Page 18 of Operation: Defiance

Scissors bite through my bra straps. Metal scrapes briefly over my sternum.

I flinch. My eyes sting beneath the hood.

My nervous system lights up all at once, heat and static racing under my skin.

There’s no commentary. No lingering. No attempt at humiliation. Just removal.

My pants and underwear are next. Cold air hits my thighs, and I fight the urge to curl inward. If I tried, the restraints would stop me anyway.

Hands wrap around my hips to steady me. Someone lifts my left foot, then my right, stripping away shoes and socks, leaving me standing on a cold, concrete floor.

The pat-down starts again. A gloved hand at my ribs. Pressure where the swelling has begun. Not enough to hurt. Enough to assess.

They take my ring. Reach under the hood and remove the tiny gold hoops from my ears.

The grip on my wrists loosens.

“Don’t move,” a man says from in front of me.

The restraints unlock.

I don’t fight.

I’m blind. Injured. Outnumbered. Any move I make would end quickly, and not in my favor.

Compliance keeps this contained.

Survive first.

Assess second.

Act third.

The words surface without effort. Old training. Still intact.

My arms drop heavily to my sides. Pins and needles flood my fingers. I sway, just slightly. Someone catches me again.

“Put this on.”

Thin fabric is pressed into my hands. It takes a second to register what it is. A shirt. Lightweight and rough, like it’s been washed with too much detergent.

I lift it carefully, clumsy without sight, the hood turning each breath into a shallow negotiation. The fabric smells faintly of storage. Old. Stale. When I raise my arm too high, pain flares through my shoulder, sharp enough to blank everything else out for a beat.

I adjust. Smaller movements. Slower. I thread one arm, then the other, keeping them tight to my body. The fabric rasps as it slides over my skin, seams dragging, catching where sweat hasn’t dried yet.

Every contact point registers at once. The sensation is wrong in a way that’s almost instantly destabilizing.

“Now this.”

Pants. The same material. Elastic waistband. No ties. No weight to them at all—like they aren’t meant to belong to anyone for very long.

The floor is cold beneath my bare feet. The chill works its way through my soles and into my calves, patient and invasive, stealing warmth faster than I can generate it.

I step into the pants without bending more than necessary, bracing through my ribs as I pull them up.

“Shoes?” I ask.

The word comes out hoarse. Smaller than I expect.