Page 20 of Operation: Defiance

You will survive this.

I catalog what remains steady. The low hum of the ventilation system. The faint mechanical whir of the camera. The rough scrape of fabric against my skin when I shift.

Time blurs.

Long enough for the cold to stop biting and start settling in. Long enough for my calves to tremble when I shift my feet. Long enough for the room to stop feeling temporary.

Shock drains away in pieces, leaving something heavier in its place. I don’t name it. Naming it gives it power.

When the door opens again, I lift my head. My neck protests. My eyes lag behind the movement.

Whatever happens next, it isn’t time to fight.

Not yet.

First, I need to understand the rules.

Chapter Eight

Boots cross the threshold.

Two men resolve only as blurred shapes before the hood drops back over my head.

The world collapses to breath and sound and the sour, reused smell of the fabric.

“Stand.”

It takes a second for my legs to remember what that means. When I struggle to my feet, the floor tilts. My calves tremble hard enough that I lock my knees to stay vertical.

I draw in a shallow breath, then another, focusing on the simple mechanics of balance—the pressure of my feet against the floor, the weight of my body stacked where it should be—until the shaking eases.

A hand closes around my arm and tugs me forward. They’re not rushing me this time.

I start counting steps without thinking. Eighteen. A turn. Twelve more.

The air changes again. Cooler now. The ventilation hum grows louder, more deliberate, vibrating faintly through my chest.

“Sit.”

The chair is wrong the moment I touch it. Too high. Too narrow. My feet barely reach the floor.

They reposition the restraints, pulling my arms behind me and securing them to hard metal. Ankles next. The posture forces my spine into an arch that turns breathing into work, each inhale scraping against my ribs.

Cold air rushes across my skin—my forearms, my hands, where the fabric dips into a v below my collarbones. Even my bare feet. I can’t shift away from the harsh blast. It pries me open inch by inch, and the loss of control fractures something deep inside me.

Someone tightens the hood at my neck. Not enough to restrict my oxygen. Enough that I feel it every time I swallow.

I slow my breathing.

Don’t give them anything they can use against you.

“Name,” a man says.

He sounds older. Polished and controlled, with the kind of authority that doesn’t need to demand anything because cooperation is the baseline.

“Raine Calder.” My voice is steadier than I feel.

“Do you know where you are?”