Vanik is still standing with his hands raised, eyeing me like I’m a wild animal. It reminds me too much of how the security guard looked at me when we were at Luna Park. He knew—even back then, he knew who I was, what I could do. That with a single word, I could make or break the world. He wasn’t worried about me carrying a weapon. He knew I was the weapon.

Only … for some reason, he thinks I’m his weapon.

“Calm yourself, Six-Eight-Four,” Vanik tells me. “You don’t want to say anything either of us will regret.”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I might not be able to Speak anymore.

“Answer my questions,” I demand.

Ward isn’t intervening. Isn’t stopping this conversation. He was ordered to watch me, so that’s what he’s doing, leaning against the wall and staring at me, but nothing more.

Vanik lowers his hands but doesn’t move from his position. “I’m here because he”—he jerks his chin toward Ward— “knocked me out the moment I had a working prototype for my Creator serum. The next thing I knew, I woke up here and Alvin … Alvin …”

He breaks off and looks away from me, his face genuinely distraught upon mentioning Dr. Manning. I’ve never seen Vanik anything less than clinical, anything less than composed, but I’m starting to think his bloodshot eyes aren’t just from exhaustion.

“Alvin tried to—tried to save me, and he killed him.”

I look at Ward in horror. Mind-controlled or not, he’ll never forgive himself if he wakes up from this nightmare only to remember that he murdered Dr. Manning.

Vanik follows my gaze and says, “No, it wasn’t Landon. It was the other one. He gave Alvin his gun and made him— made him shoot himself.” In an agonized whisper, Vanik adds, “At least it was—it was quick.”

I have no love lost for Manning or Vanik, but I do have a heart, and I can see that his is broken. This isn’t an act— whatever was between Manning and Vanik went beyond a working relationship. Whether they considered each other like brothers or something else entirely, I have no idea. But the raw pain in Vanik’s expression tells me that this is a wound unlikely to heal, a death that meant more to him than any other.

“I’ve been a prisoner here for five days, threatened with my own death if I don’t do exactly what he wants,” Vanik shares quietly. Then his voice strengthens as he says, “I’ve been waiting for you to come. I knew you would. And now that you have, you can get me out of here; you can save me.”

“Why would I help you?” I croak out.