The black market is where I earn a living these days, selling hacking software and cloning prototypes. I recall once telling Blakely I had no intention of doing so, but the ends justify the means. I need money—lots of it—to fund a new project.

Since time is of the essence, I forewent building another brain scanner and mapping device, and instead purchased the instruments direct from a Korean lab.

It’s risky, conducting the experiment in the city. I thought I was clever before by selecting a remote location in the middle of nowhere. But truthfully, there is nowhere more alone and isolating than this city. People are burdened with busy schedules and stacked one on top of the other, forcing them to ignore their neighbors for the sake of privacy. They don’t want to know what I’m doing here; they just appreciate that I’m quiet and keep to myself.

I could be a Dahmer copycat, but as long as I’m severing heads quietly and making sure to keep the electricity on so the body parts don’t reek up the hallway, people don’t give a damn.

As I approach Subject 9, I hold the syringe up and then, with clear warning in my gaze, order him to remain silent. “Let’s make this quick. I have a date tonight.”

Sweat beads his forehead. The duct tape is slick as I rip it away from his mouth.

He blows the mouthguard out, his ashen face highlighted with red welts and rashes from the adhesive. “Please…you have to let me go. I don’t deserve this—this is insane.”

I inhale a deep breath, acutely aware of the absent scent in the stale air, that intoxicating mix of coconut and bergamot.

Her scent.

The fragrance of my lab when she was there.

Blakely’s scent imbued me, putting me right at her mercy.

Since smells travel directly to the memory and emotional hubs of the brain, even the absence of a smell can trigger an emotional response.

If I don’t rectify us soon, I fear I’ll completely lose the memory of it, and it will forever linger in that haunted cabin basement.

I slip my good hand into a glove and proceed with tightening the straps on my subject.

“God, no…” He fastens his eyes shut. “I haven’t eaten for two days. This is inhumane!”

There’s that word again, and just like every other time I’ve heard it uttered, the vertebrae along my spine locks taut. “Really, inhumane is how you subjected your college roommate to a hazing stunt that left him maimed for life. But—” I shove the mouthguard back into his mouth and secure it with a new strip of tape “—I’m neither your judge nor your jury.”

And with the exact replication of the treatment, I won’t be his executioner, either.

I’m going to cure this man.

The dial on the ECT machine is set to the precise voltage. The chemical compound is delivered in the exact manner. Anesthesia is not administered. Every single aspect is parallel to Blakely’s procedure.

I strap the electrodes to the subject’s temples in the bilateral ETC position and meet his eyes—eyes wide and glassy with fear, and a touch vacant with acceptance. Shallow affect doesn’t allow for a wide range of emotions, yet even a psychopath can fear their own demise.

I toggle the switch, and his body stiffens, muscles contracting with the induced seizure. A dark pool spreads along the white cotton sheet covering his lower half as he wets himself. His eyes roll into the back of his head, showing only the bloodshot white, as he bucks against the gurney.

At the predetermined time mark, I kill the switch. His body sags in relief. After unhooking him from the machine, I set the timer on my phone for five hours. That’s how long it took Blakely to come back to me. Even then, I carried her to the river and submerged her in cold water to fully revive her.

Haunting memories of that night return with a vengeance, the procedure forcing me to recall every achingly beautiful and painful moment. The feel of her fiery lips crashing against mine amid the frigid waterfall as it rained down on us. The tears that streaked her cheeks when her emotions soared to shattering heights.

The razor-sharp knife of despair plunged into my chest at her rejection.

The denial of her feelings that, although gutted me emotionally, also wounded my ego.

Looking back now, it’s so fucking clear. I should have called her out on her lies. I should have never let her go. I should have wrapped my arms around her and kissed her madly until her guarded walls came crashing down.

My fist slams into the metal table, and I only register the brief pain before blood seeps through the bandage.

I allowed her to manipulate my emotions, so I deserve my misery for being so weak.

If I had the clarity of hindsight, I would’ve told her the brutal truth: Love makes us crazy, baby. Welcome to the land of the feeling.

What Blakely doesn’t understand is that her capacity to feel was always there, it was just untapped. And we did more than tap it—we opened Pandora’s box. Maybe that did terrify me a little, made me question…everything.

I admit, I didn’t take into account the impact such a phenomenal change would have. I couldn’t have accounted for it; no one has ever succeeded where I have. There is no empirical data or test cases to compare. No warning labels.

She’s different now, but still so much the same. What was always there is now heightened, the desire to inflict pain magnified. The dare to make others suffer amplified.

Blood calls to her.

It knows her name.

Killing is in her veins now.

As soon as I read the news article, I knew it was Blakely who sank a blade into Ericson. Not once, but thirteen times. The authorities labeled it overkill.

I won’t be like you, Alex. I’m not a killer.

No, Blakely may have never become a killer. Her malady as a psychopath was never that of a murderer.

She’s a justice dealer.

And who deserved a round of justice more than a putrid rapist like Ericson Daverns?

As her emotions and neural pathways are still equilibrating, her responses and reflexes are going to be erratic. She will be volatile one moment, lethargic the next. In time, she will let go of her guilt over taking a man’s life. She will come to realize she had no other choice.

It was either him or her.

Although Ericson would’ve made a prime subject to further the experiment, his purpose was best served by allowing Blakely to explore her emotional range. A scientific sacrificial lamb.

Fortunately for me, there are other Ericsons in this world, a few of them located right here in this city. On that particular research, my beautiful monster has already done the vetting work for me.

A page torn right from her little black book.

Such as Subject 9 on my gurney. His name was third down on her “Douche checklist.” Her own personal rating system, how she tallied her targets from the least deserving to the most deserving of a client’s revenge. It’s a vetted list of the worst kind of humans, and subsequently, the ones at the top happen to be psychopaths.

Her notes on the subject of psychopathy are particularly interesting. As she had a special insight into this disposition, she knew one revenge scheme wasn’t suitable for all.

Like Reilly Stafford, her revenge for him was just, but he has a higher purpose now. He doesn’t have to be a waste.

Reminded of my patient, I check his vitals. “You probably think I’m callous,” I say to him, regardless of whether or not he can hear me. “That I exhibit similar psychopathic tendencies. You wouldn’t be wrong. In order for one to achieve what I have, one has to assert a great level of insensitivity.”

Feeling no pulse, I frown down at him. “But don’t forget that a psycho killer did put an icepick through my sister’s brain. Something so traumatic does have a tendency to leave a mark.” I push harder against his neck. He’s unresponsive. I drop my hand.