bedframe just to feel the press of something above her.

A roof. A lid. A box.

Safety, in its own twisted form.

Like a dog under a table during a thunderstorm.

She wakes up with clenched teeth and bloody palms.

Always.

Sometimes, when she can't sleep, she goes to the window and watches the world ignore her.

Across the street is a liquor store that never closes. She counts the red cars that pull in. Pretends each one is someone coming back for her. Pretends they're coming home.

But no one comes.

No one ever does.

She still hears Valentina's voice sometimes, even when there's no comm in her ear.

Sit. Stay. Obey.

Sometimes Cici wonders if she's dreaming all of this. If the cage never opened. If she's still underneath the earth in some metal pit, hallucinating the illusion of a life.

Because if this is freedom, she's not sure it's any better.

It's quieter, yes.

But the silence is filled with teeth.

Once, a neighbor tried to talk to her.

A man in his forties with kind eyes and a dog that barked too much. He held the elevator door once, even though she always took the stairs.

"You new here?" He asked.

She stared at him.

Said nothing.

The dog barked. The man smiled awkwardly, "Alright. You take care."

She nodded. Not because she meant it. But because she was afraid of what her voice would sound like if she tried to use it.

She hasn't seen him since.

But sometimes, she hears the dog whine at night. And it makes something twist inside her.

A memory. A phantom.

The sound of something small begging not to be alone.

She never watches television. Too loud. Too many faces.

Instead, she listens to the boiler in the wall. To the hum of the building breathing. It calms her. Gives her rhythm.

Sometimes she hums back.

Quiet. So quiet.

Like a lullaby she's forgotten the words to.

Her phone buzzes at midnight.

One vibration.

No name.

No message.

Just a number code.

Valentina.

A new assignment.

She doesn't read it yet. She knows she'll obey, whatever it says. She always does.

Because that's the deal.

Valentina lets her live.

And in return, she kills.

That's the only equation she understands now.

She pulls her coat back on.

Sits in the corner.

Lights another cigarette.

Smoke curls from her lips like ghosts she can't name.

She sits.

Just sits.

The dog, waiting for the bell.

She thinks she's getting better.
Not healed-- she doesn't believe in that word anymore--
But quieter.
More still.
Then she sees it.
A poster.
A face.
A name.
And the leash snaps.

Cici walks fast, hood pulled low, hands stuffed into the pockets of her old leather jacket. Her boots hit the pavement like she's trying to leave dents. The sky presses down low and gray, spitting rain that never quite becomes a storm.

She didn't want to come out today. Didn't want to be around people.

But she thought... maybe.

Just maybe.

She could try something normal.

She doesn't remember why. The idea just came. Like a flicker. Like a moth bumping its head against the glass.

Go out. Get a coffee. Walk without looking over your shoulder.

She doesn't drink coffee. She doesn't like it. But it's what people do, isn't it?

She passed a café earlier. Watched a girl sit in the window reading a book, her hands curled around a mug like it was holy. That's what softness looked like.

Cici wanted to borrow it. Just for a minute.

So she kept walking.

Down a block she didn't recognize.

Through a street her boots had never touched.

And that's when she sees it.

The movie store is half-abandoned. The glass door is dusted with grime, the neon sign in the window flickering like a dying heartbeat. Most of the posters in the window are faded, their corners curling like old leaves.

But there's one that catches her eye.

One that stops her breath.

A poster for Tomb Buster.

The colors are bleached out by sun and time, but the silhouette is unmistakable—adventure hat, rugged smile, a glowing scarab in his hand.

Steven Grant. The daring archaeologist. The adventurer. The hero.

She knows that name.

Marc loved that name.

He used to say it in a voice two octaves too deep, pretending he was the hero.

"I'm Steven Grant, and this is how we save the world!"

He made her laugh until she hiccupped.

They used to act out scenes from the movie at the lakehouse. Marc would be Steven. Cici would be the cursed princess or the plucky sidekick, depending on her mood.

They had codes, secret phrases from the film. They used to draw scarabs on rocks and bury them behind the cabin like treasure maps only they knew how to find.

And suddenly--

She can't breathe.

The world tilts.

Something snaps loose inside her chest, and air won't come in. Her throat tightens. Her ribs clamp down like a vice. The rain feels like needles. The poster swims in front of her eyes.

She stumbles backward, bumping into a light post, clutching it like it's the only solid thing left.

Marc.

