He thought fear would make us forget who we were.
Instead—
It gave us time.
Time to memorize routines.
Time to learn which guards flinch and which enjoy it too much.
Time to decide what we would never give him, no matter how hard he tried to carve it out of us.
The camera light blinks.
I look straight into it.
Not at Malenkov.
At Ronan.
He’ll read it right. He always does.
Don’t move yet.
Another prisoner groans beside me—low, involuntary. I feel the chair next to mine shift as the guard leans closer to him this time.
“Say something,” the guard mutters. “He wants to hear you.”
I smile.
It pulls at split skin and makes my vision blur, but I smile anyway.
Because Malenkov doesn’t understand silence.
Silence is discipline.
Silence is training.
Silence is a message.
I draw in a slow breath, ignoring the fire in my ribs, and speak just loud enough for the mic to catch it.
“You should’ve killed us.”
The room stills.
The guard stiffens.
Somewhere beyond the camera, Malenkov inhales sharply—just once.
I keep going.
“Because now,” I say, voice rough but steady, “you don’t own us.”
The baton slams into my shoulder. White-hot agony explodes down my arm. I grunt this time—I’m human—but I don’t bow my head.
I don’t break eye contact with the lens.
“Four years,” I force out. “That’s all you got.”
