Page 82 of Fated in A Time of War

Then she turns on her heel and walks out, door hissing shut behind her like the last breath before drowning.

The silence after is worse.

But I don't cry. I don't scream. I don't beg.

I just breathe.

Because she's wrong.

Krall won't just come.

He’ll burn this ship to the deck plates and drag me out with his own hands.

And I’ll be ready.

The door hisses open again,quiet but unmistakable in the stillness.

Misha steps through without a word. Same dark armor, same ghost-pale scalp gleaming in the low light. Her steps are measured, calm—not lazy, not rushed. Like she’s walking into a room she already owns. Like everything inside it already belongs to her.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The weight of her silence is louder than any threats.

She stands just outside the cage—if that’s even what this is. More like a converted holding cell, retrofitted with Kru field-grade bars and electrified seams. Her eyes, pale and hard, runover me like I’m an equation she’s still deciding how to solve. Head tilted. Mouth unreadable.

I don’t speak either. There’s nothing to say to someone who’s waiting for a reason to hurt you.

Then she lifts something from her belt.

A stun rod.

Long, black, capped in copper forks at the end. She holds it like it’s a ritual tool. Not lazily. Not like a club. But like it means something.

With no warning, she jabs it against the bars. Sparks jump, blue and vicious. The crackle’s high and sharp, like someone twisting metal in their teeth. It flares against my face and I flinch, more from instinct than fear.

The room smells like burned metal and old sweat.

She says nothing. Doesn’t move.

I meet her eyes and hold them.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, quiet, but not meek. Just… plainspoken. Honest.

She doesn’t react—not visibly. But there’s the barest flicker. A twitch at the edge of one brow. A half-second narrowing of her eyes. Could be uncertainty. Could be annoyance. Maybe both.

Without a word, she turns and walks out.

No threats. No smirks. No parting cruelty.

Just silence.

The door hisses shut again. The hum returns. And I’m alone. Again.

I count the seconds. Slow. Deliberate. It’s not about time. It’s about staying grounded.

Sixty-two.

Sixty-three.

Sixty-four?—