Beguile

4 The Voice

Kennedy’s POV

I woke up to the pounding of my pulse, and my head throbbed whether from the phantom burn of alcohol I never drank or the suffocating high of what I’d done last night.

Guilt coiled in my stomach like a serpent, its teeth sinking deep, but beneath it, it buzzed in my veins as if my body had been forged for this, as if the act of taking a life was simply instinct.

I hated it. I hated the way my heart raced, not from fear, but from the lingering thrill of power. The memory of their face, the moment their breath faltered, should have haunted me, but instead, it was burned into my mind like a brand.

It was only when I noticed the glow of my band had deepened, shifting to a darker hue, that I felt the buzz rattle down to my very bones.

A message popped up.

It wasn’t unusual. Instructions often came this way. Orders, assignments, tasks to complete.

Usually, I would feel a rush of relief at the gentle reminders that kept my life in perfect order. The band allowed me to control every second, every breath, every step I took. But now, that control felt like an illusion.

The glow of the band pulsed as if it had already foreseen what I had done. As if whoever was behind it already knew the blood that stained my hands.

I swallowed hard and tapped the screen. The message was short, clinical, but it hit like a hammer:

Proceed to the body. Time remaining: 00:43:27.

My stomach twisted as the timer ticked down, each second chipping away at the fragile sense of denial I’d clung to. They knew. They had to. The band always knew.

For a moment, I stared at the message, my breath catching in my throat at the realization that this wasn’t a warning. It was an instruction. A demand.

And I had no choice but to obey.

There was a knock on the door. When I opened it, Lucas stood there.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, almost as if nothing had changed.

But it had.

I searched his face, desperate for something to anchor me, to tell me that maybe, just maybe, I was imagining things. But his dimples weren’t there, a telltale sign that this was anything but genuine.

“Do you know?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas’s expression didn’t shift, but his silence answered before his words did. “Yes.”

The single syllable hit me like a blow, but I still forced the next question out, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. “Do you... hate me?”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

I had messed up.

I had touched a life. Taken it, stolen it, ended it.

I was a murderer. No matter how I tried to justify it, no matter what excuses I clung to, that fact remained.

Lucas wouldn’t look at me now. Something so vile, so disgusting.

“Let’s go,” his voice cut through the storm of my thoughts.

I blinked.

He gestured toward his band, its glow still pulsing steadily.

“To the body,” he clarified, as if I needed the reminder.

My stomach churned, and I nodded. I didn’t have the strength to argue, and even if I did, what was the point? The band had already decided.