Chapter 29 Saint
Saint
Consciousness comes back in pieces.
Cold concrete beneath my boots.
The taste of blood at the back of my throat.
A low mechanical hum somewhere nearby—steady, industrial. Machinery, maybe.
My head is pounding like I lost a fight with a truck.
I don’t open my eyes right away.
Rule one.
Never show them when you wake up.
My wrists are cuffed behind my back.
Metal digging into bone.
Chair.
Bolted to the floor.
Classic.
Someone wanted time.
I test the cuffs slowly.
Steel.
Heavy.
Industrial grade.
Not something picked up at a local hardware store.
Good.
That means she planned this.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
Heavy boots on concrete.
They stop a few feet away.
A door creaks open.
“Is he awake?” one of them asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” the other replies. “She wants him conscious.”
I open my eyes.
Bright lights overhead slam into my vision.
White.
Too bright.
The room smells like oil, metal, and disinfectant.
The kind of place where machines used to run twenty-four hours a day.
The kind of place where screams wouldn’t carry very far.
The men leave.
The door shuts.
The lock clicks.
I exhale slowly.
Okay.
Inventory.
Ribs.
At least one cracked.
Shoulder.
Angry, but movable.
Head.
Still pounding, but no double vision.
Good.
They didn’t torture me yet.
That’s also information.
This isn’t punishment.
This is preparation.
I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes for a second.
Laney flashes through my mind.
The way she looked when she held our daughter.
The way she watched me hold the baby like she couldn’t quite believe I belonged there.
My daughter’s tiny fingers gripping my shirt.
That little smile.
I don’t know if I’m getting out of here.
But I know one thing.
I am not dying in this chair.