They look at each other.
Finally, they give up.
They drag me down a corridor into a narrow cell with a thin cot bolted to the floor and a steel toilet in the corner.
They shove me inside.
The door slams.
The lock engages with a dull, final clunk.
The light inside is dim.
The air is cold.
Somewhere beyond the walls, heavy machinery thuds in slow, distant rhythms.
I sink onto the cot.
My whole body hurts.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
From adrenaline and rage and the brutal clarity of knowing exactly how bad this just got.
I stare at the wall.
I do not bargain.
I do not regret defiance.
I prepare for execution like it’s a calendar event.
Then something flares inside my chest.
Sharp.
Aching.
Alive.
The bond.
Hope flickers like a match in the dark.
“Tur,” I whisper.
And for the first time since they grabbed me, I let myself believe I’m not dead yet.
CHAPTER 22
TUR
The bond doesn’t flare.
It ruptures.
