Chapter 57 The Handler Who Stayed

Chapter 57 The Handler Who Stayed
Patricia had been running for ten years.

She'd been a handler for the Order. One of the good ones, they said. One of the ones who could get players to open up, to trust, to tell her things they'd never told anyone. She'd been assigned to Elena in the early days, when the Order still thought Elena might become the keeper.

Patricia had watched Elena refuse. Watched her run. Watched her disappear into the world and become someone else, someone the Order couldn't find.

Patricia should have reported her. That was her job. Her duty. The thing she'd been trained to do.

Instead, she'd left the Order. Taken Elena's files. Burned them. Walked out the door and never looked back.

She'd been running ever since.

Now she was sitting in a white room with white walls and white floors, her hands folded in her lap, her face calm, her heart steady. The games had been running for days. Weeks. She'd lost track. Kara was beside her, her arm in a sling, her face bruised. Derek was on the other side, his leg wrapped in a bloody bandage, his eyes hollow.

They were waiting for the next game. The next test. The next thing that would try to break them.

Patricia had been broken before. She knew what it felt like. The moment when the thing inside you that kept you human finally gave up. The moment when you stopped being a person and started being a tool. The moment when you looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the face looking back.

She'd been a handler for ten years. She'd broken a hundred players. She'd watched them become something the Order could use. She'd watched them forget who they were.

She'd never forgotten. That was the curse. That was the thing that kept her running for ten years.

Cassandra found her in the quiet hour between games. The lights were dim. The other players were sleeping, or pretending to sleep. Kara had her head on Derek's shoulder. Derek's eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow.

Cassandra stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face unreadable. Patricia looked at her. They'd known each other once. Before. When they were both handlers. When they both believed the Order was building something worth building.

"You stayed," Cassandra said. "When the others ran. When the facility was compromised. When the Order was falling apart. You stayed."

Patricia shook her head. "I didn't stay. I ran. Like everyone else."

"You ran with the files. With the names. With the survivors." Cassandra stepped into the room. Her heels clicked on the white floor. "You've been building something. A network. A way out."

Patricia didn't answer.

Cassandra sat across from her. Her face was close. Her eyes were the same. Cold. Watching. Waiting.

"I've been running games for fifty years," Cassandra said. "I've watched the Order destroy itself chasing something that doesn't exist. I've watched the Council fall. I've watched Solomon lose his mind chasing a ghost. And through all of it, I've been here. Running the games. Keeping the investors happy. Keeping the machine running."

She leaned forward.

"Do you know why?"

Patricia looked at her. "Because you don't know anything else."

Cassandra's smile was thin. "Because this is all there is. The games. The players. The survivors. The ones who run and the ones who stay. That's the Order. That's the world. And you can't change it by running."

"I'm not running anymore."

Cassandra laughed. It was a quiet sound, the kind of laugh that came from a place where nothing was funny.

"You think you're not running? You think sitting in this room, playing these games, waiting for someone to save you—that's not running?"

Patricia looked at the door. At the corridor beyond. At the darkness.

"I'm waiting," she said. "There's a difference."

Cassandra followed her gaze. "For what?"

"For the ones who are going to end this."

Cassandra was quiet for a long moment. Her face was still. Her hands were folded. Her eyes were fixed on something Patricia couldn't see.

"I was like you once," Cassandra said. "I thought someone would come. I thought the games would end. I thought the Order would fall and the players would go free and the world would be something different."

She stood. Her heels clicked on the white floor.

"That was fifty years ago. I'm still here. The games are still running. And the ones who said they would save us—" She looked at Patricia. "They're dead. Or they're running. Or they've become something the Order can use."

She walked toward the door. Toward the corridor. Toward the dark.

"The next game starts in thirty minutes. Try to survive."

She left. The lights dimmed. Patricia sat in the half-dark, her hands folded, her face calm, her heart steady.

She thought about Elena. About the day she walked away from the Order. About the files she'd burned and the names she'd saved and the ten years she'd spent running.

She thought about Adrian. About the thing inside him. About the way he'd looked at her when she gave him the names, the locations, the threads that connected everything.

We're going to find them, he'd said. All of them. And we're going to bring them home.

She believed him. She had to. Because if she didn't believe him, then she was just a handler who'd spent ten years running from something she could have stopped.

She closed her eyes. She thought about Kara. About Derek. About the other players who were sleeping, or pretending to sleep. About the ones who were still out there, running, waiting, hoping.

The game would come. It always came. But she wasn't playing anymore. She was waiting.

And when the door opened, she would be ready.