Page 52 of Daggermouth

Shadera dragged herself to the window, one hand pressed to her ribs to hold them together. The plaza was directly below, that same stone expanse where her whole world had been ripped from her. Now it filled with bodies, all facing the same direction. All faces tilted up to their altar of murder.

The execution platform.

Her blood turned to ice, then immediately to fire.

There, at the center of it all, stood Greyson. Even from this height, she recognized his posture—that straight spine, those squared shoulders, the way he held his head like the weight of his mask was nothing. He wore his Executioner’s regalia, black fabric that ate the morning light, that obsidian mask catching the first rays of sun.

A figure was being dragged onto the platform. Young, based on the size. Male, based on the build. Boundary, based on the way he fought against his red restraints. The crowd had gone still now, that terrible calm that preceded state-sanctioned murder.

“No.” The word scraped from her throat as she pressed both palms against the glass.

Greyson moved, reading the charges, stating the law with no emotion present in his eyes projected through the live stream at his back. Playing his part to perfection. The prisoner was forced to his knees, head pushed forward to expose the neck. Greyson drew his gun—that ceremonial thing that had taken so many lives she’d lost count.

Her fist slammed against the window before she realized she’d moved. The impact sent shock waves through her fractured bones, but she hit it again. And again and again until she was beating it with all her strength.

She needed him to see her.

Needed him to know she was watching, to understand that she’d remember this, would carry it with every other death until she could pay him back in kind.

The bullet came and the crowd cheered as they always did. Greyson stood over the body for exactly three seconds—she’d counted—before turning and walking off the platform like he’d done nothing more than complete paperwork.

Shadera spun from the window, rage replacing every other sensation. She’d go down there. She’d find him. She’d wrap her hands aroundhis throat and squeeze until his eyes saw nothing but the black hell waiting to eat his soul.

The doorknob turned but didn’t open. She pulled harder. Nothing.

He’d locked her in like an animal.

“Open this fucking door!” She slammed her palm against the wood, the sound echoing through the apartment. “You fucking cowards! Open it!”

Silence answered her.

She searched the room, yanking open drawers, looking for anything—a key, a tool, something to pick the lock. The drawers held nothing but more clothing, more evidence of their plan to domesticate her. She hurled them across the room, fabric floating down like surrender flags she’d never wave.

“I know you can hear me,” she screamed at the walls, at the hidden surveillance devices. “You want to lock me in here? You want to make me watch while you butcher children?”

Her foot connected with the door. Pain shot up her leg, but the wood splintered. She kicked again, channeling every ounce of fury into the impact. The doorframe groaned. Another kick. The wood cracked.

“You think this will hold me?” Another strike. The split widened. “You think I won’t tear this entire place apart?” Another blow from her heel. “I will fucking kill you!”

She backed up three steps, then drove forward with her shoulder—the good one. The impact jarred every injury, made her vision go white at the edges, but the door exploded outward, wood fragments scattering across the hallway floor.

Shadera stood in the ruin, chest heaving, blood trickling from where splinters had caught skin. The hallway stretched before her, silent and pristine except for the destruction she’d left in her wake. She rushed to the front door, yanking at the handle, eyes scanning the locks. Too many. Too secure. She slammed her fist against it, the sound likegunfire as a frustrated scream shot from her mouth. She wouldn’t be able to break this one down, it was too thick.

Her forehead fell against the wood. She couldn’t live like this. Shewouldn’tlive like this. Finally she pulled herself from the door, blood smearing against its surface as she limped to the kitchen. Each step sent fresh pain through her battered body. The refrigerator was stocked with food she didn’t recognize—delicate things that probably required preparation she’d never learned. Her stomach was empty, had been for days, but the thought of eating anything from the Heart while the rest of the city starved made bile rise in her throat.

The vodka was where she’d left it—or rather, where they’d replaced it after she’d shattered the last bottle. Same exact brand, same exact spot. Like they were encouraging her to drink herself to death.

She grabbed it by the neck, twisted off the cap, and took a long pull. The burn was clean, familiar. Something from her world, even if it wore Heart packaging. She took another drink, grabbed a knife from the block on the counter, then began to move through the apartment with the bottle in one hand, weapon in the other, her instincts overriding everything else.

She needed to know this space. Every corner, every exit, every potential weapon. If she was going to be caged here, she would learn the cage completely. And when the opportunity came—and itwouldcome—she’d be ready to break free.

The master bedroom door stood at the end of the hallway, black wood that seemed to absorb light. Shadera approached with the vodka bottle still in one hand, her bare feet silent on the polished floor. The lock was sophisticated—biometric scanner paired with traditional tumblers. High-end Heart technology that would’ve stopped most intruders.

But Shadera was from the Boundary and she’d been breaking into places since she was twelve, when hunger made morality negotiable.

She set the bottle down carefully, then lifted the knife—everything had a purpose, everything could be used as a tool. The biometric scanner was the real problem, but the Heart had its loopholes. The systems always reset when the power fluctuated, and there was a two second window when the electric lock would be disengaged.

Jameson had taught her this the first time they’d snuck into the Heart to rob a clinic. He’d taught her a lot of things. Her fingers found the hallway’s light switch, flipping it on and off in rapid succession.