Chapter Seven
The van doesn’t stop for a long time.
Long enough for the vibration of the engine to sink into my bones and the pain in my ribs to dull into something heavier. Meaner.
At first, I count the seconds between turns, track the shifts in speed, and the grade of the road, building a map the way I was trained to.
My injuries keep interrupting, stealing my focus so I lose the thread and have to start over again. We hit a pothole, and my vision collapses inward. It’s not worth trying again. The effort costs more than the information is worth.
When the van finally slows, we could be anywhere.
The doors open, and air rushes in, cold enough to burn my lungs.
An older man grips my arm and pulls me forward. “Step down.”
Gravel crunches under my shoes. My gaze sweeps automatically, searching for edges, landmarks, exits—but we’re moving too fast. I register a harsh glow cutting through the night, industrial concrete, and the sour tang of oil.
Then a hood drops over my head.
The world simply…disappears into total darkness.
My pulse spikes.
The fabric presses close to my face, damp with the faded smell of detergent and the pungent odor of old sweat.
Reused.
Stiff from someone else’s fear.
Seams press against my nose, my lips, and my neck, the sensation scraping my nerves raw.
Hands guide me forward, pressure landing at my elbow and shoulder. They adjust automatically around the dislocation, compensating before my body can.
A door shuts behind us.
The air changes. Filtered. Warmer. Almost thick under the hood. My lungs don’t think they’re getting enough oxygen, and they try to compensate with deeper breaths, but my ribs lock in protest.
The bottom drops out of the floor for a moment. An elevator. We’re going down. I count twelve seconds before we move again.
Without sight, my sense of distance collapses inward. I start tracking my steps anyway. Ten. Fifteen. At twenty-six, we turn. I almost miss it until my shoulder is redirected. Then we stop.
“Stand still for intake,” a calm voice says.
They don’t rush the pat-down.
Hands sweep from my shoulders to my arms, along my ribs, over my hips and thighs. Fingers press at specific points, deliberate enough that my breath catches despite my control.
My eyes strain uselessly beneath the hood, my brain reaching for a frame of reference that isn’t there.
With vision gone, everything else rushes forward to fill the gap.
The rough drag of fabric against my cheek.
The way my bra strap bites into my injured shoulder.
The sharp, chemical edge of someone’s cologne that burns my nose.
Someone lifts my bound wrists. Pain flares down my arm, but I’m braced for it. I keep my breathing even.
Fabric tears, the sound too loud in the small space. Cool air brushes the back of my neck. Two more rips, and the skin on my arms prickles as my jacket is pulled free and dropped behind me.
My shirt is next. Cut straight down the front, then at each shoulder.
Breathe. Focus.
I press my thumbs together until I can feel my pulse.
Scissors bite through my bra straps. Metal scrapes briefly over my sternum.
I flinch. My eyes sting beneath the hood.
My nervous system lights up all at once, heat and static racing under my skin.
There’s no commentary. No lingering. No attempt at humiliation. Just removal.
My pants and underwear are next. Cold air hits my thighs, and I fight the urge to curl inward. If I tried, the restraints would stop me anyway.
Hands wrap around my hips to steady me. Someone lifts my left foot, then my right, stripping away shoes and socks, leaving me standing on a cold, concrete floor.
The pat-down starts again. A gloved hand at my ribs. Pressure where the swelling has begun. Not enough to hurt. Enough to assess.
They take my ring. Reach under the hood and remove the tiny gold hoops from my ears.
The grip on my wrists loosens.
“Don’t move,” a man says from in front of me.
The restraints unlock.
I don’t fight.
I’m blind. Injured. Outnumbered. Any move I make would end quickly, and not in my favor.
Compliance keeps this contained.
Survive first.
Assess second.
Act third.
The words surface without effort. Old training. Still intact.
My arms drop heavily to my sides. Pins and needles flood my fingers. I sway, just slightly. Someone catches me again.
“Put this on.”
Thin fabric is pressed into my hands. It takes a second to register what it is. A shirt. Lightweight and rough, like it’s been washed with too much detergent.
I lift it carefully, clumsy without sight, the hood turning each breath into a shallow negotiation. The fabric smells faintly of storage. Old. Stale. When I raise my arm too high, pain flares through my shoulder, sharp enough to blank everything else out for a beat.
I adjust. Smaller movements. Slower. I thread one arm, then the other, keeping them tight to my body. The fabric rasps as it slides over my skin, seams dragging, catching where sweat hasn’t dried yet.
Every contact point registers at once. The sensation is wrong in a way that’s almost instantly destabilizing.
“Now this.”
Pants. The same material. Elastic waistband. No ties. No weight to them at all—like they aren’t meant to belong to anyone for very long.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet. The chill works its way through my soles and into my calves, patient and invasive, stealing warmth faster than I can generate it.
I step into the pants without bending more than necessary, bracing through my ribs as I pull them up.
“Shoes?” I ask.
The word comes out hoarse. Smaller than I expect.
“No.”
Hands pin my arms behind me. Metal closes around my wrists, heavier this time. Then my ankles.
A chain drops and strikes the floor. The sound rings too loudly in the small space, harsh enough to make my shoulders twitch before I can stop them.
They guide me forward. The chain is long enough to shuffle, short enough to make anything faster impossible.
My gait is wrong. Every shift of weight pulls at my shoulder, sending a ripple of pain down my side.
I compensate, instinctively. But every correction costs me something new.
The walk feels long. Endless. Or maybe it isn’t. Under the hood, distance loses its edges.
I stumble. Hit the wall before they yank on my arm to correct my trajectory. The second misstep is worse. My knee buckles, but I catch myself before I go down.
We stop abruptly, and I’m maneuvered until my back is pressed against a wall. Cold bleeds through the thin fabric, leaching the heat from my body.
“Don’t move.”
The hood is yanked away, snagging strands of my hair. I hiss as light slams into my eyes.
Too bright.
I squeeze them shut on instinct, then force them open again. I need information. Layout. Exits. How many people are in the room.
The space resolves in fragments. Concrete walls. A single bench bolted to the floor. No windows. A drain in one corner. A camera in another.
By the time my vision settles, the door is already closing. The lock engages with a dull, heavy sound that travels through the wall and into my spine.
I’m alone. Restrained. Watched.
The scrubs are too thin for this room. Too little barrier between me and the cold. My shoulder has begun to swell visibly now, heat trapped beneath the fabric.
Hot and cold compete for space. Neither wins.
“Don’t move.”
Did he mean don’t move at all? Or just long enough for them to leave?
My vision starts to dim at the edges. The pain is building faster than I can regulate it.
I have to decide.
Sit, or fall.
Falling would cost more.
I lower myself onto the bench an inch at a time, moving slowly enough to keep the pain just below the point where it takes over. When I finally sit, I let my head tip forward for one breath. Just one.
They haven’t told me anything. No accusations, no questions, just…silence.
That’s the worst part.
My hands tremble behind me. I press them together as best I can and rock forward, then back. Once. Enough to keep myself from drifting.
You’re here.
You’re conscious.
You will survive this.
I catalog what remains steady. The low hum of the ventilation system. The faint mechanical whir of the camera. The rough scrape of fabric against my skin when I shift.
Time blurs.
Long enough for the cold to stop biting and start settling in. Long enough for my calves to tremble when I shift my feet. Long enough for the room to stop feeling temporary.
Shock drains away in pieces, leaving something heavier in its place. I don’t name it. Naming it gives it power.
When the door opens again, I lift my head. My neck protests. My eyes lag behind the movement.
Whatever happens next, it isn’t time to fight.
Not yet.
First, I need to understand the rules.