Every breath scraped against the inside of my chest. I tried to speak — to reassure her — but the words dissolved into broken sobs.
I wasn’t prepared for this.
Not for seeing my sister reduced to skin stretched over bone.
Not for the sight of bruises layered over scars layered over fresh wounds.
“I’ll get you out,” I choked out, pressing my forehead briefly against hers. “I swear on everything I have left.”
My hands shook violently as I pulled away.
I shifted my weight and rose onto one knee beside the chair.
From inside my right boot, I reached for the small tactical dagger strapped there — thin blade, razor sharp, serrated along one edge for cutting through heavy restraints.
I flicked it open.
The soft metallic snick sounded deafening in the silent room.
Then I began cutting.
The ropes around her wrists were thick — coarse hemp reinforced with knots tightened so brutally that they had bitten deep into her skin.
I started with her right wrist.
Carefully.
I slid the blade under the rope and sawed through the fibers slowly. The material resisted at first before giving way with faint popping sounds as strands snapped apart.
Blood welled fresh where the rope had embedded itself into raw flesh.
I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper — forcing myself not to panic at how close the blade came to her skin.
Steady.
Focus.
I shifted to the next layer, cutting through knots that were fused with dried blood and torn tissue.
Her left wrist came next.
The rope there had sunk deeper — as if it had been tightened repeatedly over time. It clung to her skin like it had grown into it.
I worked it loose inch by inch.
When the blade brushed against exposed skin, she flinched — a weak reflex.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured immediately.
She shook her head slightly.
“It’s... okay...” she breathed.
That nearly broke me.
I moved to her ankles.
The ropes there were worse.
