Look at me.
My breath catches. I close my eyes.
Look at me.
I can almost feel his hand on my jaw, firm and controlled, grounding me when everything else tried to spin out.
No.
I open my eyes. I’m still here. That’s the first thing. Not clean. Not whole. Not okay. But here. Alive. They want compliance. They want broken. They want a quiet body they can move from one place to another without trouble.
Fine.
Let them think they’re getting it. My breathing shakes as I pull it in. Then out. Slow. Small. Careful. I look at the room again. Not as a victim this time. As information. Door. Lock. Hinges outside. Light overhead. Table. Chair. Concrete floor. No windows. Two men at least. More outside.
Eli on the floor.
Eli.
My eyes sting. I don’t look away from him this time. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words are almost silent. Not enough. Never enough. But they’re all I have. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
I let the guilt come. Just for a few seconds. Let it crush down on my chest, let it hurt, let it exist. Then I put it somewhere else. Not gone. Never gone. But not in control. Not right now.
If I live, I can grieve him.
If I live, I can tell them he refused.
If I live, Cobra will know Eli looked at me and still said no.
That matters.
That has to matter.
I shift carefully, testing the restraints again, not yanking this time. Feeling. Learning. Wrists tied tight. Skin slick where it’s rubbed raw. No slack. Ankles worse. The bed frame is metal. Solid.
My shoulders scream if I pull too hard. Good to know. Pain is information. I almost laugh at the thought because it sounds like him. Cobra would say something like that. Pain is information. Fear is information too.
Mine tells me I’m alive.
Mine tells me they haven’t moved me yet.
Mine tells me time still exists.
And if time exists, then so does the possibility that he’s coming.
No.
Not possibility.
Cobra is coming.
I don’t let myself question that. Not because I believe in fairy tales. Because I know him. He will burn the world down to find me. The danger is surviving long enough for the fire to reach this room.
The door rattles again sometime later, but it doesn’t open. Voices pass by. Casual. One man mentions a vehicle. Another says something about moving before dawn.