She hasn't said his name in years. Not out loud. Not even in her head, not really. She hasn't even heard the name in years, not since that mission where she had to force herself to stop thinking about him. It's forbidden. Sacred. Dangerous.

But now the sound of it rushes through her like fire.

Marc. Marc. Marc.

She drops to her knees on the sidewalk.

Hands shaking.

Heart racing.

The rain turns to sleet. The cold bites her ears, her cheeks, her lungs.

She tries to breathe.

One breath in.
Two.
Three.

But the ground is moving. Spinning. Her own body turns against her.

A passerby stops, "Hey, are you alright?"

Too close.

Too loud.

The voice triggers something.

The Mad Dog wakes up.

Not gently.

Not gradually.

She erupts.

Her hand shoots out. Grabs the man by the wrist. Too fast. Too strong. He cries out, but she's already rising, already snarling, already not here.

Her pupils shrink to pinpoints. Her lips peel back from her teeth, those teeth, the ones the serum gave her, the ones that never quite left. She bares them like fangs, breath ragged and hot.

The man tries to pull away.

Cici slams him into the brick wall.

Not hard enough to kill.

But hard enough to hurt.

Her knuckles split on impact. Blood smears down her fingers.

She doesn't feel it.

Two more people back away across the sidewalk, wide-eyed, whispering to each other. Someone pulls out a phone.

No. No phones.

Cici shudders. Her jaw clicks. Her hands twitch.

She's in the pit again.

She's ten years old and covered in bruises.

She's fourteen and starving.

She's sixteen and killing because the man behind the bars said kill or die.

She turns and sprints down the alley, panting like a dog on the run, slamming her shoulder into a dumpster, scraping her leg on a rusted pipe. Her boots skid across wet concrete as she crashes into a chain-link fence.

She grabs the top and climbs.

One. Two. Three--

She drops over it and rolls.

Lands in another alley.

Alone.

At last.

She collapses behind a stack of crates.

Hunched. Shivering.

The Mad Dog curls in the dark.

Her breath rasps in her throat.

She gnaws on her sleeve, trying to ground herself. The cotton is wet with saliva and blood. Her own heartbeat sounds like a war drum in her skull.

She doesn't know how long she stays there.

Five minutes. An hour.

Time loses shape when the dog takes over.

But slowly, slowly... the pulse slows. The haze clears.

And Cici crawls out of herself again.

Half-feral. Half-girl.

All hollow.
She stands, swaying.

Leans against the brick wall like she's holding it up.

Rain seeps into her jacket.

She doesn't go back for the coffee she never bought.

Doesn't go back for the poster.

She just walks.

One foot.

Then the other.

Like maybe she can outrun what she saw.

What she felt.

But Marc's name is in her head now.

And it won't come out.

Not all cages have bars.
Some are built from smiles, soft voices, and the illusion of kindness.
Cici once trusted a leash.
Now she trusts no hands--
Not even the ones that offer warmth.

It starts with a voice.

A light, sing-song voice, like someone humming on a porch swing with a glass of lemonade in July.

"Oh, honey," The voice says, "You alright?"

Cici blinks up through wet lashes, the alley walls breathing around her. Her hair is soaked, clinging to her face in inky ropes. Her jacket drips with rain and blood. Her hands are still shaking.

The woman crouching beside her doesn't look like a threat.

She looks like kindness dressed in wool. Strawberry blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail, a tan coat buttoned all the way up, cheeks pink from the cold. There's a purse slung over her shoulder and a silver crucifix around her neck.

"My name's Shelia," The woman says. Her accent lilts up at the end, soft and northern-- Minnesota, maybe, "Looks like you've had a hell of a night, sweetheart."

Cici opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

Just breath.

Just fog.

"C'mon," Shelia says, offering a hand, "Let's get you someplace warm, huh?"

Cici should say no.

Every part of her screams it.
Don't go. Don't follow. Don't trust.

But she is tired.
So tired.

Tired of blood. Tired of alleys. Tired of being feral and alone and half-human in the bones.

So she lets herself believe the lie.

Just for tonight.

She takes Shelia's hand.

The bar is small and glowing.

Some hole-in-the-wall tucked between a laundromat and a payday loan shack. The windows are steamed. The lights are dim and golden, the air filled with the sound of clinking glasses and the low hum of old country music.

It's the kind of place where people forget to look at you.

Cici slides into a booth in the back.

Shelia orders for both of them, whiskey, neat.

Cici hasn't had a drink in months. Alcohol makes her edges too soft. Makes the memories come too fast. But tonight, she wants the burn. Wants to feel something that isn't made of teeth and ash.

