Fury and Flame | 3

0 | 6

J A K E

It was the day we were to meet the new ONNT director that was taking Hunt's place, the woman who was supposedly so horrible that we needed to mind what we said and did around her.

Some of the others were angry and saddened by the fact Hunt was fired. Frankly, I didn't give a shit about it. As long as this new director gave us the same freedoms we already had, I couldn't care less about Hunt's departure.

If she didn't, I'd have a problem.

      The one thing I was concerned about, however, was that Hunt had been easy to read and manipulate. I hoped this new woman would be as well. I hoped she was as morally good as Hunt. Honorable people were much easier to control. I'd said that once before to—

      No. I would not think of her. I wouldn't remember the look on her face, wouldn't remember the mask they'd covered her face with. And I would never again think of what she'd said to me before leaving. Never. The small amount of comfort I had was in the fact that she certainly didn't feel that way anymore.

      Delphinium was gone. The person she used to be was dead. I wasn't stupid enough to believe Kane's brother's lies about how Orion was going to kill her, not after they realized how valuable a piece she was in this war. No, they'd turned her into the very thing she feared most.

      There was nothing more to be done about it. If there was some way for her to be back, I would have done it already, but...

      She wasn't coming back. That was all there was to it. I didn't care. I didn't care. I would force myself not to care that she wasn't here anymore, though everything around me was connected to her in some way.

      Why was I even having these goddamn thoughts? I should be focusing on this new issue. And Hundsen, who'd gone silent again.

I shoved away any thoughts of her as I trailed the rest of the crew into the ONNT building. We were ushered in by a comically large group of soldiers. Hunt had only sent a few to greet us, on the occasions he sent any at all. Shooting a few of the soldiers that made eye contact with me a flat glare, I made a silent promise that if any of them tried to touch me, they'd lose their hands.

That was the mindset this new director was evidently afraid of. Good. Fear was good. It meant I had something to work with.

We were led up the hallway, towards where Hunt's office had been a few days prior. No one dared to say a word with all the soldiers around us, as they were sworn to a new, unknown master. The same secretary watched us pass by her desk with wary eyes. I met her stare. She quickly looked away and found something very interesting in her paperwork.

The knock on the new director's door was loud in the midst of the screaming silence. Then, there came a call from inside. "Come in."

The office was completely different than how Hunt's had been. A large black desk sat under the floor-to-ceiling windows. I saw that it was almost completely bare except for a few potted plants—the only sight of something lively in this place. Everything was smooth, matching and completely sophisticated.

Marcella Krasowski herself stood behind the desk as she watched us file into her office. Standing relatively small under our towering heights, she scanned each of our faces, like she was trying to figure us out in only one glance. Her eyes were dark. They reminded me of Hundsen's, how something wasn't quite right in their depths. She wore a grey pantsuit with high heels so pointy they could be weapons. I instantly hated her.