Slow.
Measured.
The slot slides open.
A metal tray shoves through—thin soup and a chunk of bread that tastes like old paper.
No words. No eyes.
Just feeding the prisoner and walking away.
I exhale shakily, forcing myself to lower my feet enough to take a sliver of weight off my shoulders. My legs tremble—my vision swims.
I take a bite anyway.
Because surviving is the only rebellion left.
That’s when I hear it.
Not a guard. Not boots.
Avoice.
Faint. Distorted. Like a transmission bleeding through concrete.
“…Ghostline… do you copy?”
My entire body locks.
My heart stutters so hard it hurts.
No.
No, that’s not real.
That’s my brain reaching for comfort like a dying man reaching for water.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forehead pressing to the chain that is wrapped around my wrist. My lips move without permission.
“Ronan…”
The corridor stays silent.
Then it happens again.
Stronger this time. Sharper. Realer.
“…repeat… Ghostline, come in…”
I suck in a breath so hard it burns.
Because I know that callsign.
Not from rumor.
From orders barked in the dark, from missions that never made the news, from a man who walked into hell and made the rest of us believe we’d live.
Ghostline was Ronan Pierce.
