Page 81 of Fated in A Time of War

And they’re not the only ones here.

I hear someone exhale. Soft. Female.

I twist, biting down a groan as my shoulder grinds, and I see her.

Misha.

Leaning against a support beam, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s waiting for a dinner date to show. Her armor’s stripped down to its core plates—sleek, black with red accents, no insignia. That pale buzzcut glows faintly in the console light, and her eyes catch mine with the lazy focus of a cat eyeing a trapped bird.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches.

I turn back toward the ceiling, count my breaths, force the ache into a corner of my mind and startthinking.

There’s a vent near the ceiling, long and narrow, covered in mesh. Too small to crawl through, but big enough for sound and airflow. If I can get a tool, I might be able to pop it—send a signal, trip the inner workings, something. Below it, the wall paneling is loose. A crack in the corner where a bolt’s rusted through. Maybe pressure-sensitive. I file it away.

The guards don’t pace. Don’t twitch. But they shift—both of them—every twenty minutes or so. I count the rhythm of their weight as best I can. It's not perfect, but it’s something. One ofthem favors his left leg, limps slightly. That’s weakness. That’s a window.

There’s a faint ticking behind the bulkhead to my right. Not loud, not mechanical. More organic. Decay. Generator feed cycle maybe? Could be a fault in the coolant loop. If I can trigger an overload in the system…

My body screams, but I keep cataloging.

Every little thing.

Every moment.

Because that’s how you stay alive.

Because panic’s a luxury. And I can’t afford luxuries anymore.

I think about Krall. About the way he looked at me during the firefight—not like I was a burden or a risk. Like I was something that mattered. Like the world could burn around us, and it would all still be worth it as long as we made it out together.

That look keeps me grounded. Keeps me here.

He’s out there.

He saw me. Saw me near the infirmary before the blast. If he’s breathing, he’s coming.

That thought is my armor.

I roll my shoulders again, hissing through clenched teeth. One of the guards glances at me. I meet his gaze, eyes cold. Daring him to make it worse. He doesn’t. He looks away.

Good.

Misha steps forward finally, the clink of her boots sharp in the stillness. She stops just in front of me, tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle someone half-solved and gave up on. Her voice, when it comes, is quieter than I expect.

“You don’t scream.”

I say nothing.

“You will.”

Still nothing.

She leans in, breath tickling the skin of my cheek. “You think he’s coming for you. I can see it in your eyes. That Vakutan with the soldier’s posture and the predator’s stare.”

I grit my teeth, not to keep from screaming—but to keep from saying something that’ll get me shot before I have a chance to escape.

She smiles, small and patient. “I hope he does. I want him to watch.”