Lena
Iknew the rhythms of this place better than I knew my own pulse.
The generator surges every six hours. Food tray roughly every twelve—sometimes more, sometimes less, if someone was testing me. Guard rotation outside my corridor changed at least once per cycle, but only one of them ever walked past my door twice.
I named himCareless.
Careless dragged his boots. Careless lingered too long. Careless checked his weapon after he walked instead of before.
Careless would be my way out.
I was stronger than when they’d taken me. Lean where I used to be soft. Corded muscle beneath skin that bore the faint ghosts of bruises long healed. I could hold a plank for almost four minutes now. Push-ups until my arms screamed. Squats until my legs trembled like they’d betray me—then didn’t.
Pain was honest.
And pain meant progress.
I lowered myself from the final push-up and stayed there, breathing through my nose, counting heartbeats until the shaking stopped. Sweat slicked my spine. My lungs burned.
Good.
I rose and crossed to the sink, splashed water on my face. The reflection staring back at me in the old mirror was sharper—cheekbones defined, eyes darker, harder.
Alive.
I pressed two fingers to my wrist, counting silently.
Steady.
They wanted me useful. Cooperative. Afraid enough not to fight—but not broken enough to stop answering questions.
They had underestimated me.
That was their mistake.
The light flickered.
I stilled.
Three seconds later, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Not Careless.
Too quiet. Too deliberate.
My heartbeat quickened, but my body stayed calm. I sat on the edge of the cot, hands loosely folded—neutral posture. No challenge. No fear.
The lock disengaged.
The man stepped inside this time.
Tall. Immaculate. His eyes were pale and sharp, cutting through the dim like blades. He carried no weapon in his hands—only certainty.
“Miss Hart,” he said mildly. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Hard to keep a balanced diet in a concrete box,” I replied.
A corner of his mouth twitched. Almost amusement. Almost.
