“Easy,” a voice murmured near my ear. Calm. Detached. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Liar.
Something sharp pressed into my ribs—not stabbing, just enough pressure to promise it could be.
“Don’t fight,” another voice said quietly. “This will go much smoother if you don’t fight.”
I went still.
Not because I believed them.
Because I remembered Trigger’s voice in my head.
Survive first.
My heart hammered as they moved fast, dragging me out the back door into the cold night air. A van waited—engine running, door already open.
No hesitation.
No shouting.
This wasn’t a snatch-and-grab.
This was planned.
I was shoved inside, forced down onto the floor as the door slammed shut. The engine revved, tires biting gravel as we pulled away.
A hood dropped over my head.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
I counted breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
Trigger will notice.
He always noticed.
The van turned sharply. Then again. I let my body go loose, absorbing the movement, listening—memorizing.
Time stretched, warped. I lost track of how long we had been driving. When the van finally stopped, strong hands hauled me out again.
Cool air. Different. Damp.
I was guided—not roughly, but firmly—up steps, through a door, and into silence so thick it rang.
The hood came off.
I blinked against the harsh fluorescent light.
The room was bare. Concrete floor. No windows. One chair bolted to the ground.
A man stood in front of me—clean, well-dressed, not one of the men who’d grabbed me.
