"We can do this the hard way," he says, voice flat, "or you can come like a good little American. Your choice. But just so you know, I like the hard way better."
I swallow bile and force my legs under me. My whole body shakes, traitorous tremors I hate myself for showing. Weak. Pathetic. I keep my eyes on their hands, tracking every twitch. Matt whispers my name as they drag me past his fence. I keep my gaze fixed on the guards, looking away from them would be suicide.
Mercifully they don't take me up the metal staircase. The room I end up in is at the end of a corridor I haven't seen before. Harsh overhead lights blind me, the kind that flatten everythingand make you look like a corpse before you are one. A metal chair waits in the center, bolted to the floor. They shove me into it, the metal biting cold through my jeans and shirt, then tie my wrists and ankles, the knots pulled cruelly tight.
The first blow lands before I draw breath.
Knuckles smash my left cheekbone. My head snaps sideways as light fractures behind my eyes. Blood floods my mouth, hot and metallic, from where my teeth shred the inside of my cheek.
Don't scream.
The command slices through the haze, clear and ironclad. Don't scream. It's the only thing they can't take from me.
"Easy on the face," the lean one mutters to the other as he lines up the next punch. "He's particular about that. Wants her pretty when he gets her."
The second blow targets my ribs. Left side, just below my breast. Precise. Not wild. Calculated. They work me methodically. Ribs, stomach, back, thighs. Fists and boots in rotation. No rage in their faces. No sick enjoyment. Just a job. Specification met.
"She's been too comfortable," the gun one grunts between blows, driving a knee into my thigh. Pain radiates like shattered glass. "Two weeks no marks, no nothing. Boss says time to soften her up for training. Make her pliable before he claims what's his."
My teeth clamp so hard my jaw throbs. Air hisses through my nose in sharp bursts. Grunts escape, tight and strangled, involuntary sounds I choke down before they become anything more. I don't scream.
I count instead.
Seven.
Eleven.
Fifteen.
"Reserved for the big man," the lean one says casually as he slams another fist into my stomach. I fold inward as much as the ropes allow, bile rising. "Not for us grunts. No fucking, no fun. Just bruises. Softens the edges so she kneels nicely when he is ready."
I lose count at eighteen when he hammers my ribs again. Breath stops. Thought stops. My body hits its wall, lungs seizing, everything narrowing to bright, crushing pain. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
"Still quiet," the gun one notes, almost approving. He backhands my side, careful to avoid the face. "Good. He likes fighters at first. Gives him something to break."
Then it ends.
They step back, breathing steadily. Unhurried.
"Face has to stay clean next time, or boss will get angry."
Their words sink into me like ice water. Someone specific wants me. Untouched in the worst way. Unbroken. For now.Their boss.
They leave me tied to the chair. Long minutes stretch under the merciless lights. Swelling tightens my ribs with every shallow breath. Bruises bloom hot and deep. When they finally return, they untie me without a word. My legs barely hold as they make me walk.
I lead with my right side. Left is where the ribs are, and left is not an option right now. My hand finds the corridor wall, and I use it, one palm flat against the concrete, moving in increments that probably look nothing like walking from the outside. The guards don't rush me. Whatever I am to whoever reserved me, I'm worth delivering upright.
Coming back through the main floor, I see the others. Some of them track me with their eyes, fully present, reading the damage on my face. Those are the ones who've been here long enough to know how to watch without looking. Others don'tmove at all. They sit or lie on their thin mattresses, here but not here, eyes open and glassy, fixed on nothing in the room. Whatever they put in the water, or whatever cocktail of drugs they slip into the food, the air, the endless nothing of this place, it's eating them alive from the inside. Hollowing out the fight until there's just a shell left, breathing, waiting.
"Vi. Hey." Matt's at the fence when I get into the cell, the door locking behind me with an ominous click. I take my time walking over to the mattress, hissing from pain as I kneel down. I can barely keep myself upright, so instead of fighting it, I place my palms down, then slowly move onto my side, curling around my damaged ribs.
Matt's on his knees in an instant, face pressed against the chain-link, hands gripping the metal so tight his knuckles have gone white.
"Vi."
"I'm okay."
"You're not okay, don't give me that. Where are you hurt?"
