Nickolai didn't even glance at the corpse. He holstered his pistol with a smooth, practiced motion, his gaze snapping to me like a predator locking onto its next target.
"And you," he said, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet, "who the fuck are you?" His finger hovered over the grip of his pistol, his eyes narrowing as he took me in—every detail, every breath, every lie he sensed clinging to me like a second skin.
"Because I dug. And you know what I found?" His lips curled into a snarl, his voice dropping into something darker, something deadlier.
"There is no Victor. Your face is in the system, sure—your fingerprints, your voice, your movements—but your identity?" He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "It doesn't exist."
