Page 107 of Operation: Defiance

Shoulder. Still wrong, but less so.

Wrists. Tender, the skin complaining when I flex.

My fingers curl. They still shake, but they listen.

Thirst hits next. Not the dehydrated, desperate need from before. From there. This is more focused. My mouth is dry, tongue thick, teeth coated in a disgusting fuzz that makes my stomach lurch.

I want water.

The word want feels wrong.

Not allowed. Ask. Wait for permission.

I blink hard, then look at Asher again. He sat up with me most of the night. Fed me. Talked me out of a panic attack and back into my body. Made me eggs. Before and after he helped me find my hands again.

If I call his name, he’ll wake up. Bring me water. Without expectation or hesitation.

But…there’s an idea forming in my head I can’t ignore.

Get up. Go to the kitchen. Get water. Because you want it.

The conditioning hits, stealing my breath.

“You are not to move unless instructed.”

Everything in me wants to lie still. But that’s not me. It’s them.

I slide my right hand under the blanket and grip the sheet as an anchor.

Then I move.

Rolling to my side sends a sharp flare through my shoulder, but it doesn’t crest the way it did before Asher worked on it. It plateaus. Holds.

I push up on my elbow and let my legs hang off the edge of the bed, my feet reaching for the floor.

The socks catch on the sheet, then find the carpet. My toes curl automatically, testing the reality of it.

I’m sitting. Without aid. Without restraints. Without anyone giving me permission.

That alone feels like a small miracle.

Standing is harder. My thighs shake, but not with the same catastrophic weakness as before. My muscles still resent gravity, but they don’t give up on me.

I brace one hand on the mattress, one on the wall, and lever myself upright. The room tilts, then steadies.

Asher doesn’t stir.

“Okay,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Okay.”

The doorframe is three uneven steps away. I keep close enough to the wall to catch myself if I start to go down.

In the hallway, the air is cooler. It smells faintly like coffee. Soap. And Asher.

No antiseptic. No old sweat. No chemical sludge masquerading as nutrition.

The kitchenette is just beyond the small living room. Counter. Sink. Cabinets. A compact fridge. The kind of place designed to be functional, but not leave an impression.

I stop at the edge of the counter and take stock again.