Back in his apartment, Mina pressed a hand against his bandaged wound, feeling fresh blood seeping through the gauze. The confrontation with Simoneau had reopened the injury, but physical pain was now the least of his concerns. His thoughts raced through the implications of what he'd overheard.
Simoneau claimed to be his father. Remi—the pampered, privileged heir to Simoneau's empire—was supposedly his brother. And Amane, a high-ranking member of the Syndicate of Crime, was asserting her rights as his mother.
He'd always known he was a pawn in a larger game, but the board had suddenly expanded, the stakes raised exponentially. If Simoneau truly was his father, why had he been raised as a weapon rather than a son? Why had Remi received the privileges of family while Mina lived in shadows and spilled blood on command?
And Amane—what claim did she truly have? If she was his mother, where had she been all these years? Why seek him now, when he had been shaped into something barely human, a knife with consciousness?
Mina moved to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains at the street below. Rain had begun to fall, transforming the pavement into a mirror that reflected the gray sky. Pedestrians hurried past, heads bent against the weather, umbrellas bobbing like strange fungi sprouting from their shoulders.
Normal people with normal lives, untouched by the dark currents that carried Mina through his existence. How would it feel to walk among them without the weight of death clinging to his skin? To form connections not predicated on manipulation or violence?
A bitter smile twisted his lips. Such questions were pointless. He was what they had made him—a ghost, a shadow, a perfectly honed instrument of death. Perhaps that was all he would ever be.
The blood had soaked through his bandage completely now, staining his shirt with a spreading crimson flower. He should change the dressing, tend to the wound properly. Instead, he continued to stare out at the rain, letting the pain wash through him in waves, a reminder that he was, despite everything, still alive.
For now.
Ten days of confinement stretched before him like an abyss. Mina moved through his sparse apartment, cataloging its contents with the methodical precision that characterized all his actions. The kitchen contained enough non-perishable food for perhaps three days. The medical kit needed replenishing after his treatment of last night's wound. The sleeping pills were gone, taken by Grisham in his misguided attempt at protection.
Simoneau would send supplies, but dependency grated against Mina's instincts. He preferred self-sufficiency, control over his immediate environment if nothing else. Being forced to rely on others—even for basic necessities—was just another form of captivity.
He settled into a chair by the window, knife in hand, absently testing its edge against his thumb. Blood welled from the small cut, and he watched it with detached fascination. Pain was clarifying, a focal point in the chaos of revelations.
Brother. Mother. Father. The words felt foreign, concepts from another world that had nothing to do with his reality.
A knock at the door startled him from his reverie. Three sharp raps—Grisham's signature. Mina hesitated, then crossed to the door, knife still in hand.
Grisham's expression shifted from concern to exasperation when he spotted the weapon. "Really, Mina? Is that necessary?"
Mina didn't respond, merely stepped aside to allow the doctor entry.
"I heard about last night," Grisham said, setting his medical bag on the table. "Let me see the wound."
"It's fine," Mina replied, making no move to reveal the injury.
"I'll be the judge of that," Grisham countered, his tone brooking no argument. "Shirt off. Now."
Reluctantly, Mina complied, unwrapping the blood-soaked bandage to reveal the angry gash beneath. Grisham clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"This needs stitches," he muttered, removing supplies from his bag. "Sit down before you fall down."
As Grisham worked, his fingers gentle despite his brusque manner, Mina stared at a point on the wall.
"I met Simoneau today," he said finally, voice carefully neutral.
Grisham's hands stilled momentarily before resuming their careful suturing. "Did you, now? And what did our esteemed employer have to say?"
"He confined me to the apartment for ten days."
"Probably for the best, given your condition," Grisham replied, not meeting Mina's eyes.
"He also said something interesting," Mina continued, watching Grisham's face closely. "Something about Remi being my brother."
The needle slipped, and Grisham swore under his breath. "You shouldn't eavesdrop on conversations not meant for you, Mina."
"So it's true."
It wasn't a question, but Grisham answered anyway. "What would it change if it were?"
Everything. Nothing. Mina wasn't sure.
"And Amane?" he pressed.
Grisham tied off the last stitch and began applying a clean bandage. "What about her?"
"Is she really my mother?"
The doctor's silence was answer enough. He packed away his supplies with methodical care, avoiding Mina's gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
"Some truths serve no purpose except to cause pain, Mina. Focus on healing. On surviving. The rest... the rest doesn't matter as much as you think."
But it did matter. It mattered because it meant Mina had been lied to his entire life. It mattered because somewhere in this city was a woman who might have once held him with love rather than manipulation. It mattered because the man who had shaped him into a weapon shared his blood and had chosen to treat him as a tool rather than a son.
It mattered because another version of his life might have existed—one where he wasn't hollow, wasn't a ghost moving unseen among the living.
"I need those sleeping pills," Mina said abruptly.
Grisham shook his head. "No. You're becoming dependent. It's not healthy."
"Nothing about my life is healthy."
"All the more reason not to add chemical dependency to your problems." Grisham closed his bag with finality. "I've left some pain medication on the counter. Take it as directed—no more. I'll check on you tomorrow."
At the door, he paused, looking back at Mina with an expression that might have been pity on another man's face. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"All of it."
After Grisham left, Mina remained seated, staring at nothing. Outside, rain continued to fall, drumming against the window in a melancholy rhythm that matched his pulse. Ten days stretched before him—ten days to consider his next move in a game whose rules had suddenly changed.
The knife lay on the table where he'd set it down, its blade catching the gray light. Mina reached for it, the familiar weight comforting in his hand. Whatever came next, whatever truths awaited discovery, this much remained constant: he was a weapon, forged in shadow and honed to a deadly edge.
If Simoneau thought confining him would ensure obedience, he was mistaken. Ten days was ample time to plan. To prepare. To decide whether blood ties were bonds to be honored or chains to be broken.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Mina felt something stir within the void inside him—not quite hope, but its dangerous cousin: possibility.
Outside, the rain began to ease, a pale sun struggling to break through clouds the color of bruised flesh. The city continued its ceaseless rhythm, oblivious to the shifts and currents of the underworld that existed in its shadow.
In his apartment, Mina began to plan.