"You from around here?" Shelia asks, sipping her drink.

Cici shrugs, "I'm not from anywhere."

Shelia smiles, "You got a name?"

Cici hesitates.

The dog wants to growl.
The girl just wants to be called something other than Mad Dog.

"...Cici."

Shelia tilts her head, "That's real sweet."

Cici nods, stares at the condensation running down her glass.

The conversation is light.

Shelia talks about her dog back home, Marnie, a golden retriever who loves snow. She talks about cold winters, bad coffee, and worse exes. She tells Cici she has a sister in Kansas, that she once got mugged outside a grocery store but talked the guy down by complimenting his jacket.

She's warm.

Too warm.

But Cici doesn't notice.

Not yet.

Not when Shelia asks about her.

Not when Shelia says, "You look like someone who's had to bite too many times just to be left alone."

Something inside Cici crumbles.

Just a little.

She drinks.

She nods.

She almost smiles.

An hour passes.

The bar gets louder. The lights dim.

Shelia reaches across the table, touches Cici's hand.

"I get it, sweetheart. I really do. Life doesn't give girls like us much room to breathe, does it?"

Cici doesn't pull away.

She should.

But she doesn't.

No one's touched her like this in years.

No one's wanted to.

"I'm glad I found you tonight," Shelia says.

And for a second, just one, Cici believes her.

The illusion shatters in the bathroom.

Cici excuses herself, weaving through the crowd. Her head swims, not drunk, exactly. Just off. Just wrong.

She locks the stall, sits on the closed lid of the toilet, and exhales.

Her hands still tremble.

But not from fear.

From hope.

From the fragile thing blooming in her chest.

Maybe... maybe she's different.

Maybe Shelia isn't another leash. Another lie. Maybe she's--

She hears it then.

The voice.

Not Shelia's.

A man's. Gruff. Hushed.

"She's in the booth. Brunette. Leather jacket. You'll know her when you see her."

Cici stills.

Her blood runs cold.

"She doesn't know. Easy money. Easiest payday I've had in years."

Her heart drops.

The girl inside her crumples.

The dog... wakes up.

She doesn't go back through the bar.

She climbs out the bathroom window.

Hands scrape. Knees bruise. Doesn't matter.

She lands in the alley.

Runs.

Around back.

Through the snow.

To the car parked two blocks away.

Shelia's car.

She waits.

Ten minutes later, Shelia rounds the corner laughing with two men. Cici watches from the shadows. No movement. No breath.

One of the men hands Shelia a roll of bills.

Shelia says something Cici can't hear.

They laugh again.

And that's when she steps out.

Shelia freezes.

The men reach for their guns.

Too slow.

Cici moves like a nightmare, no footsteps, just violence.

She cracks the first man's jaw with her elbow. The second takes a knee to the ribs. She slams his head into the hood of the car hard enough to dent the metal.

They don't get back up.

Shelia screams.

Cici turns.

And in the yellow light of the streetlamp, she sees it:

betrayal in a pink coat.

"You were so nice," Cici says, voice raw, "Why did you have to be so nice?"

Shelia backs up, hands raised, "Wait, wait, it wasn't personal--!"

"Nothing ever is," Cici growls.

She lunges.

Pins Shelia against the car.

Her teeth are bared. Her eyes wild.

"You lied."

"I--I didn't mean to--"

"You were gonna sell me."

Shelia sobs, "Please, don't--"

"I was gonna trust you."

Cici shakes. Her hand closes around Shelia's throat.

"I was gonna remember what it felt like."

She doesn't kill her.

She could.

But she doesn't.

Because then the girl is gone forever.

She lets go.

Lets Shelia fall to the ground, gasping.

And then she disappears into the dark.

She doesn't cry that night.

She just walks.

Until her feet bleed.

Until her soul forgets the warmth of that hand on hers.

Until she forgets Shelia's smile.

Until it's safe again...
...to be alone.

She tells herself she's numb.
But numb is a mercy.
She is not numb.
She is splintered.
And when the cracks reach the surface,
someone always bleeds.

Cici wakes up on the floor again.

Her breath is a low hiss through her teeth, sharp and uneven. The mattress looms above her like a tombstone she refuses to lie beneath. Cold concrete presses against her cheek. Her jacket is still on. Her boots, too. She didn't take anything off. She didn't sleep so much as collapse, like a puppet with the strings cut.

She blinks against the dark.

No dreams. Not anymore. Just blackouts.

