Pain ripped through Noa’s side like wildfire. His vision snapped white, then black, then slammed back into brutal, blinding reality as the floor cracked under him. He gasped, a sharp, wet sound clawing out of his throat, and when his hand flew to his ribs, it came away sticky and red.

She shot him.

His fake mother. His handler. His maker.

Her footsteps clicked toward him, slow and deliberate, the barrel of her gun still smoking as she crouched in front of him, tilting her head like she was ...