Chapter Text
One of them has to die,
This sentence, uttered by a madman; backed by the greatest evil Ilsa Faust had yet to face struck a nerve; sending red hot anger flashing through her mind and breaks through her carefully crafted walls.
She knows how this will play out; she knows Ethan is incapable of making this choice.
Blood rushes to her head, drumming out the conversation around her.
She simmers in her anger as brief pictures of happy futures she had long thought discarded played out in her mind; Futures that time and time again she has been denied.
She is furious; at Gabriel, for gleefully presenting such an disgusting choice; at Ethan, for not once being able to set aside his emotions and put the mission first; and at Grace, the ill equipped pick pocket who’s only fault is falling into a world where she is way in over her head.
Only the hot and sticky feeling of blood trailing along Ilsa’s hands bring her out of her raging thoughts and back to reality.
Her brain struggles to catch up with itself as she spies the stained red sword in her grasp.
Her eyes follow the bloody path from her hands up the hilt of the sword to where it plunges far pass the now soiled white shirt and into the abdomen of the wearer, skipping up the body she stalls at the face, her gaze caught. She stares into the deep brown eyes of her ill-fated foe as her lagging brain uselessly supplies her unintended victims name;
Grace.
A shuddering breath escapes Grace’s lips as Ilsa watches the look of confusion and shock that danced across her features distort and fall away, quickly replaced by an angry mask of pain.
Ilsa sees it all; Her pretty face contorting as her lungs struggle to suck in air; her once stubborn eyes now flickering as the light seems to drain away; her mouth moving helplessly as she tries to form words, each attempt punctuated by a trembling gasp.
Knuckles white gripped around the sword caused Ilsa to feel more than see how Grace’s body shook.
She watches the tears slip down her check as Grace chokes out her words;
“I..I didn’t want..Don’t…please I-“ she falls, doubling over as her legs collapse from underneath her.
“Now, this is poetic”, Gabriel’s slimy voice wrenches Ilsa attention away from the suffering girl in front of her and back to the party at hand. His joyous expression appears partially forced, it’s clear he wasn’t expecting this.
She turns to face Ethan, his face colder than she had seen it in a long time.
“Ilsa”, he commanded, “run!”
Ilsa steals one more look at Grace, grief washing over her as she turns away and heeds his command; as she runs, she can only hope Ethan has a plan