“Yes.”
He nods once.
Then activates his comm.
“Delta Five—full team brief. Now.”
Minutes later, faces fill the screen—Aaron, Miles, Jase, the men who would follow him anywhere.
Ronan doesn’t soften it.
“Malenkov is holding my former command,” he says evenly. “Alive. Shackled. Isolated. They believe Lena and I are dead.”
Silence slams into the call.
Jase finally exhales. “That’s psychological warfare.”
“Yes,” Ronan says. “And it ends.”
Aaron’s voice hardens. “What do you need?”
Ronan glances at me—pride, trust, love all wrapped together.
“We hunt,” he says. “Quietly. Precisely. And we bring them home.”
Every voice answers without hesitation.
“Copy.”
27
Cal
Location: Underground Detention Site — Unknown Facility
Time: Unknown
Istopped counting days when the numbers started to sound like lies.
At first, I scratched marks into the stone with the edge of a broken nail. One for every cycle of light that never came. One for every time the guards opened the slot and shoved food through like I was an animal.
But there’s no sunrise here—no real night.
Just a strip of buzzing fluorescent misery beyond the bars, and the slow leak of time measured in pain.
My wrists are cuffed above my head, iron biting bone. My shoulders burn constantly—on fire, then numb, then on fire again. My feet barely touch the floor. Enough to keep me from dislocating completely. Not enough to let me rest.
They designed it that way.
The Warden.
That’s what they call him, like it’s a title and not a warning.
I’ve never seen his face. I’ve only heard his boots. Heardthe way the guards get quieter when he’s near, like even breathing too loud might earn punishment.
I’ve heard other things, too.
Screams, sometimes—cut short. Not close enough to be real, not far enough to ignore. Like the facility wants you to believe you’re alone, even as it reminds you you’re not.
