CLEMENTE, MY SHINING KNIGHT

"Brother."

I weave the knife between all five fingers with enough precision that the blade doesn't so much as graze me. Killing is an art, and I'm something of an artist in that regard. I find more comfort in weapons than I do in people – the senile variety that they are.

Only my brother is exempt. I glance at him now, and his lip curls up, cold with a faint hint of wickedness. He holds up his cuffed hands between us.

"It's time," I confirm.

He doesn't even blink as I use the knife to pick the lock of his cuffs, freeing him within the span of a breath. He grabs the knife and unlocks my cuffs in return. His skill with a blade is almost as lethal as mine, though in reality he's probably better.

We both let our cuffs slip off our wrists and clatter to the floor. The clinking sound of metal draws the attention of two guards, and they look over their shoulders at us. It's not like we were trying to hide.

"Inmates," the bulkier of the two barks at us, first glancing at my brother and then me. A muscle clenches in his jaw when he meets my dead stare. "Move quietly."

He won't stop us. No one will. Not unless they want to find their skin ripped like ribbons and bleeding out at our feet.

I rest my forearms on the top of the bars and stare straight at the scrawny guard. He nervously glances to his left—people do that when they're scared or lying—then forces his eyes back to mine and tries to square his shoulders like it means anything. His fake confidence doesn't fool me. I saw the flicker of fear in him; that's all I needed.

"Open this cell," I order. My voice is steady, and I mean it. Today has been coming for a long time.

The guard's pupils widen. He looks over at the bigger guard beside him, clearly waiting for orders. The smaller one is useless—inept, really. My sentence expired exactly thirty-seven seconds ago, and from the first heartbeat after that, I've been running things. He will answer to me now. The other guard, the bulkier one, is smarter; he turns his back to my brother and me instead of making the mistake of standing against us.

The corridor smells like bleach and old sweat. The lights hum and flicker. I can hear the faint jingle of keys hanging at the bigger guard's belt. The sound fills the tiny space between us, but it doesn't hurry me. I keep my feet planted, my forearms rigid on the cold bars, watching every small movement.

"Is there a reason we're still locked in?" my brother asks, dragging his tongue along his dry lips. He looks gaunt, like he hasn't had a real meal in ages. He's been waiting for this moment as long as I have—one hundred and fifteen days too long. His voice carries the same tired