Page 26 of Operation: Defiance

“Explain.”

“I—” The thought shatters mid-word, leaving only the sharp edge of fear behind. I grit my teeth, swallow, and try again.

“I—I’m disoriented due to lack of sleep and injury.”

He waits long enough that my pulse starts to race.

“That’s acceptable.”

The door locks, and I’m alone again. The quiet and the cold press back in, unchanged except for that low, mechanical whir. Someone’s still watching.

I shiver as I figure out what they were actually gauging.

They didn’t care what I said. They were measuring how quickly I recovered when corrected.

Chapter Ten

I come back to myself mid-movement.

My head dips, then snaps upright, a sharp flare of pain tearing through my neck and shoulder.

I catalog the variables automatically: cold, hunger, injury, prolonged restraint.

My arms are numb. Pins and needles burn where the cuffs bite into my wrists. If circulation doesn’t improve, nerve damage becomes a real risk.

My assessment stays clinical.

What doesn’t is the memory of the bathroom—of asking, then waiting until permission was finally granted.

They supervised. Never removed the hood or unchained my ankles. I had to feel my way through the process, while someone stood so close I could hear them breathe.

My skin crawls. I can’t remember the last time I felt clean. The stale, sweat-stained fabric sits wrong, seams rubbing the same spots no matter how many times they reposition me. The airflow keeps finding me, sliding over my chest in uneven bursts of cold I can’t block or angle away from.

I regulate the only way I can—by counting my breaths.

In for four.

Out for six.

Again and again.

I lose time for a moment. Not sleep exactly, just a blank drift where my thoughts stop organizing. When they snap back into place, the room no longer feels empty.

My muscles tense, every nerve firing before I can bring them back under control.

The cuffs change in stages. Ankles first. Then wrists.

They don’t care if I recognize the sequence. They know they hold all the power.

“Stand.”

My legs shake violently, muscles stiff from cold and disuse. I make it halfway upright before the world tilts, the hood turning the room into a pitching void.

Hands close around my elbows. Pressure spikes on a nerve along the inside of my arm, hard and exact enough to flip my stomach. My knees lock on reflex.

“Careful,” a man snaps.

I can’t tell if I’ve heard his voice before. I’m losing the ability to track who comes when and why.