Misty's head knocked softly against the reinforced glass as the transport jolted forward, the cuffs biting into her wrists with every movement. Her pale blue eyes, once bright, looked hollow now, framed by lashes bare of mascara, skin sallow under the harsh fluorescent strip above her.
Her hair, a once‑perfect crown of platinum, had grown out in uneven layers, dull at the roots, the ends tinged yellow where the treatments had failed. Strands clung to her cheek, limp and unwashed, swaying with every turn the car took.
Outside the window, the military‑grade convoy moved in precise formation. Four guards, rifles slung, their armored vests catching the noon light as they flanked the car. Two more ahead on motorbikes, scanning the road. Misty watched them through the tinted glass, her breath shallow, her body stiff with restrained fury.
