Diamond Girl

The rope bites into my wrists one last time before the knots loosen. I flex my fingers, feeling the blood rush back into the tips like hot needles, and look up at the man who gave the order. He's older than the others — mid-fifties, maybe, with a face like crumpled leather and cold, calculating eyes that sit deep in their sockets. A scar bisects his left eyebrow, disappearing into his hairline. He wears a dark wool coat over a rumpled dress shirt, no tie, the collar open to show a thick neck corded with muscle gone slightly soft.

"Viktor," one of the younger thugs says, almost reflexively, like addressing a superior officer.

Viktor doesn't acknowledge the greeting. He stares at me, chewing the inside of his cheek. "You're the bio-engineer," he says. It's not a question. His voice is a low rasp, the kind that comes from decades of cigarettes and shouting orders.

"That's what they keep telling me," I say, rubbing the raw skin on my wrists. The marks are angry red, almost purple in places.

Viktor snorts. Not quite a laugh. "Smart mouth. Good. Smart mouths sometimes come with smart brains." He turns to the thug beside him — a wiry kid, early twenties, with a shaved head and a thin scar running from his ear to his jaw. The kid has restless eyes that dart around the room like a cornered animal's, and his fingers keep tapping against the grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband. "Razor, bag him."

Razor grins. It's not a friendly expression. "With pleasure." He yanks a black cloth hood from his back pocket and steps toward me. "Don't squirm, lab rat. Makes it worse."

"I wasn't planning on it," I say, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse hammers. Razor's grin falters for just a second — he wanted me to flinch. He pulls the hood over my head roughly, the fabric smelling of sweat and engine oil, and the world goes dark.

"This spot's next on her list," Viktor says from somewhere to my left. I hear the scrape of his shoes on concrete. "She hit the textile mill two nights ago. Twelve guys. Not one of them got a scratch on her. So we're relocating you somewhere she hasn't found yet. You understand?"

"I understand you're scared," I say through the hood, and immediately regret it.

A hard hand clamps the back of my neck — Razor's, from the angle and the rough calluses. "Watch your fucking mouth," he hisses near my ear, his breath hot and sour.

"Enough," Viktor says, and the hand releases. "He's no good to us damaged. Marco wants results, not a corpse."

The name — Marco — hangs in the air like a threat. I file it away.

They march me out into cold night air. I can smell diesel exhaust and wet asphalt. Someone opens a vehicle door — the metallic groan of a van's sliding panel — and hands shove me inside onto a bare metal floor. The van rocks as bodies climb in after me. I count at least three people in the back with me, plus the driver.

The drive takes what feels like forty minutes, maybe longer. Every turn presses me against the ridged floor. Nobody speaks except once, when Razor mutters something about wanting a cigarette and Viktor tells him to shut up.

When the van finally stops, the air that hits me as the door slides open is different — underground, stale, carrying the faint mineral tang of old concrete and something metallic. Train tracks, maybe. They haul me out and walk me down what sounds like steps — a lot of steps — my shoes scuffing on gritty tile. The acoustics change, opening up into something vast and echoing.

The hood comes off.

I'm standing on an old subway platform. The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker in erratic intervals, casting everything in a sickly yellow-white wash. The tiled walls are cracked and stained with decades of moisture. Old advertisement frames line the walls, their posters long since rotted to brown paper ghosts. A makeshift command area has been set up near what was once the ticket booth — folding tables covered in maps, phones, and ammunition boxes. Half a dozen armed men mill about, some sitting on old benches, others leaning against pillars with the tired vigilance of people who know something terrible is coming.

Viktor gestures broadly at the space. "Welcome to your new lab, genius. Abandoned subway station, under 9th Street. She doesn't know about this place yet. But she will, eventually. That's the pattern." He pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat and lights one, the flame briefly turning his scarred face into something almost demonic. "So whatever miracle you're going to pull out of your ass, do it fast. Marco doesn't want any more of his people turned into puddles."

"Puddles?" I ask.

Viktor takes a long drag and exhales smoke through his nose. "You saw the footage. She didn't just shoot them. Their heads... popped. Like watermelons." His jaw tightens. "Some of them, the stuff just ran out of their noses. Brain soup. You ever seen something like that?"

I haven't. The memory of the footage they showed me earlier — the diamond-skinned figure striding through gunfire like it was rain — surfaces with nauseating clarity. "That's not a physical weapon," I say slowly. "That's... something else entirely."

"Yeah. That's why you're here, not some weapons dealer." Viktor drops ash on the tile. "There's a workbench in the back. Some basic equipment. We grabbed what we could from a university supply room. It's not much." He pauses, his eyes boring into mine. "I'll be straight with you. You probably think you can stall, wait for cops, find a way out. Don't. The cops don't come down here. Nobody does. And if you waste our time..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

Razor appears at my side, arms crossed, that manic grin back on his face. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, lab rat. Day and night. So don't get any cute ideas."