The studio apartment is silent, save for the hum of a broken refrigerator she never uses. Light slips through the crooked blinds, thin and colorless. Morning, technically. But there's no sun.

There's never sun here.

She doesn't speak.

There's no one to speak to.

No friends.

No family.

No Marc.

Just the voice of Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, humming somewhere in the marrow of her bones.

Cici sits. Cici stays. Cici bites when I say bite.

She eats a granola bar.

Washes it down with water that tastes like rust.

Stares at the peeling wall.

Sometimes, she carves lines into it with her knife. Not words. Just lines. One for each day she doesn't speak. One for each day she doesn't remember who she was before she had claws.

There are over three hundred lines now.

They look like tally marks on a prison wall.

She tells herself it's easier this way.
To forget.
To stay buried.

Because remembering means pain.
And pain means weakness.
And weakness gets you killed.

That afternoon, her phone buzzes.

It doesn't ring. It never rings.

Just a soft, vibrating whisper. Like the voice of a god you never see.

There's no caller ID. Just a location. A time. And three words:

No witnesses. Clean.

No signature. But it doesn't need one.

It's from her.

Valentina.

Director of the CIA.
Queen of the black wires.
The one who built this version of Cici like a monster in a lab.

And Cici obeys.

Because obedience is easier than thinking.

The target is a man named Lukas Kessler.

Cici watches him from the roof across the street. She's crouched in shadow, rain pooling at her knees. Her fingers twitch against the grip of her knife.

Lukas lives in a brownstone in Hamtramck. Wears glasses. Has a limp. He works at a university and takes the bus. His record is clean. No criminal ties. Nothing suspicious.

Which makes Cici pause.

Just for a second.

Because this man, this thin, balding, book-carrying man, doesn't fit the profile. He's not armed. He's not dangerous. He's not the usual kind of prey.

But the order was clear.

No witnesses. Clean.

So she waits.

She doesn't want to question it.

She just wants it to be over.

He returns home at dusk.

Carries a tote bag full of papers. Fumbles with his keys. Leaves the door open behind him like he's never had to worry.

Cici drops from the rooftop.

Lands silent in the alley below.

Slips in behind him.

Inside, the air smells like tea and dust. Classical music plays from a record player in the living room. The lights are warm. Safe.

Cici moves like a shadow through the hallway.

She finds him at the kitchen counter, humming softly, back turned.

Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her blade.

Just another order.
Just another name.
Just another leash-pull.

She steps forward.

But he turns.

And he smiles.

"Hey there," He says, like she's a friend, a neighbor, not a ghost with blood in her teeth, "You alright? You look cold."

She freezes.

His eyes are kind. Not cautious. Kind.

She's been a weapon for so long, she forgot what that looks like.

"I--" She starts, her voice a cracked whisper.

And that's when it happens.

He sees her.

Not the Mad Dog.

Not the monster.

He sees the girl.

And she panics.

Because no one is supposed to see her like that.

Because it hurts.

It hurts more than anything.

And in that panic, pure, wild, animal panic--

she kills him.

The blade is in his chest before he can scream.

His eyes go wide. His hand trembles against hers.

She feels the warmth flood between them.

And the kindness drains from his face like light down a drain.

He slumps forward.

Dead.

Just like that.

Silence returns.

She stands over the body.

Hands shaking.

Mouth open.

There is no pride. No rage. No satisfaction.

Only the sound of a record spinning in the next room.

The violins swell.

And Cici breaks.

She drops to her knees.

Hands to her face.

Blood on her lips.

She can't breathe.

She can't feel.

She can't take it back.

"I didn't mean to," She whispers, "I didn't mean to--"

But the blood doesn't care.

The corpse doesn't care.

Valentina won't care.

She did what she was told.

Even when no one said it.

Because the leash doesn't need a pull when the collar is inside you.

She crawls out the window.

Doesn't bother with the door.

She runs through the rain like it might wash her clean.

It doesn't.

Back home, she strips naked.

Scrubs her hands until the skin peels.

Sits in the shower with the water cold and the light off.

And for the first time in years,

she sobs.

Later, she carves another line into the wall.

Then, slowly, she carves a second.

Because today wasn't just a day without speaking.

It was a day she forgot who she was again.

A day she let the leash win.

She is alone.

Exactly how Valentina wants her.

Exactly how she told herself she prefers it.

But tonight, the silence feels like a scream.

And the girl inside her can't stop whispering,

"You killed someone who was kind to you."

And the dog can't stop howling back,

"That's why he had to die."

