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Two armed guards emerge from a nondescript door as our vehicle pulls to a stop. The guard beside me grabs my arm, his fingers digging into bruised flesh.

“Move,” he orders, hauling me out of the SUV with unnecessary force.

My legs buckle when my feet hit the ground, my body betraying me after days of malnutrition and abuse. I stumble,catching myself against the vehicle's frame before they can drag me to my feet again. The evening air is cold against my face, carrying the scent of pine and something chemical.

“Welcome to your new home, Rafner,” one of the guards says, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Hope you like the accommodations better than the last place.”

They march me toward the building, each step painful. The concrete structure looms before us, windowless and forbidding.

The metal door groans as it opens, revealing a hallway that clashes starkly with the building’s rough exterior. The space beyond is sterile and over lit, flooded with harsh recessed lighting. It feels like a hospital—if hospitals were designed by people who preferred causing pain over healing it.

“Move,” the guard grunts, shoving me forward.

My shuffling steps echo against the polished concrete floor as they lead me deeper into the facility. We pass a series of identical doors, each fitted with a small observation window and an electronic lock. I count them silently—one, two, three, four—mapping the layout out of habit. If I ever get a chance to escape, knowing the terrain could mean the difference between freedom and death.

At the sixth door, they stop. One guard swipes a keycard, punches in a code, and the lock disengages with a sharp beep. The door swings open to reveal a cell nearly identical to the one I was held in before—pale walls, a narrow cot bolted to the floor, and a stainless steel toilet with no privacy. The only difference is a small vent near the ceiling, likely for air circulation rather than escape. They’re not that careless.

“Home sweet home,” the guard sneers, shoving me inside hard enough that I stumble and crash to my knees on the concrete floor.

The impact sends lightning bolts of pain through my already battered body, but I refuse to make a sound. I won't give these bastards the satisfaction.

“The Collector wants you kept alive,” the second guard informs me, his tone clinical. “But he didn't specify what condition you needed to be in. Remember that.”

The door slams shut behind them, the electronic lock engaging with a finality that echoes in the sterile space. Alone, again. I allow myself a moment of weakness, slumping against the wall as my body catalogs each pain point. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts. Existing hurts.

But I'm alive, which means there's still hope.

I drag myself to the cot, each movement a careful negotiation with my broken body. Once seated, I force myself to breathe through the pain, methodically assessing my surroundings. The cell is approximately eight by ten feet. Temperature controlled. No visible cameras, though that doesn't mean they aren't watching. The vent is too small for escape, barely large enough for adequate air circulation. The bed is bolted down, the frame welded to supports embedded in the floor. Even the thin mattress has been designed to prevent concealing anything inside it.

Professional. Thorough. Just like everything else The Collector, Mikhail. does.

I run my fingers along the wall nearest the bed, searching for imperfections, for anything that might offer insight into where I am or who might be nearby. The concrete is smooth, almost polished. No markings, no signs of previous occupants. Nothing to indicate Luca might be close.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor pulls me from my examination. I force myself upright, ignoring the protest of my ribs. Never show weakness. That's the first rule of captivity. The electronic lock disengages with a soft beep, and the door swingsopen to reveal a woman in scrubs, a medical kit in her hands. Behind her stands a guard, weapon drawn.

“Against the wall,” the guard orders.

I comply, turning to face the wall with my palms on the cool cement. No sudden movements. The woman's footsteps approach, hesitant but determined.

“I'm going to check your injuries,” she states, her voice clinically detached. “Don't move.”

Cold fingers probe my ribs, and I bite back a hiss of pain. She works methodically, checking each wound with impersonal efficiency. Not a doctor, the touch lacks the confident precision, but someone with medical training. A nurse, maybe, or an EMT that Mikhail keeps on payroll for his "collection."

“Three fractured ribs,” she reports to the guard. “Shoulder shows signs of improper reduction. Possible internal bleeding. He needs X-rays.”

“Not authorized,” the guard replies flatly. “Just patch him up enough to keep him alive.”

She sighs, barely audible, but there, before continuing her examination. Her fingers pause at a particularly tender spot on my back, and I can't suppress a wince.

“This kidney contusion is concerning.”

“Not my problem,” the guard responds. “Hurry it up.”

She opens her medical kit, the clasps clicking loudly in the silent cell. I hear the tear of packaging, then feel the cool press of an antiseptic wipe against the cut on my face.

“This will hurt,” she warns, moments before I feel the sharp sting of sutures being placed at my temple. The pain is clarifying, focusing my scattered thoughts. I focus on my breathing. Pain is information. I use it.

“Turn around,” she instructs after finishing with the sutures.