I was lodged in the enemy's very heart—solitary confinement, maybe the torture wing itself—face-to-face with the foulest, filthiest man I'd ever met, and he expected me to co-operate?
Tell him everything so he could "kindly" grant me an easy death?
Was he really that stupid?
I can't wait to see his face when he finally discovers he's been the one on my board the whole time—when he realises how far I've already pushed the plan without him even noticing.
I gave him a thin, bloody smile.
"Nice offer, but believe me—I don't kn—"
His fist—still holding the cloth—smashed into my cheek. The chair and I toppled sideways, metal skidding.
Copper flooded my mouth. My ribs flared. Breath stalled, then came back as a rasping cough.
He slammed his boot down on my toes and roared:
"You'll give me that code, you hear me?"
All I thought was: Ashur's still here.
That whole "sending him to Russia" line? Just bait.
If Ashur were gone, they'd kill me outright—not chase codes.
My finger snapped beneath his heel. Agony tore through me.
Each breath wanted to scream—I didn't let it.
He only shouted louder:
"You'll spit it out!"
"I… I know nothing!" I growled.
He raked his hair, yanked his foot away. I spat blood.
He was a storm, hell-bent on wrecking everything in reach.
He kicked my ribs until I wheezed, stood over me panting—then finally stormed out.
I was left with pain too many to count—
Toes. Ribs. Gut.
But I was still alive.
The last time I'd been in a dungeon like this was two years ago. North Korea—six months for espionage.
Aside from sewer rats and arctic damp, it had been almost regal: no torture. They knew I had influence.
On day 202, the cell door opened.
Instead of sludge soup, they slid in a scrap of paper—with a piece of yarn.
I read the colors:
— We'll come for you soon.
The Tailor's hand.
I wept—knees on frozen concrete, string raised to the dim bulb—
And days later, he and Steven kept their word.
They broke me out.
I heard footsteps but didn't flinch, kept my eyes shut.
Patrick's cologne gave him away—cheap spice and arrogance.
He bent to my ear; his hot, rancid breath scorched my temple.
I wanted to tear him apart, but stayed limp.
"Playing dead?" he sneered. "Never fooled me. First I unmasked your pretty friend—then you…"
His palm skimmed my cheek.
Fire raged inside me. Every bone ached—but my heart hurt worse.
Tears stung behind my closed lids.
"Can't believe you shot your own friend," he mocked. "Such a nice boy."
It felt like my bones cracked all over again—harder, deeper.
A lump jammed in my throat.
He withdrew his filthy hand.
"Lucky for you, Ashur isn't going to Russia. Means you'll live a little longer. Only live—until we make you wish we'd killed you tonight."
I ground my teeth.
He straightened. Footsteps retreated. The metal door slammed. Lock snapped shut.
Only then did I open my eyes, curling in on myself.
Hate was heavier than pain—deeper than grief.
I stared at my blood-smeared, broken nails, tightened my fist despite the agony, and hissed:
"I'll kill you. Even if I've got one day left in me… I'll still kill you."