Page 94 of Operation: Defiance

I try another bite. Then a third. By the fourth, my ribs remind me they’re not entirely on board with being upright.

“Okay.” I collapse against the pillow. “I need to stop.”

My arm feels heavy. My shoulder aches in a different way, but I can tell, in the places that still recognize data, that something has shifted.

I flex my fingers. They still shake. But they answer.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Asher’s mouth quirks into a small smile. “You did the hard part. Healing is work. And you get to rest between rounds.”

Rest was one of the first things they took from me.

“You’re safe here,” he adds, his voice softening. “Nothing gets to you without going through me first. And I don’t go down easy.”

My fingers twitch against the blanket. They’re still buzzing, still unsteady. But they’re mine.

“I’ll be right back. Just going to do the dishes. You’ll hear me. Okay?” He picks up the tray, but holds my gaze until I nod.

I should close my eyes. Try to sleep some more. But instead, I rest my hands in my lap. Turn them over. The tremor is still there. Fainter. Persistent. Veins too visible. Skin too dull. So dry, it doesn’t feel like mine.

When I flex my fingers, they drag faintly against each other, catching instead of sliding. The pads are rough. The backs tight. Every small movement leaves a whisper of resistance, like my hands have forgotten how to be used.

The dark purple bruises will fade with time. But the memory of the restraints, the hood, the helplessness? Those will stay with me forever.

I swallow and my throat burns, the ache deeper than thirst.

My body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.

I don’t pull away from it. I just…note it. Save it for later when I have the energy to recognize myself again.

Footsteps sound in the hall. Unhurried. Familiar already.

Asher pauses in the doorway, drying his hands on a dish towel and draping it over the back of the chair before sitting. “Didn’t mean to keep you up,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t.”

“You okay?” he asks.

“I think so.” I hesitate, then add, “Different, but…better.”

He leans back slightly, weight settling, like he’s decided we’ll be here for a bit. “Anything spiking?”

I shake my head. “Not like before.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t push. I don’t explain. The silence is comfortable, and I don’t know what to do with that. The music hums softly beneath it, steady and unobtrusive.

I look down at my hands again.

“How did you know how to do that?” I ask. “With my shoulder. My arm. You didn’t hesitate.”

He considers me for a beat.

“I had a job go sideways a few years ago,” he says. “The guy I was sent in to rescue had similar injuries. I got him out, but by the time we made it to a doctor, the nerve damage was permanent.”

His eyes are haunted. Sad.

“After that,” he continues, “I paid a physical therapist to teach me what she could. Then found a couple of doctors who didn’t ask questions. Field medicine. Damage control. Triage.”

“What was this?” I ask quietly.

“Damage control. For someone who didn’t deserve what happened to them.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it. It’s better that way. I don’t want to see pity in his eyes.

I let my hands stay where they are. Still unsteady, but mine.

The last thing I see before I close my eyes is Asher, still watching the door.