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Ziva

My heart pounds as I slip through the rusted factory door, its jagged edges scraping my skin. The creak of the hinges echoes too loudly, making my nerves jump like they’re about to snap.

I rub my bleary eyes, exhaustion dragging at me after a restless night. Each time I tried to sleep, my mind replayed visions of the plan falling apart. What if we’re caught? What if Arden’s already gone? The doubts gnaw at me, but I can’t afford to let them take hold.

“You made it,” Myall’s low voice cuts through the gloom. His usual warmth replaced by sharp focus, he scans me from head to toe, noting the dark clothing and steel-toed boots before nodding in approval.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I quip, masking my anxiety with sarcasm. “Nothing like spending my day off planning a jailbreak.”

Myall’s lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s hope it’s worth the overtime.”

We head to the storage room, the faint hum of machinery and the rustle of movement inside the only sounds in the abandoned factory. A small window, coated in grime and located high up on the wall, provides the only source of natural light in the room.

Marcus hunches over a makeshift workbench, fiddling with communication devices. His forehead is creased in concentration, reminding me how crucial his role is, even if he can’t join us in the field.

“Everything set?” I ask, scanning the room. Liora’s figure looms by a stack of freshly folded uniforms, the smell of fabric softener cutting through the air.

She gestures to the pile of uniforms, each one meticulously pressed, its fabric stiff and dark blue. “Elara came through. These should get us past the first checkpoint without a second glance.”

Tariq hefts a small, dark duffel bag. “Got the maintenance tunnel key in here. Jorel’s sure it’ll work?”

“It has to,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. I glance at Jorel, who is preoccupied with Marcus as he connects our earpieces.

As the others continue preparations, I catch Myall’s eye. He moves closer, his voice low, meant only for my ears. “You okay? You look like you haven’t slept.”

My heart is racing, but not just from the mission.

It’s the thought that I might never tell him how I feel.

The thought of never telling him, of him not knowing…

what would I regret more—getting him killed because I was too scared to tell him how I feel, or leaving him alone in this world without him ever knowing how I feel?

These thoughts have kept me up all night.

“I… I’m worried,” I admit. “There’s so much that could go wrong.”

Myall’s hand finds mine, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles like it always does. “We’ve planned for every contingency. We’ll get Arden out.”

Or die trying.

I squeeze his hand, drawing strength from his touch, letting the simple connection steady me. But as I look around at our ragtag group—friends turned rebels—it feels like after today, nothing will ever be the same.

Jorel steps forward, his face set with determination as he hands us each an earpiece. “Alright, people. Let’s get this over with.”

Marcus assures us that he will keep an eye on all the surveillance feeds we still have access to from Arden, and wishes us luck. I’m too afraid to say a proper goodbye, I don’t want it to be our last one. Besides, I needed to remain strong for the others.

We weave through the factory, dodging piles of broken machinery until we reach the door to the alleyway.

Jorel leads us to the closest maintenance hatch in the far corner of the alley, gesturing for us to follow.

He pulls a set of keys from the duffle bag Jarek hands him, and unlocks the hatch, revealing a narrow passageway illuminated by dim overhead lights.

We file into the maintenance tunnels, the stale air hitting my nostrils as Jorel seals the entrance behind us. The dim emergency lighting casts long shadows, turning familiar faces into ghostly apparitions.

“Watch your step,” Jorel warns, as we squeeze through the narrow tunnel. “And keep your eyes peeled for cameras. I’ve mapped most of them, but The Authority’s been adding new ones since Colvin’s crackdowns began.”

The walls close in, damp and cold, and each step echoes through the tunnel. I trail close behind him, my nerves alive with every sound.

“How often do other maintenance workers come down here?” I ask, scanning the murky corners.

Jorel shakes his head, his dark curls bouncing. “Not often, but we can’t risk getting comfortable.” His voice is low, laced with caution. “There’s a junction up ahead where we’ll need to be extra careful of the cameras.” His words hang heavy in the stale air.

As we approach the junction, Jorel holds up a hand, signaling us to stop. He peers around the corner, then motions us forward. “Clear for now, but move quickly.”

My heart races, breath catching as we hurry across the exposed area. I can’t shake the image of alarms blaring and guards swarming toward us. But we make it through undetected.

After what feels like hours of tense silence, Jorel finally pauses. A rusted hatch looms before us, identical to the one we entered.

“This is it,” he whispers. “The sub-basement access.”

He pulls out the keys, his hands steady. The key slides in, and for a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Then, with a soft click, the hatch unlocks. Jorel eases it open, revealing the dark expanse of the detention center’s sub-basement beyond.

As we prepare to enter, I take a deep breath to steady my racing nerves. There’s no turning back now. Whatever happens next, we’re committed to seeing this through.

Emerging from the hatch last, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the sub-basement. The air is thick with the scent of mildew and rust. Pipes snake along the low ceiling, their steady drip punctuating the stillness.

“Everyone okay?” Myall whispers, his eyes scanning our faces, lingering a moment too long on mine.

His hand brushes my arm, a silent reassurance lost in the damp air of the sub-basement. The concrete floor beneath us is gritty and unforgiving. Somewhere deep in the walls, the faint hum of machinery makes the silence unbearable.

I nod, swallowing hard. The gravity of our situation settles in, a heavy weight in my chest. We’re deep in enemy territory now and if we’re caught, we’re done for.

Liora’s voice trembles slightly. “It’s so… empty.” Her words float in the stagnant air, and for a moment, the emptiness seems to swallow us whole.

“That’s good,” Jarek mutters. “Empty means no guards.”

We gather in a tight circle, our breaths mingling in the stale air. I can feel the tension radiating from each of us, a palpable force in this confined space.

“Ziva,” Myall says, his tone steady despite the gravity of the moment. “You ready?”

I pat the pocket where my homemade device rests. “Don’t really have much of a choice.”

He nods, then addresses the group. “Alright, Ziva and I are heading to the lobby. The rest of you, stay put and keep comm silence unless absolutely necessary.”

As we prepare to leave, Tariq grabs my arm, pulling at the stiff fabric of my maintenance uniform. “Be careful up there,” he whispers, his coffee-colored eyes wide with concern.

Managing a smirk, I try to project more confidence than I feel. “We will.”

Myall and I move towards the stairwell, our footsteps echoing softly in the dampness of the sub-basement’s cement walls.

As we climb, it feels like I’m leaving part of myself behind with the others.

While Myall and I work on planting the device in the lobby, I know my mind will be split between the task at hand and worrying about the safety of the others.

“You okay?” Myall asks, his voice low yet still carrying in the cramped stairwell.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My mind lingers with all the ways this could go wrong, all the lives at stake if we fail. My heart is racing uncontrollably, causing me to become breathless as we continue our climb of the stairs.

After climbing up three flights of stairs, we finally reach a door with a small sign that reads ‘ground floor’. We come to a stop, knowing that once we open this door, there’s no going back.

Reaching for the metal door, I pause, my hand on the handle. “Myall,” I whisper, “if this all goes horribly wrong…”

I’ve never told him how much he means to me—how much I rely on him. That I need him. Want him. Now, when I need the words most, they won’t come.

He places his hand over mine, his touch warm and reassuring. “It won’t. You’ve got this, Ziva.”

“Right,” I murmur, steeling myself. “Let’s make this count.”