“We will,” Dr. Novak says, and the doors whisper shut.
I sit, and Storm slides into the chair beside me. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t have to. The silence between us says the thing neither of us is going to risk right now.
We’ll hold this one line. Then the next. Then all of them.
When Zeus wakes up, he’s not going to be alone.
When Phoenix wakes up wherever she is, she’s going to feel a pull she can’t explain—four hands on a rope, hauling her back where she belongs.
For now, I’ll control what I can. Then I’ll set fire to everything I can’t, and rebuild the world around me from the ashes of what’s left.
3
Phoenix
The door sealsagain before my vein stops stinging from the blood draw Danner just forced on me. I press my finger against the spot to stem the little droplet of blood that persists in welling up. What the hell was that all about?
The room continues to hum with a low, indistinct sense of motion; the floor has that low pulse you feel more than hear. Engines. Current.
The implications make me curl my hands into fists by my side to keep my fingers still.
It’s just the river.I nod firmly, reinforcing the thought.We are docked and sitting on the river.I take a deep breath in through my nose, a long, calming one. Anything else is unthinkable, so I simply won’t think about it.
I breathe out, inhale once again, then move, starting another, more thorough inventory of my prison. I’ve done it once, but there’s nothing else to do.
I return to my chain first. Still the same eight to ten feet of thick links, with a thick steel half-link bolted into a steel plate that’swelded through the floor. I test the play in it—forward, back, a slow grind to see if there’s a weak angle. The bite at my skin tells me when to stop before anything important tears.
The door next. Handle, latch seam, the hinge. I test the give quietly without rattling it like a child. It’s all exterior-weight stuff—bars and padlocks I can’t begin to pick. I slide my palm down the seam anyway, feeling for a draft, a ridge…a kindness. Nothing.
Walls. They’re corrugated steel, thick and cold with sweat. I know we’re outside; I know we must be on the river—the slight motion tells me that.
There are no screws exposed except where the lamp clamp bites into a rib overhead. I jump to try to reach it, and the chain checks me, pulls me back. I land wrong, curse, jump again. The clamp holds. The bulb buzzes a warning and flickers but stays.
The faucet slow-drips into a rust-stained basin, and I cup my hands and collect a swallow. The water tastes like old pipe, and with a face I spit it back.
The chair is cheap metal with a thin vinyl seat. When I sit and shift, it ticks in protest. I rock it again. There—one leg wobbles. I flip the chair, run my fingers along the cross brace, and find a screw that’s not tight…a flat-head. I try with my nail, and it tears on a diagonal.
Damn it. That’s not happening.
My fingers go to my pocket before I think. The chip is there—Maverick’s, from that night in the kitchen when I couldn’t sleep from all the texts I kept getting. He’d stood there and talked me off a ledge, his feet bare, his hair a mess, a small chip that he kept sliding through his fingers.
Then he’d slid it across the counter.
"A marker," he’d said. "Not for the cage. For the call and the bullshit attached. If you need me, you put this chip anywhere, and I'll find you."
I didn’t consciously decide. I just kept it. It was one of the few things any of them had given me that felt meaningful.
They’d filled my closet with slutty clothes, sure, and given me a beautiful, comfortable place to stay…but all of that was just dressing. Contractual.
The poker chip was Maverick. I liked having a piece of him with me.
I turn the chip over in my hand. It’s heavy enough to be real—no novelty plastic—and the edges are crisp. Nothing obviously special about it, otherwise.
I set it sideways against the screw, find purchase, and start to turn. It slips on the first pass. On the second, it bites. I keep the pressure steady. The chip warms in my grip. One third turn, then a half. The screw crawls out slowly.
“Come on,” I whisper, because talking helps keep my hands from shaking.
Another turn. The screw clears and drops into my palm, maybe a quarter inch in diameter and a couple of inches in length. I close my fist around it, relief sharp enough to taste. It’s not much, but it’s something.
