It makes sense. They can’t parade a hooded captive through daylight.
Wherever they’re taking me, it’s deeper into the shadows, and for now, I’m along for the ride.
Momentary acceptance, I remind myself.
It gets me out of the military’s hands while I buy time and listen. I need to figure out how to turn this around while I regain my strength.
The second an opportunity shows up, I’ll be gone.
They walk in silence for what I judge to be about fifteen minutes. The man carrying me shows no sign of tiring, even with my full weight slung across his shoulder and my deliberate attempts to make myself heavier. We pause before his footstepsturn cautious on a metal stairwell. A key scrapes in a lock, and another door swings open.
Murmured voices grow clearer as the air shifts to something more comfortable. It’s cooler, with the low whir of fans and brighter light filtering through the hood.
“Hey, Cato—” someone starts, then cuts off at the sight of me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Not now,” the guy carrying me says curtly. “Where’s Dom?”
“Uh… in the conference room.”
“So many cooler names we could use,” Sakane complains from beside me. “Command center. Ops hub. Even headquarters sounds a little badass.”
“It’s a big empty room with a table,” Cato responds. “We have meetings there. It’s a fucking conference room.”
“Party pooper,” Sakane mutters.
Cato snorts. “Call it whatever you want, man. Just don’t expect me to salute your little bun when you walk in like you’re leading the revolution.”
“This bun is iconic,” Sakane argues. “It’s got presence.”
“Yeah,” Cato deadpans. “Presence. That thing is so tight it's cutting off circulation to your brain.”
Sakane gasps, and there's a smacking sound from where he walks beside Cato. “You take that back. The bun is sacred.”
Cato chuckles like he's ready to argue more, but we pass through a door and the chatter around us swells. Murmurs turn into alarmed whispers, building into a rising tide of confusion and curses in every variation of ‘what the fuck.’
“Are you at least making my ass look good if it’s on display for everyone?” I grumble.
Cato ignores me entirely, then knocks on a door.
“Hey, Dom? We’ve got a situation out here? Kinda need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, alright, come on in,” the voice calls from inside.
My eye flares inside the hood.
The door opens and the same voice sharpens. “What the actual fuck, Cato? That’s a soldier over your shoulder.”
“It is,” Cato agrees.
My heart ratchets in my chest at the familiar irritated scoff that follows.
“Alright, let me rephrase,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Whydo you have a soldier in our headquarters?”
“At least someone is using that word,” Sakane grumbles.
“We were watching the scheduling office,” Cato explains, “and this asshole charged out with half the damn military on his heels. He had these stuffed in his pants—schedules for next week's shipments.”
Papers rustle from my side where Sakane stands, and I grow hyper-aware of the embarrassing way Cato has me slung over his shoulder like a rag doll.
