Vokar must’ve tucked it into my pocket at some point. I don’t know when. I don’t know how I didn’t notice. My throat tightens dangerously, my vision blurring again—but not from fear.
I lift the little creature to my chest and cradle it.
The way I used to.
The way I always do when I need strategy, not hope.
I whisper, barely a breath:
“You see that console?”
A pause.
“Yeah. I see it too.”
My fingers trace the soft little head. I inhale slowly, grounding myself.
“I’m not trapped,” I whisper. “Not forever.”
My pulse steadies.
Trebuchet thinks I’m predictable.
Trebuchet thinks I’m fragile.
Trebuchet thinks he can break me with news of Vokar.
He hasn’t even begun to imagine the things I’ll do to him.
I tuck the stuffed animal beneath my arm, hidden from his optic.
I watch the console.
I count the pulses.
I listen to the coolant hiss.
I learn his pattern.
And while the cell stays silent around me, while Trebuchet hums softly in rest-mode, while the shadows curl around my shoulders like old friends?—
I plan.
I plan quietly.
I plan with all the fire in my blood.
And I do not tremble.
Because yes, I’m small.
Yes, I’m human.
Yes, I’m alone.
But I’ve beaten worse odds.
I whisper again, soft as breath, soft as memory:
