We’re moving. They must have drugged me. I don’t remember moving out of my cell.
My heart rate spikes, pain flares behind my eyes as adrenaline surges through a body that doesn’t want to cooperate anymore.
Don’t panic.
Think.
Transfers are rare. Malenkov doesn’t move people unless there’s a reason.
Either I’m dead weight…
Or I’m still useful.
A door hisses open somewhere beyond my limited field of view. Boots approach—measured, unhurried. Not guards rushing. Escorts.
That’s worse.
“Sit up,” a voice orders in accented English.
I force myself to comply, muscles screaming in protest. My head swims, but I keep it up. I won’t give them the satisfaction of dragging me.
A guard steps into view. Not one I recognize. New face. Clean uniform.
New rotation.
That alone tells me everything.
Something changed.
“You’re being relocated,” he says flatly.
“Why?” My voice is hoarse, barely more than a rasp.
He shrugs. “Orders.”
I watch his eyes—not cruel, not curious.
Detached.
That means this wasn’t emotional.
This was planned.
My pulse steadies as a strange calm settles over me.
Ronan.
The thought arrives fully formed, uninvited—and undeniable.
If Malenkov is moving me, it means Pierce is close enough to matter.
The guard turns away, tapping something into a handheld device. A soft tone chirps in response.
Rail vibrations increase.
We’re underground.
Old line.
