When I glance down at my hands, I see more droplets of blood.

Cancer’s a frightening way to go. I always wanted a swift end for myself, for death to take me quickly. Not this.

I quickly change into a black shirt and pants. When given the choice, I will always reach for the outfit the leaves me the most mobile.

In the middle of dressing, I have to pause to run to the bathroom and vomit. After I rinse my mouth out several times and brush my teeth, I roughly comb out my hair.

Good enough.

I tuck my tight black pants into a pair of lace up boots and leave.

When I arrive at the king’s conference room, it’s empty. I try him in his map room next. Again, the room is completely vacant.

Where is everyone?

I run into a group of aides talking in the corridor. They glance up from their readouts and monitors.

“Where is the king?” I ask, glancing at each one.

“Your Majesty,” the aide nearest me says, bowing as he does so. The rest of them murmur the greeting and dip their heads. I wave the title off.

One of the aides pulls me aside. He bends in close for a private word. “Last I heard, he was discussing the possibility of another aerial strike with some of the men upstairs. Third floor, east wing, fourth door on the left.”

I leave then and follow the aide’s instructions.

I climb up the stairs and head for the east wing. From the windows I get a panoramic view of the palace grounds and a glimpse of the world beyond. That world still represents freedom, and now that so many have seen my face, that freedom seems farther and farther out of my reach.

When I arrive at the room the aide referred to, I don’t bother knocking. I simply storm inside.

The tea room—or whatever the fuck they call delicate little spaces like this one—that I walk into is devoid of life.

My first thought is that I’ve entered the wrong room, but I head back out into the hallway and recount the doors. I’m in the east wing, and the tea room is the fourth door on the left. I re-enter the room.

A few papers rest on one of the couches. I glance down at them. All appear to be printouts of the latest activities in South America. A cold cup of coffee rests on the side table next to the couch.

My second thought is that this is a trap, another intricately rigged situation designed to lead to my death. My heart palpitates at the thrill of it all. Bring the carnage, bring the destruction. I could use a good showdown at the moment.

I no longer have my gun, but half the objects in here could be weaponized.

I’m considering all the ways one can bludgeon someone to death with the bronze figurine resting on a nearby stand when I hear a familiar noise. The rhythmic stomping comes from beyond the windows.

Walking over to them, I peer outside. Two rows of soldiers cross the palace gardens, heading towards the east wing. I back away from the windows.

Something feels wrong about this situation. It shouldn’t be unfolding the way it is.

I hear an echo of the footfalls in the hallway heading straight for this room. Understanding sets in. This is a trap, and it’s one my enemy did set.

I just forgot for a while who my enemy really was.

I can taste bile at the back of my throat, and I realize I’m grimacing. My throat works and my eyes sting.

Oh God, I’m actually hurt by this.

Like this is anything compared to the atrocities the king’s already committed. It was only a matter of time before he turned on me like he had everyone else close to him.

Still, when the door opens and Montes walks in, I have to physically swallow down the emotion rising up the back of my throat. Behind him I can see two armed guards, but I know there’s more that I can’t see.

I watch him warily.

“Serenity,” he says, and the monster’s eyes are actually sad, “don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what? Like you betrayed me? You never did.” No, the blame lies with my own weak heart.

“I can’t let you die,” he says, and his voice breaks. The man is begging me to understand. “Not now when you’re so close to death and my enemies are more aggressive than ever.”

My muscles tense. Here I’d thought he was coming to dispose of me. That’s usually what happens when someone betrays you. This betrayal, I realize, is much deeper and more intrinsic than I imagined.

He doesn’t want to kill me, he wants to keep me alive in that Sleeper of his.

“How long?” I ask.

His shoulders relax. He thinks I am actually considering this. “Just until we find a cure.” Looking into his eyes, I know it will be long enough to horrify me.

I nod, and I’m sure to him it appears as though I’m ruminating over this.

The idea of being in that machine for months or—heaven forbid—years has my breath picking up. I’ve lost my family, my friends, my land, my freedom, even my memory for a time. I can’t lose this last sliver of my free will.

Montes’s eyes are flat. He’s already detached himself from what’s about to happen to me.

My muscles are twitching, telling me I need to run, now. I take a step back, towards the windows. Then another. “What will happen to me between now and then?”

This is the man who married me. The man who held me when I was sick. This is the man I’d begun to fall in love with, the man who told me he loved me.

But he is also the man responsible for the death of countless people. He’s the one who killed my parents, leveled my hometown, gave me cancer and the scar on my face.