A part of me would love to hear this man scream. To make him hurt. To see if there’s any emotion left inside. But it would be murder, pure and simple, and I’m not sure I’m ready to cross that line.

I’m not sure I’m ready to become a monster like him.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, he smirks but doesn’t move out of range of my knife. He just stands there, fingers still hovering over the black pin that represents my village.

“You know”—he smiles, predatory—“Catcher’s not the only Immune out there. They’re rare, but they exist. We’ve got people looking—men like Elias infiltrating the Soulers. They know more about Immunes than we do—they worship and protect them, collect them like gods. We bring the Soulers here and eventually one of the Immunes will come to beg for their release. Ask us to trade the lives of all the Soulers—set them free—in exchange for the Immune staying to supply us. It’s happened before.”

I grip the machete tighter but his glance doesn’t waver.

“The second we find a new Immune, you become a whole lot less important. Catcher becomes less valuable and your life becomes about my mercy.” He tilts his head to the side. In the small room I can smell his sweat. “And you already know how merciful I can—”

Before he even finishes the statement I swing the machete, aiming for his throat, and then, just as I’m about to feel the blade slice through flesh I stop, letting it hover over his skin. “What about my mercy?” I ask through clenched teeth.

I’d wanted a reaction, wanted to see fear, but instead he laughs. “You and I are too much alike for that,” he says. “It’s that fire I admire in you. If we ever had to teach Catcher a lesson, I’d be sad to see you be the one to go.”

He places two fingers on the blade, pushing it away. I resist and the razor-sharp edge cuts into him, thin lines of blood appearing. I know exactly the feel of that pain. It makes my empty stomach turn but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead he smiles, hesitating long enough before pulling his hand away that he makes his point.

“We had another Immune once, a few years ago,” he says. “We controlled him with his mom—he was a mama’s boy, always coming back to her and bringing what we wanted.”

My heart begins to beat heavily, my grip on the machete slipping a little as my palms sweat. He pauses, forces me to ask: “What happened?”

This makes him smile as I knew it would. “He felt bad that it was his immunity that made his mom a prisoner, though I thought we treated her fairly well, all things considered.