It’s not a question.
I lift my chin.
Pain flares as the chain bites deeper into my wrists.
“I hear nothing,” I rasp.
The baton strikes.
Once.
Twice.
White explodes behindmy eyes.
But I don’t scream.
Because now I know.
We were never forgotten.
And somewhere above ground—somewhere in the open air and sunlight—
Ronan Pierce is alive.
Which means this place?
This dungeon?
This is no longer a tomb.
It’s a countdown.
29
Viktor Malenkov
Location: Underground Detention Site — Command Level
Time: 0217 Hours
The alarms do not scream.
That would imply panic.
I designed them to whisper.
A low, invasive hum that seeps into bone and thought alike—subtle enough to go unnoticed by prisoners, unmistakable to men who understand what true discipline sounds like.
Interference.
I stand slowly from my chair, hands clasped behind my back, listening as the technicians scramble to mask their fear with efficiency.
“Say it again,” I instruct calmly.
One of them swallows. “We detected a narrow-band signal bleed, sir. Very brief. Directional. Old encryption.”
Old.
