Page 42 of Operation: Defiance

The thought steadies me more than any breathing exercise ever has.

I fold it inward and keep it hidden where they can’t touch it.

My thumb curls, searching for the familiar edge of my ring. There’s nothing there. The motion stops halfway through.

I flinch before they touch me now. Sometimes before they speak. I hate that they’ve done that to me. That my nervous system is adapting in ways I don’t yet know how to undo.

But I’m here—still me. As long as that’s true, this isn’t over.

Chapter Twelve

They introduce a new position.

One wrist, then the other is secured high overhead. My arms are forced wide enough that my upper body takes all the strain. My heels barely touch the ground, the balls of my feet brushing the surface providing barely enough structure for balance or any form of stability. The position is clinical in its cruelty. It forces the body to negotiate with gravity until the body loses.

Agony detonates along the right side of my body as they adjust the angle, and my shoulder slips out of place with a sickening pop. I can’t choke back my whimper. Fingers dig into the joint. In the hood’s never-ending darkness, I see stars.

I try to stay ahead of the pain. Try to catalog what’s happening to me in real time.

Shoulder instability accelerating.

Circulation compromised.

Grip strength failing.

Inventory keeps me oriented. Even when the data is bad.

They leave me here.

Without the familiar rhythm of sit, lie, wake, everything collapses into a single extended moment punctuated by sensation. There’s no reset anymore. No clean edges. Just my nervous system guessing what comes next and getting it wrong.

Pain layers itself. Sharp at first. Then dull. Then distant. Like it belongs to someone else.

My fingers tingle. Go numb. Burn as sensation returns out of order. I try to press them together to feel my pulse. I can’t. My hands don’t meet. I don’t have the leverage.

I can’t rock.

Can’t curl my toes.

All I can do is press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. They can’t see me do it under the hood, so they can’t correct it.

It helps for a while. Then it doesn’t.

I keep my breathing shallow. The ache in my ribs makes that difficult. I adjust anyway, accepting the burn. Losing what little I can still control would be so much worse.

There’s a gap.

When awareness snaps back into place, my arms are screaming. I don’t know how long I was gone. Have I been standing the whole time? Did they move me? I don’t know. Why don’t I know?

Food comes, the liquid forced in too quickly to manage. I swallow on reflex, on training, on whatever hasn’t failed yet.

Eventually, my wrists are released from above without comment or warning.

My arms drop.

My legs fold immediately.

I slide down the wall and hit the floor, cold biting straight through the thin fabric. There’s no easing into it. No acclimation. Just a bone-deep chill that bypasses pain and goes straight to something worse.