A few days ago.

Some men dragged Rosa in on a carrier. She lay there motionless, her custom suit stained heavily with dark, dried blood.

I remembered gifting her that suit on her birthday. She had never preferred to dress in a traditionally feminine way, and I had initially thought it was because of her line of duty beside me. But it was really what she genuinely wanted. When I purchased that suit, I had bought three identical pairs—for myself, for Rosa, and for Black.

Black wore his to betray me. And Rosa wore hers on her very last day on this earth.

"Drop her," I commanded, my voice coming...