She was supposed to die by the lake.
That's the only thing that makes sense now.
Because what's left of her isn't a person.
It's a creature in a girl's skin--
foaming at the mouth,
chained by a voice,
running on broken memories and blood.

Cici destroys the mirror first.

Her fist goes through the glass like it's made of air. Shards rain down like falling teeth, slicing her knuckles open, biting deep into the skin. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't feel it. She never feels it.

The knife drawer goes next. Then the chair. Then the wall she's carved with silent tally marks, lines that once counted time, counted silence, counted something she thought was control. They don't mean anything now. Not after what she did. Not after him.

She can still see his face.

Still feel the softness in his voice, the tremble in his hand as he died on her blade.

I didn't mean to.

She screams.

It splits the air like thunder, ragged and feral, years of silent obedience unraveling in one monstrous sound.

Then she runs.

Boots hit concrete.

Then dirt.

Then gravel.

Then grass.

She runs until the buildings fade, until the light dies, until the shadows stretch long across empty highway shoulders and frost-covered trees.

The serum keeps her moving. Her legs pump like pistons, lungs dragging air like it's oil. Wind bites her face. Branches whip past. Her blood sings in her ears.

She doesn't know where she's going.

Only that she needs to run far enough to forget the feeling of blood on her hands.

Far enough to find silence that doesn't scream back.

She doesn't stop until it's dark.

Not streetlamp-dark. Not alley-dark.

Real dark.

Woods-dark.

Moon-between-branches dark.

She collapses near a frozen creek, body trembling, legs numb.

She breathes in deep.

It smells like pine and rot and earth.

She presses her forehead to the ground, fingers clawing the soil.

"Please," She whispers, "Please just let me be her again."

The girl who laughed.

The girl who planted daisies for dead squirrels.

The girl who danced barefoot on the porch and called frogs her friends.

But that girl died by the lake.

And this?

This is the shadow left behind.

The ghost wearing her bones.

The dog with too many teeth.

Her phone buzzes in her jacket pocket.

She doesn't answer it.

It buzzes again.

And again.

Until the silence is worse than the sound.

She answers.

"Cici," says the voice on the other end. Calm. Smooth. Surgical.

Valentina.

"You've been off the leash for hours," Val says gentle, "I was worried."

Cici doesn't speak.

Just breathes.

Val hums like she's comforting a child.

"I know what happened," She says.

Cici squeezes her eyes shut.

"It wasn't your fault."

Her lip quivers.

"I shouldn't have sent you. He was... an error. Not your mistake. Mine."

Cici doesn't believe her.

But she wants to.

God, she wants to.

She feels small. She feels young.

"Do you want out?" Val asks, voice like silk, "I can give you that."

Cici blinks at the trees above her.

Out?

"No more kills. No more orders. No more leash," Val says.

She says it like it's already true.

"There's a man," She continues, "Someone who's stolen from me. Someone who thinks he can take what I built. He's hitting one of our facilities in Utah in two days."

Cici's heart stills.

"This man," Val whispers, "he wants to expose us. Me. You. All of it. He wants to make you a name in the news. Not a ghost. Not a whisper. A monster. A headline."

Cici's stomach turns.

"You want to disappear, right? You want peace? Kill him. That's all you have to do. Kill him, and I'll erase the leash. You'll never hear from me again."

Silence stretches.

Cici breathes.

Thinks of the blood. The guilt. The mirror.

Peace.

She wants peace more than she wants food. More than she wants sleep.

She wants to stop killing.

She wants to stop being a dog.

She wants to be someone you could look in the eye and not flinch.

"Okay," She whispers.

Val smiles through the line. Cici can hear it.

"Good girl."

The call ends.

Cici sits in the woods for hours after that.

She doesn't sleep.

Just stares at her hands.

They still shake.

But now, she tells herself, it's for the last time.

What she doesn't know--

What she can't know--

Is that the man in Utah isn't a threat.

He's not a robber. He's not a spy. He's not trying to take down Valentina's empire.

He's a decoy.

The facility is real.

But the plan is a trap.

A final solution.

Valentina's cleaning house.

All of her ghosts.

All of her monsters.

Cici Spector among them.

One last mission.

One last kill.

And then, boom, no more liabilities.

No more loose dogs.

Just silence.

Just ash.

Cici rises.

Cold and wet and alone.

She doesn't cry.

There's nothing left.

But she moves.

Toward Utah.

Toward the promise of freedom.

Unaware she's walking straight into the fire.

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