Page 48 of Operation: Defiance

My wrists are locked behind me. My ankles are chained too close together, the bones pressing against one another. The restraints are tight, but they aren’t fixed to anything. I’m not anchored.

There’s no support.

“Stay,” someone says.

The angle forces my abdomen to engage. Muscles I don’t have left ignite as I try to hold myself upright. I tremble, sag, catch myself, sag again. Every second takes more from me.

The door closes.

Tears leak from my eyes without permission.

A quiet, seductive thought slips in.

Let go.

Another follows, faint but stubborn.

They didn’t plan for me to still be here.

I cling to that.

Not because I believe I’ll survive. But because if I do, they’ll regret this.

My strength fails, my core giving out inch by inch.

I slide down the wall slowly, pain burning through my shoulder and hip until I crumple to the floor. The impact rattles my teeth.

I don’t make a sound. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. My body is done.

I feel them before I hear them, a shift in the air that prickles across my skin.

“Jesus,” someone mutters, annoyed.

Hands haul me upright. My abdomen spasms violently, muscles seizing in protest as they force me vertical.

“Stand.”

My legs fold immediately.

Pressure hits without warning. A thumb drives into the side of my neck beneath my jaw while fingers wrench my elbow back at a vicious angle, ripping the breath straight out of me.

I whimper—I hate that I whimper.

“Careful. Don’t let her drop again.”

The chair catches the backs of my knees. Restraints snap into place. Wrists. Ankles. A strap cinched across my torso, tight enough that I don’t have to hold myself up.

My stomach burns. My ribs ache. My shoulder pulses with a nauseating, rhythmic throb that makes consciousness feel optional.

The hood is pulled lower, then tightened until gagging becomes something I have to actively resist.

“Stay.”

As if I could leave.

The door closes, and the locks engage.

I try to breathe. To count. To think.