Reo moved. It was a blur of desperate, panicked motion, fueled by a terror so potent it had momentarily ignited a spark of furious courage. His hand, which had been hidden behind his back, flashed forward. The dagger was small, cheap, its blade dulled by time and misuse, but in that instant, it was the only thing in the world. It plunged toward Silas's throat with all the force Reo could muster.
The sound it made was not the clean *schlick* of a blade piercing flesh, but a wet, meaty *thud*. It struck the side of Silas's neck, just below the jaw, burying itself to the hilt in the thick muscle there.
For a single, silent second, nothing happened. Silas's gray eyes, which had been pools of cold indifference, widened in genuine, momentary surprise. His hand flew to his throat, his fingers closing around the hilt of the dagger. Blood, thick and dark, began to well up around the wound, seeping through the fabric of his turtleneck and coating his fingers.
Then, the shock vanished. Replaced by something far worse. A flicker of something primal, something deeply and terrifyingly amused. A low, gurgling chuckle rumbled in Silas's chest, a wet, bubbling sound that was both horrifying and infuriating. He didn't pull the knife out. Instead, his grip tightened on it, his knuckles turning white.
"Self-defense?" Silas rasped, his voice now a wet, gurgling mess as blood bubbled between his lips. He took a step forward, completely unfazed, his eyes locking onto Reo with a predatory gleam. "No, little omega. This is a mistake. A foolish, pathetic mistake." He yanked the dagger free with a sickening, tearing sound. Blood arced through the air, spraying across the linoleum floor and splattering the wall behind Reo. Silas barely seemed to notice. He looked down at the blade, then at his own hand slick with blood, as if inspecting a minor inconvenience.
From the hallway, the sound of heavy, booted feet echoed. Two more guards, their faces impassive behind their black masks, stepped into the doorway. They flanked Silas, their hands resting on the holstered pistols at their hips. Their eyes, like Silas's, were cold and empty. They didn't draw their weapons. They didn't need to. Their presence was the weapon.
Silas took another step, his movements now slightly less fluid, a slight hitch in his stride as the wound began to take its toll, but no less menacing. He dropped the bloody dagger to the floor with a clatter.
"You have two seconds to drop to your knees and present your neck for correction," Silas growled, the blood and spittle flying from his mouth. "Or my friends here will put you down like the rabid dog you've become. Your choice. But understand this, Reo: you have just signed your own death warrant. The Alpha will not be pleased. Not pleased at all."
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