Page 110 of Operation: Defiance

Different.

Air shudders in and out of my lungs in an uneven pattern. Tears well in my eyes.

This is what they did. Not just pain. Erasure.

I’m here. I survived. But I’m not the first one they tried to strip down to nothing.

What they did to me was practiced. Rehearsed. Refined until they could run it with the same precision as a medical procedure.

That doesn’t happen by accident.

I lower my gaze. The temptation to crawl back into a soft bed and pretend this ends with warm socks and a kind voice in a forgettable safe house is strong enough I ache for it.

But my story doesn’t end that way.

It ends when I stop them.

My legs decide they’re done before my brain does. I let go of the sink and make the slow, careful trip back to the bed. Each step feels longer than it should.

I lower myself to the edge. Hold for a beat, then ease myself back until my shoulders find the pillow. My ribs complain, but less than they did yesterday. I keep my gaze on the ceiling for a moment. Because the mirror was too much, and Asher, sleeping in the chair, is almost worse.

I need him. But after what they did to me—forcing dependence and calling it care—I hate that I can’t do this on my own.

The plan comes together in small, deliberate clicks.

Photos. Notes. Timestamps. My words. Asher’s hands, when I need them. A record they can’t scrub or edit or bury.

I turn my head toward him.

He’s still out, chin tipped down now, arms folded loosely over the blanket, hands visible. He looks exhausted. Human. Not like a weapon or a solution. Like a person who stayed up for someone else’s worst night.

And he never complained.

“I need…” The word catches. I try again, quieter. “We need to document it.”

He doesn’t wake.

That’s okay. I’m not ready to say it out loud again anyway. Not yet. But the decision is there.

They tried to dispose of me.

I’m going to make them answer for it.