Page 63

She nods, satisfied.

In the dark, I hear the echo of Maven’s voice: “You’re the only one who can read the map.”

I wonder, not for the first time, if this is all by design.

The lights go out, plunging the cell into a blue-black void.

For the next hour, I don’t move. I listen to the patterns of violence and breath, the slow, inexorable pulse of Authority’s perfect machine.

I am meat, here.

But I’m not finished yet.

The next morning, the cell door opens with a shriek like an animal dying. Two guards stand in the hall, visors opaque, Authority insignias smeared with dried rain.

Behind them is Kang.

He doesn’t look at me, at first. Just signals with a jerk of the head. “Move,” he says, voice flat. The guards peel away, giving us a two-meter cushion as I walk the corridor. My wrists are cuffed again, this time with reinforced poly-carb bands that cut in deeper than the last set. I flex my hands until the blood returns.

Kang leads the way, boots scraping against the worn-out concrete, always two steps ahead. His hair is shorter now, the Authority regulation cut, but a pale streak runs through the right side like a bad memory. His tattoo flashes green under the overheads, the color of broken promise.

At the turn, Petrov waits.

He stands with his back to the wall, hands folded behind him, as if he’s been here since last night. His uniform is crisp, but the lines in his face are deeper, the eyes more bloodshot than ever. He looks at me like I’m a half-dissected animal he’s about to discard.

“Doctor,” he says. “Or is it just prisoner now?”

I meet his gaze, refusing to blink. “Still a doctor. Even in here.”

Petrov grins, not kindly. “That will make you very popular with the block. We have a shortage of real talent in D wing.” He glances at Kang. “You did well to convince them not to execute her. I hope she makes your investment worthwhile.”

He steps in close. I expect the slap, but he just stares. His breath is stale, coffee and defeat.

“Don’t get clever,” he hisses. “You may have survived Protocol, but this place eats the clever alive. If you try to outsmart me again, I’ll have the guards drag you down to Secure and run the damn Protocol until your brain leaks out your ears. Do you understand?”

He says it slow, like he’s savoring each syllable. There’s a violence in the words that’s almost sexual.

I nod, just enough to get him out of my face.

He straightens, turns to Kang. “Escort her to D14, then report to Processing. I want your full assessment by noon.”

Kang’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t reply. He just grabs my arm, steers me down the corridor. Petrov watches, predator eyes drilling into the back of my skull.

We walk in silence. The cell block is half-awake—prisoners mumbling, someone vomiting into a trash can, another weeping softly behind a locked gate. The guards walk their laps, but the routine is looser in the morning. Maybe they think no one’s awake enough to start trouble.

Kang stops at a door, punches in the code. It hisses open, and he shoves me inside. The cell is the same as before: bunk, sink, toilet, vent, but the mattress here is thinner, the walls grayer with old sweat.

He follows me in, closes the door, and just stands there.

I wait. He says nothing.

Then I can’t hold it anymore.

“Are you proud of yourself?” I say, voice low, urgent. “You saved me from a bullet just to hand me over to Petrov’s fuckhouse?”

He doesn’t flinch. “It’s safer in here.”

I laugh, ugly and sharp. “Safer? I saw a girl get her face smashed in with a food tray. I watched a guard break a guy’s ribs for talking back. This place is a fucking slaughterhouse.”