Page 118

W-H-O A-R-E Y-O-U?

I open my mouth to respond when footsteps echo in the corridor outside. Heavy boots against concrete, the jangling of keys.

“Shit,” I mutter, carefully lowering myself from my makeshift platform. My ribs scream in protest as I hurriedly straighten the blanket and return to the cot, arranging myself as if I've been resting all along.

The electronic lock disengages. I steady my breathing, schooling my expression into one of exhausted compliance as the door swings open to reveal two guards.

“Dinner,” one announces flatly, sliding a tray across the floor with his boot. The meager meal, some kind of gray stew and stale bread, isn't worth the pain it would take to retrieve it immediately.

I remain motionless on the cot, feeling their suspicious stares. Did they hear me? Are there microphones in the vents?

“The boss wants you healthy enough to stay alive.”

The first guard crouches down as if trying to discern any signs of defiance or rebellion. I meet his stare head-on with a careful mask of defeat.

Reluctantly, I push myself up from the cot, my every movement a pained reminder of the bruises and wounds that mar my body. I shuffle towards the tray, the smell of the stew turning my stomach, but hunger gnawing at my insides.

As I reach for the tray, the second guard shifts uncomfortably, his hand hovering near the stun baton at his belt. I know the consequences of disobedience, of defiance. The boss's reach is long, his punishments unforgiving.

I take a tentative bite of the bread, the taste dry and bland on my tongue. The guards watch me closely. After a few moments of tense silence, the first guard stands, his expression unreadable. “Finish your meal,” he orders, his voice a low growl that brooks no argument.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and force myself to take another bite. The guards linger for a moment longer before finally ordering me to slide the tray back over and retreating, the sound of the lock sealing me once again in my cell.

Alone once more, I sit back on the cot, the taste of stale bread lingering in my mouth. The guards' words hang heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the fragile line I walk between survival and surrender in this unforgiving world.

ZAIRE

The ragein my blood won't settle. It's been almost two hours since we left her there, alone with that monster, and every minute feels like another betrayal.

“We need to go back,” I growl, pacing the length of our apartment for the hundredth time. The walls are closing in, suffocating me with each pass. “She could be dead already for all we know.”

“She's not dead.” Oz's voice cuts through my spiral, his tone maddeningly calm as he sits at the kitchen table. “The Collector wants something from her. He won't kill her until he gets it.”

I slam my fist against the wall, welcoming the sharp pain that shoots up my arm. “That's supposed to make me feel better? That he's keeping her alive to use her?”

Talon looks up from his position by the window, his injured shoulder still held carefully rigid. “Z, we all feel the same way. But rushing back in there half-cocked will just get her killed for sure.”

“So we just wait?” I snarl, rounding on them both. “Sit here on our asses while she faces that psychopath alone?”

“We follow her instructions,” Oz says, rising to his feet with that lethal grace that mirrors my own. “She told us to trust her. To wait for her here.”

I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. “And when has Vesper ever made decisions that prioritize her own safety?” I demand. "She'd sacrifice herself in a heartbeat if she thought it would save us. You both know that."

Oz's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. He can't. We've all witnessed Vesper's self-destructive loyalty firsthand.

“She said Alex is alive,” Talon says quietly, the words hanging in the air between us like smoke.

I freeze mid-step, the impossible truth still refusing to settle in my mind. “If she's right, if he's really…” I can't finish the sentence, hope too dangerous a thing to voice aloud.

“Then The Collector has been playing us from the start," Oz concludes, his mind already racing ahead. “Alex's 'death' was staged to fracture us, to weaken our defenses.”

“And it worked,” Talon mutters. “I should have made sure. Should have searched longer, found some proof?—"

"None of us could have known,” I cut him off, unwilling to let him shoulder that burden alone.

The apartment door clicks open, and we all freeze, weapons drawn before conscious thought. Vesper steps through, her face a blank canvas that chills me more than any display of emotion could. She looks...untouched. Physically, at least. But those green eyes that have haunted my dreams since the day we met are dead. Empty. Like someone extinguished the fire that's always burned there, even in her darkest moments.

“Vesper,” I breathe, holstering my weapon and crossing the room in three long strides.