Page 117 of Operation: Defiance

“Okay. Do you want help pulling up the sweatshirt cuffs?”

“I’ll do it.” It’s slower that way, but slower is fine.

Safer.

I ease the stretchy fabric up to the middle of my forearms, then rest my hands on top of the blanket, palms down. The bruises at the base of my thumbs are dark and ugly, the skin on my fingers so dry and pale, I can see every vein.

“I’m going to take three shots,” he says. “One zoomed out slightly to show both hands, then a close-up of each.”

“Wait!” My breath snags on a wave of panic so strong, it feels like someone just punched me in the chest. “Just…one. First. Then…show me.”

The soft electronic click detonates in the quiet of the bedroom.

I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until Asher speaks.

“Raine? If it’s not what you want, we can delete it and try again.”

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth as hard as I can. The pressure steadies me enough to open my eyes.

It’s…me. My fingers. My hands. They look so small in the photo. Smaller than they ever have. Vulnerable. Dark purple bands loop around both wrists, the skin mottled where metal bit over and over again. Faint lines radiate out in uneven ripples.

“It’s fine. We need…notes too.”

“May I use my laptop? Or would you prefer paper only?” he asks.

I lift my eyes to meet his. Every time it matters, he gives me a choice. “Laptop is fine. Faster, right?”

He inclines his head. “Yes. But also not in your direct control.”

“I…trust you.” The admission feels both reckless and necessary.

He goes very still, then nods once, the motion careful, as if he understands exactly how much that cost me.

Asher pulls his laptop out from under the chair and opens a new file. “Okay. Photos one, two, and three. What do you want me to say about them?”

My voice is tiny, thin. But it doesn’t shake. That matters. “Day nine. Hands and wrists.” After a beat, I add, “Note: continuous restraint for…eight days. Minimal removal—only long enough to change orientation. Nerve compression. Loss of fine motor control. Emotional impact…significant.”

My throat tightens on the last word. Significant is clinical. Safe. A word you use in reports. Hearing it applied to my own body makes my vision blur anyway.

“Note,” I say. “Pressure points. Handling. Constant correction. Emotional impact: destabilizing.”

The word feels too neat for what the pain did to me. For how my hands—my entire body—stopped feeling like mine. But it’s all I have right now.

“Forearms now,” I manage.

Asher documents everything. Photos. Words. Clinically, without judgment or commentary.

“What’s next?” he asks.

My hand drifts to my bad shoulder. But…in order for him to see it—to document it—I have to take the sweatshirt off. I’m…not ready for that yet.

I stare at the blanket over my legs. The socks. Such a small barrier, but it feels enormous. It’s just fabric. Cotton. But my toes curl inside them, braced for cold and numbness and pain.

“Feet and ankles.”

“Okay,” Asher says. “Tell me what you need.”

I push the blanket down to my knees and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The room tilts a little. My heels hover over the floor.