Page 29 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2

“What happened three months ago?” I ask. “Major events, personnel changes, new equipment installations?”

The room falls silent as everyone searches their memory.

“The Kazakhstan extraction,” Ethan says finally. “That was three months ago.”

TEN

False Hope

ALLY

Fourteen hours.

That’s how long I’ve been staring at screens, building simulations, fighting against my own mind. My fingers twitch over the keys, muscles locking tight from hours of stillness. The tendons in my shoulders tug like overstretched cables, aching with every breath. Blinking does nothing—grit scratches across my eyes like ground glass. Overhead, the lights strobe just enough to twist the inside of my skull, each flicker a nail hammered behind my eyes. I press my palms to my temples, as if outward pressure can keep my head from splitting open.

The work itself is the real torture. Every line of code I write brings Malfor’s system closer to functionality. Every problem I solve moves the quantum entanglement network toward viability.

I deliberately introduce subtle flaws—mathematical inconsistencies that will cause cascading failures—but can’t risk making them too obvious. Malfor’s other scientists might not understand quantum physics at my level, but they’re still brilliant.

And just as trapped.

Guards change shifts.

Dr. Rafeeq brings me lukewarm tea that tastes faintly of metal. Dr. Elkin nods at my progress, his collar gleaming under the harsh lights. No one speaks beyond necessary technical exchanges. The unspoken hangs between us—we’re all building something that could destroy millions of lives, and none of us have a choice.

When they finally march me back to the cellblock, my body moves on autopilot. The rhythm of boots against concrete, the distant crash of waves against the island’s shore. A curious hollowness has replaced fear, as though my emotions have retreated somewhere beyond the collar’s reach.

The first thing I notice when they unlock my cell door is Rebel’s arm.

It’s been properly set. Professional splint, actual medical gauze, and even the swelling is reduced. Her color has improved from death-gray to merely exhausted. She catches my eye across the cellblock and raises her good hand in a tiny gesture of acknowledgment.

The door locks behind me with that same magnetic thunk. My knees give out, dumping me onto the thin mattress. The cellblock remains silent for several minutes as we all listen for departing footsteps, for any sign the guards remain within earshot.

“You look like shit.” Rebel’s voice drifts across the space between us, rough with pain but alert.

“Better than you.” The words scrape my throat raw.

“Debatable.” Her laughter turns into a wince. “At least I got the good drugs.”

Before I can respond, boot heels tap their deliberate rhythm down the corridor. Not guards—they shuffle and stomp. This measured cadence belongs to only one person.

Malfor appears before my cell, hands clasped behind his back, satisfaction radiating from him like heat.

“Productive day, Miss Collins?” His smile never reaches his eyes.

My silence only broadens his smile.

“I see you’ve noticed your friend’s medical care.” He gestures toward Rebel. “Quality work results in professional attention for your friend. Even appropriate pain management.” His voice shifts into that same condescending tone. “See how this works? You perform well, they benefit. Simple positive reinforcement.”

“What do you want?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“To show you something. A little—motivationfor tomorrow’s work.”

He produces a tablet from his jacket pocket, taps the screen, and holds it up so we can all see. The image resolves into a familiar space—The Guardian Grind café at Guardian HRS headquarters. The footage is real time, high-definition. I recognize Mitzy hunched over her laptop in the corner booth, her signature pixie cut and psychedelic hair. Two Guardian operatives I don’t know well, Brady and Booker from Bravo team, stand at the counter ordering coffee.

“How…” The word dies in my throat.

“How am I watching your friends in real time?” Malfor’s smile widens. “You brought me inside, of course. You, Malia, and her brother. Kazakhstan was not atotalloss. The Guardians rescued you, as planned, and you gave me an incredible opportunity.”