But tomorrow, I hope to be gone.
I whisper again. Barely audible.
“For you. For him.”
I turn, press my back to cold stone. The chain anchor gives one final groan — then silence.
I sit. Back against the wall. Blood seeps from bruised ribs. Vision swirls. But I taste life.
And in the half-light, in the darkness, I begin to plan.
Escape. Rescue. Revenge. Fire.
Because they stripped me of safety. But they cannot strip me of will.
Something inside me — grit, old orphan steel, blood-born hunger — coils tight.
They think I’m weakness. They think they can kill what I love — break me with fear, break him with my loss.
They’re wrong. I’m not fragile.
I’m not broken.
I’m bone and spirit and fire.
And in this cell, under crushing fear and raw pain — I light the spark.
Cold air tastes of stone and stale metal. My mouth is dry; my throat raw, and every breath feels ragged, like inhaling shards of glass. But I blink slowly, steady. I force my fingers to work. Mybody aches—bruised ribs, split lip, hair tangled, clothes damp and scratchy—but consciousness clings. And so does something harder. A spark.
Across the cell, through the dim green of the emergency-lamp, Trebuchet drifts in and out of view — tall, motion-smooth, limbs made of half-metal and cold steel. He doesn’t come tonight. The cell is quiet. The world outside sleeps — or pretends. I let him believe it’s over. Let him mistake my crawling consciousness for weakness.
I stretch out against the hard slab floor, letting my spine settle against the rough stone, bones aching in protest. The damp chill seeps through my uniform into skin. I taste it — fear, cold, regret. But also water. Salt. Blood. And something deeper.
A memory sneaks in: the orphanage bunk bed, thin blanket, the smell of antiseptic, the dull drip of rusted pipes, quiet footsteps in hallway lights. The long nights after nightmares, soft murmur of stuffed animals I whispered to so I wouldn’t wake crying. Those memories don’t make me fragile. They made me silent. They taught me endurance.
I tilt my head, pull the sleeve of my uniform away to inspect the bruise forming beneath my ribs. It pulses with pain — a dull, steady ache. I grit my teeth. Pain can be a weapon if you learn to control it. I’ve done it before. I will again.
I shift. The chains that bind me to the slab clink softly. I can’t see the lock mechanism from this angle, but there’s rust flecked at the seams — little patches of neglect. I run my fingers over the metal links, tracing the cold ridges. I breathe slow, shallow, listening to the cell’s hum: drip of water somewhere behind the wall, a distant sigh of ventilation, the hollow echo of my own heartbeat.
I close my eyes. I picture a familiar face — soft, golden hair, green eyes bright even in star-light, the weight of him holding me steady. I whisper to the darkness.
“Bunny… Trixie… you hear that? It’s time.”
I rock on the slab, the chains rasping. I whisper again, low:
“Stay quiet. Stay still. Wait.”
Because I don’t have volts to cut. I don’t have keys. I only have time — and patience. And I know both better than these traitors ever will.
The world comes backto me in pieces—sound first, then weight, then the faint metallic taste of my own blood drying on my tongue. My eyelids drag open. The cell swims around me, blurred shapes sharpening into something cold and ugly.
I stay still.
I don’t let my breath change. I don’t jolt. I don’t sit up too fast. I’ve learned that reacting gives your captor the satisfaction of control. I learned that at six years old in an overcrowded state-run IHC dorm, where one bully never missed a chance to twist fear into a leash. There, the trick was always the same: don’t let them see what hurts.
Now, here, in this stone-box with a half-metal monster watching?—
I use the same trick.
