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She exhales through her nose.

“You don’t look surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“That hurts most people.”

“They never liked me anyway.”

She studies me for a long beat.

“Who extracted your partner from Spuel?”

“No one.”

“Who arranged her safe passage?”

“No one.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“No,” I say. “I expect you to keep asking.”

She straightens.

“Fine.”

She taps the console again.

Electricity blooms down my spine like a fist inside my nervous system, white and blinding, every muscle seizing at once. My teeth slam together hard enough that sparks dance in my vision.

I grunt, breath tearing out of me in a sound that isn’t human.

It cuts off.

I sag forward against the restraints, sweat already slicking my ribs.

“Try again,” she says calmly. “Who helped her?”

I swallow, jaw tight.

“No one.”

Another shock.

Longer this time.

My vision goes dark at the edges.

When it stops, my breathing is ragged and loud in the too-quiet room.

She crouches in front of me, eyes level with mine.

“You care about her,” she says softly. “That makes you predictable.”

I meet her gaze.

“Then predict this,” I rasp. “I’m not talking.”