He stepped inside, boots scuffing the concrete. Too close. He smelled like cheap cologne and nerves.
I waited until he reached for my chin.
Then I lunged.
Pain exploded through my wrists, but adrenaline swallowed it whole. I slammed my forehead into his nose—felt the crunch, the wet gasp. He stumbled back with a shout. My Father drilled it into my head what to do if I am ever kidnapped.
I didn’t stop.
The chair was bolted down, but I kicked—hard—catching his shin. He went down, swearing, fumbling for his radio.
I wrapped the loose edge of the zip tie around my fingers and yanked, sawing into my skin.
Blood slicked my palm.
The door burst open as the second guard shouted.
Too late.
The zip tie snapped.
I surged forward, grabbed the fallen man’s radio, and hurled it across the room as alarms began to scream somewhere far above us.
They’d been quiet before.
They wouldn’t be now.
The second guard froze when he saw the blood. The broken nose. The chair tipped on its side.
Fear flashed in his eyes.
Third mistake.
I used it.
I bolted.
I didn’t know where I was going—just that forward was better than waiting. The hallway beyond was narrow, with concrete walls lined with pipes and flickering lights. Somewhere ahead, a door slammed.
Shouts echoed.
I ran anyway.
Bare feet slapped the floor. My lungs burned. My wrists screamed.
But beneath it all—through the chaos and noise—I felt it.
A shift.
Something tightening around the edges of this place.
Like a storm rolling in.
Trigger was close.
They thought breaking me would control him.
Instead, they’d done something far worse.
