The Disabled Man's Obsession

Chapter 6: The Price of Shortage

The words hung in the air, thick with the scent of coppery blood and mildew, more real than the corpses on the floor. A masterpiece. The echo of that praise was a sound Miguel had never heard in his entire life. The validation he had always craved came not from his cold creator, but from his manipulative captive. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the gaze between the two of them beneath the pulsing red neon light.

“They’ll send more,” Miguel hissed, his voice hoarse, shattering the temporary spell. “We can’t stay here.”

“I know,” Anya replied, not releasing his gaze. Her hand was still touching his hair. “But for the first time, I don’t feel like the prey. What about you?”

“I’ve never been the prey,” Miguel answered quickly, too quickly. A deeply ingrained defensive reflex.

“Haven’t you?” Anya gave a thin smile. “Then why did you need me to tell you that the way you move is an asset? They made you believe you were broken all this time, didn’t they?”

Miguel didn’t answer. The truth in the question struck him hard. He pulled back slightly, creating distance between them. This intimacy was dangerous, more dangerous than the three corpses at their feet.

“We need a car,” Miguel said, changing the subject. “Their keys.”

“Already on it,” Anya replied, stepping calmly over one of the bodies as if it were a pile of dirty laundry. She crouched beside the Hunter leader. “This guy must have the keys.”

“Don’t touch him,” Miguel warned. “Let me.”

“Why? Afraid to get your hands dirty?” Anya sneered, her hand already plunging into the pocket of the man’s tactical vest. “Miguel, we passed that stage the moment you slit your handler’s throat. There’s no going back.”

She pulled out an electronic car key fob and tossed it toward Miguel. He caught it deftly.

“Their van is out front,” Miguel said. “No good. Too conspicuous, and there’s definitely a secondary tracker in the vehicle.”

“Of course there is,” Anya agreed, her eyes now scanning the room. “That’s why we’re not taking the van. We just need something to get out of the district.”

“So what then?”

“Look at the street outside,” she instructed. “There’s a beat-up sedan parked across the road. No one will look twice at a car like that. We need the keys.”

“You want me to hotwire a car right now?” Miguel asked incredulously.

“No need,” Anya replied. She pointed toward the motel reception desk visible through the shattered doorway. “In places like this, they usually have spare keys hanging on a board. We just need to grab them.”

Miguel’s mind raced. It was a reckless idea, yet brilliant in its simplicity. “The receptionist—”

“Is probably asleep, maybe ran off after hearing the shots. Doesn’t matter,” Anya cut in. “It’s a risk worth taking. You get the keys; I’ll watch from here. Hurry.”

Miguel stared at her, sensing an odd shift in dynamics. Since their escape, Anya was no longer his captive. She was his commander. And strangest of all, Miguel didn’t resent it. He moved without argument, crossing the shattered threshold and entering the small, dimly lit lobby.

Behind the desk, a thin, elderly man was fast asleep with his mouth open, a bottle of cheap liquor resting beside his hand. Miguel moved silently, his eyes fixed immediately on the wooden board on the wall. Sure enough, a dozen keys hung there.

Just as his hand reached for the old sedan key, a sharp electronic ring shattered the silence. It wasn’t the motel phone.

The sound came from their room.

Miguel rushed back. Anya stood rigid in the center of the room, pointing toward the corpse of the Hunter leader. A satellite communicator on his vest blinked with blue light, emitting a steady, authoritative ringtone.

“That’s not an emergency call,” Anya whispered. “The tone is different. This is... a priority call.”

“Don’t answer it,” Miguel said firmly. “It’s a trap.”

“Quite the opposite,” Anya countered quickly, her eyes gleaming with calculation. “They won’t detonate it remotely; that would destroy the chip they’re looking for. They want a status update. This is our chance.”

“A chance for what?” Miguel snarled. “To talk to them?”

“No,” Anya corrected. “To announce a change of ownership.”

The ringing persisted, relentless. Anya stared at Miguel. “Answer it, Miguel. Let them hear the voice of their most valuable asset finding a new Master.”

Hesitation battled desire within Miguel. He hated being commanded, but the idea of directly challenging the Iron Claw... the idea of letting them know he had chosen... it was too tempting. With hands trembling from a mix of anger and adrenaline, he pulled the communicator from the dead man’s vest and pressed the answer button.

