This isn’t a prison.
It’s a junction.
We stop. I wonder why I’m the only prisoner here.
A door opens to my right.
Cold air spills out, sharper than anything I’ve felt since they turned the freezer on me.
Inside, the room is smaller. Cleaner.
And someone else is already there.
She’s seated on the far bench, hands cuffed in front of her like mine. No visible injuries. Civilian clothes—rumpled, but intact.
Her eyes snap up the moment I enter.
Recognition hits her face before she can stop it.
That’s when my stomach drops.
Because I recognize her, too.
Not personally—but professionally.
She’s a journalist.
A journalist. Investigative. Relentless. I used to read her stories—and I used to think she took a big chance by writing about dangerous men.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
The guards shove me down onto the opposite bench. The door seals with a hiss that sounds final.
Silence crashes in.
For three seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then she exhales shakily. “They said you were already broken.”
I lift my head slowly. Meet her gaze.
“Then they lied,” I rasp.
Her mouth tightens—not fear. Anger.
Good.
“What is this place?” she asks quietly.
“A pause,” I answer. “Before something worse.”
She swallows. “Are we being traded?”
“No,” I say.
That answer lands harder than any truth I could give her.
She watches my face carefully. “You’re sure.”
