Pain exploded down my scalp. I gritted my teeth, refusing to scream. Refusing to flinch.
I couldn’t fight like Wrecker.
Couldn’t crush someone like Brutus or slice like Ghost or shoot like Ariel.
But I could endure.
Endurance was its own kind of weapon.
It meant waiting when everything inside you screamed to fight.
It meant saving energy.
It meant surviving long enough for opportunity to show itself.
They thought I was helpless.
They were wrong.
I could survive.
And I could wait.
Wait for the second they got cocky.
The second they turned their backs.
Because Wrecker would come.
And when he did?
There wouldn’t be enough left of these assholes to bury.
The door creaked open behind me.
Boots thudded closer, slow and deliberate. I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. I just braced my knees on the concrete, every muscle coiled and ready.
A gloved hand grabbed my arm.
I sank my teeth into it.
Hard.
The man howled and ripped his hand back, blood blooming through the glove. “Fucking bitch?—”
I scrambled to my feet, vision swimming, heart punching like a war drum. I didn’t care where I ran. I just needed out. Needed air. Needed Wrecker.
I took two stumbling steps toward the open door.
And slammed straight into the second man’s chest.
“Dumb,” he muttered.
Then he drove his fist into my stomach.
Air punched out of me. I dropped like a stone, arms instinctively curling over my ribs.
Rough hands dragged me back to the cot.
