She can’t be more than eighteen, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze that no one’s managed to beat out of her yet. Alert. Wary. Afraid but not hollowed. The set of her shoulders, the slight curl of her lip, the way she watches everything without looking like she’s watching at all—it all says the same thing.
She’s a fighter.
And she’ll be damned if she doesn’t make it out of here.
My kind of girl.
“Hi,” I whisper, barely parting my lips.
Her head tilts—measured, cautious. She studies me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m a threat or an ally. When she doesn’t look away, I risk a little more.
“Do you… know anything? About where we are? Or them?”
The question sits between us like glass. Dangerous to touch.
She hesitates and a bead of sweat slips down her temple. Her throat works as she swallows, then she gives the smallest shake of her head.
“Not much,” she breathes, and the faint Scottish lilt in her voice catches me off guard—sharp enough to sting. It makes me think of Logan, which in turn makes me think of Abbie, of home, of things I can’t afford to linger on.
“They don’t talk to us,” she continues. “Only come down to toss food… or take someone.” Her fingers curl tight around her bare knee, knuckles blanching. “But we watch for guard patterns, deliveries, noises from upstairs. Lights under the door. Little things, little changes.”
She lifts her blue eyes to mine, something steady sparking there despite the fear.
“We track them,” she adds quietly. “You know?”
Her message is clear enough—Watch. Learn. Survive.
I force my breathing to steady, trying to let the panic bleed out slowly instead of exploding. This room… it’s more than a cage. It’s a test to see who bends, who breaks, who waits, who fights.
I’m not built to wait.
I study the women again, slower now, letting details settle and arrange themselves into something useful.
Some of the girls are too far gone—eyes glazed over, breath shallow, their spirit wrung out of them like water from a cloth. Others are exhausted but aware, tracking movement with the dull focus of people who’ve learned the cost of standing out.A handful, though… there’s tension there. Anger that hasn’t burned out yet. Deep, buried sparks.
Sparks can become fire if you know how to light them.
My gaze drifts to the older woman—the scarred one. She sits with her back to the wall, shoulders squared, spine straight, like she’s refusing to give this place even a fraction more of herself than it’s already stolen.
When her green eyes meet mine, something passes between us. Not recognition—just understanding. She sees exactly what I’m doing, but she’s not stopping me. Doesn’t encourage me either. She just watches, steady and assessing, with something like approval… or a warning not to move too fast.
Either way, I clock it, and offer her a small nod in return.
I’m already mapping the cell—distances, exits, the rhythm of footsteps in the corridor, the faint shift of light beneath the door. The more I catalogue, the more the fog in my head thins, replaced by purpose. Fear is still there—a cold knot under my ribs—but it’s no longer holding me back. It’s fuel.
Because even if help is coming, it won’t be fast enough. I know Matt will tear the world apart to find me, but I can’t sit here and wait for the fallout to land on my head. I can’t be passive. Not when these girls keep glancing at the door like it might devour them. Not when every instinct I have is screaming that something worse is coming.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know the layout beyond this room, how many guards there are, or what comes next. I don’t even knowwhereI am.
But I do know this—people make mistakes.
Patterns slip, guards get lazy, keys jangle, doors open. Opportunities exist in seconds, not hours.
And when one appears…
I’ll be ready.
Not just to survive.
