Eve sat across from Alexander, her notebook resting on her lap. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, traced every movement she made. "You think you can fix me?" he asked, his voice edged with something between amusement and disdain.
She didn't flinch. "I think you're not as broken as you believe."
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You don't know what I've done."
She met his gaze, unwavering. "Monsters are not born. They are made. But even the worst of them can choose to unmake themselves."
For a moment, silence settled between them, thick and charged. Then, the door burst open. A man stumbled in, bruised and bleeding, panic written across his face.
"Voss," he gasped. "They found her. They took Eve."
Alexander's blood turned to ice. He was on his feet in an instant, the chair scraping against the floor. "Where?"
"Warehouse district. They want you to come alone."
Eve's face flashed through his mind—soft, stubborn, always meeting him with fire instead of fear. He clenched his fists.
"Then let's give them what they want."