“Hunter Team, report status,” a deep, calm voice boomed from the speaker, so clear it sounded as if the person were in the same room. No static, no distortion.

That voice. Miguel recognized it instantly. The voice that had given him orders from the shadows for nearly two decades. The voice of Mr. X.

Silence descended. Anya gave a slight nod, signaling him to speak.

“Your team... is unavailable,” Miguel said, his voice raw and challenging.

There was a pause on the other end. No shock, no anger. Only calculating silence. “Asset 7,” Mr. X finally replied, his tone as flat as if discussing a weather report. “So, you’ve slipped your leash. Disappointing. I expected more from you.”

“My name is Miguel,” Miguel shot back, his jaw tight.

“A name is a label for something that possesses identity,” Mr. X countered coldly. “You are an asset. A tool. Tools do not have names, they have functions. And your current function is a costly malfunction.”

Anya leaned closer, whispering almost silently in Miguel’s ear. “Ask him about the chip. Show him we have control.”

“I have something of yours,” Miguel said, following Anya’s cue. “Something you want back.”

A small laugh sounded from the speaker. Dry and humorless. “My boy, you own nothing. Everything you have—your knife, your skills, even the pain that motivates you—is a gift from me. You think that microchip will be your bargaining chip? It’s merely... a bonus.”

“You won’t be able to make a new one without it,” Miguel pressed.

“Oh, of course we can. It will just take more time and resources,” Mr. X returned casually. “No, what I want back isn’t a piece of silicon. What I want back is my investment. You. I hate to see a high-quality product spoiled by mishandling.”

The remark cut straight to Miguel’s fragile self-worth. A spoiled product.

“That woman... Anya Molserat,” Mr. X continued, his tone shifting slightly, as if analyzing. “She must have promised you something. Freedom? Power? Or perhaps she simply looked at your wounds and called them beautiful?”

Miguel went silent, stunned by the accuracy of the guess.

“Let me tell you something about the outside world, Asset 7. It is built on perfection. They will watch you walk, and they will judge you in a fraction of a second. That woman, she may praise you now because she needs you as her attack dog. But once she gets what she wants... you will go back to being the freakish cripple. Always.”

“Shut your mouth,” Miguel hissed, his grip on the communicator tightening.

“Why? Did I strike a nerve?” Mr. X sounded amused. “Dr. Dark always said your foundation was your worthlessness. Your defect. We built a monster on that foundation. But now you think you can build a palace on it? Don’t be foolish. You’ve just traded one cage for a prettier one.”

Anya touched Miguel’s arm, a silent warning to stay calm.

“So what do you want now?” Miguel asked, trying to regain control of the conversation.

“Me?” Mr. X paused. “I only want to teach you a lesson. About cost. The cost of a flaw.”

“I don’t need any more lessons from you.”

“Oh, you need this one,” Mr. X whispered, his voice suddenly intensely personal and threatening. “I have activated all our sleeper cells in Amethyst. Every informant, every corrupt cop, every gang member who owes us. Both your faces are already in their hands.”

Anya shook her head. “He’s bluffing,” she whispered to Miguel. “That would draw too much attention.”

“You think I’m bluffing?” Mr. X said, as if he could hear Anya’s whisper. “Go on. Run. Hide. But remember this, Asset 7. You think you’re free because you managed to discard the tracker behind your ear?”

The blood in Miguel’s body felt frozen.

“That was bait. Deliberately made to be easily found,” Mr. X continued with chilling triumph. “Giving you the momentary illusion of freedom. A loyalty test you have just failed with flying colors.”

Miguel’s head swam. He looked toward Anya, whose face was now deathly pale for the first time.

“No... No way...” Miguel muttered.

“The real tracker, Miguel,” Mr. X’s voice sounded like a death sentence. “Has been inside you for the last fifteen years. Fused to your collarbone.”

The communicator dropped from Miguel’s grasp, hitting the floor with a soft plastic clatter. Outside, in the distance, the wail of police sirens began, drawing closer.

“You can never run from me, boy,” the voice on the floor-bound communicator said, before the connection cut out. “Because I... am in your bones.”

The red neon light flickered, washing the room in the color of blood, illuminating Anya’s shocked face and Miguel’s eyes, which were filled with an absolute terror he had never known, not even in his darkest nights. They had never been free. Not for a second.

The roar of the sirens was now deafeningly close, stopping right outside the motel.