I press the glass shard against my thigh, just enough to slice a thin line, fresh blood welling fast. I smear it down the wall in a crooked streak, dark and wet, a message he won’t understand.
Not a plea. Not a curse.
A vow.
The girl he bought is gone.
The thing that takes her place will make him choke on every page of his contract.
I sink onto the bed again, my body humming with pain and defiance, and stare straight into the red blink of the camera.
“Watch me,” I whisper. My lips curve sharp, feral, blood smeared across my teeth.
And for the first time, I hope he’s listening.
Because resurrection isn’t survival.
It’s war.
The glass fits my hand like it was made for me. Sharp. Honest. A sliver of myself carved from the wreckage.
I sit on the bed, spine straight, hair wild, blood dripping down my arm. I tilt my head, fix my gaze on the red blink inthe corner, and smile. Not broken. Not begging. A smile sharp enough to cut.
And I wait.
The silence hums, thick and alive, until I hear it—the steady echo of boots in the corridor. My pulse quickens, not with fear but anticipation. He thinks he’s coming to inspect his property, to bask in the aftermath of his “lesson.”
The lock clicks. The door groans open. He steps in, shadow filling the room, black coat brushing the frame, hook gleaming faint in the dying firelight. His eyes find me instantly, sprawled across the bed like bait.
I don’t move.
I let him think he’s won.
He crosses the floor slow, deliberate, boots crunching glass, the sound like a verdict. His mouth curves, sharp and certain, like he already knows what he’ll take from me tonight.
And that’s when I move.
I lunge forward, fast, bloodied palm gripping the shard tight. My body collides with his, and I press the glass hard against his throat before he can raise his hook.
His breath catches. His body goes still.
For the first time since he locked me in this cage, I have him.
His pulse beats fast against the jagged edge, a thrumming rhythm under the blade. One slip, one push, and I could open him from throat to spine.
My face is inches from his, eyes burning, lips curved in a smile that tastes of blood and defiance.
“Not paper,” I whisper, my voice low and shaking, “not ink, not your fucking hook. This is mine. My choice. My blood. My blade.”
His smile doesn’t falter. It deepens. His eyes blaze with something feral—surprise, hunger, pride.
“Good girl,” he rasps, voice thick, steady even with death pressed to his throat. “Finally.”
I press harder, the edge biting, a thin line of red welling beneath it. His blood. His turn to bleed.
His eyes never leave mine.
Neither of us moves.
