He leans in farther, squinting.
“Stupid temporary nodes,” he mutters.
Then—inevitably—he reaches for the chain.
Just to check it.
Just to confirm nothing’s wrong.
That’s the mistake.
The instant his fingers curl around the links, I move.
Not fast.
Not violent.
Precise.
I roll my wrist inward, twisting the cuff so the sharp edge bites deep into the seam I weakened earlier. The metalgives—not breaking, but flexing just enough.
At the same time, I shift my ankle outward and kick—not at him, but at the chain itself.
The sudden tension snaps the compromised seam open with a mutedcrack.
The guard’s eyes widen as the chain slips free from the floor plate.
Confusion flashes—then fear.
I don’t give him time to shout.
I surge forward, shoulder slamming into his chest as my freed ankle sweeps his legs out from under him.
He hits the floor hard, breath whooshing out of him in a silent gasp.
I land on him, one knee pinning his ribs.
My still-cuffed hands come up and lock around his throat.
I squeeze.
Not crushing.
Cutting air.
His eyes bulge. His hands claw at my wrists, but the angle is wrong—his leverage gone, his training useless in the close quarters.
I lean in, mouth near his ear.
“Don’t fight,” I whisper. “You’ll pass out in six seconds. You won’t die if you don’t make me kill you.”
Tears spring to his eyes.
Good.
Behind me, the woman hasn’t screamed.
She hasn’t moved.
