Chapter 27 Cal
Cal
Location: Underground Detention Site — Unknown Facility
Time: Unknown
Istopped counting days when the numbers started to sound like lies.
At first, I scratched marks into the stone with the edge of a broken nail. One for every cycle of light that never came. One for every time the guards opened the slot and shoved food through like I was an animal.
But there’s no sunrise here—no real night.
Just a strip of buzzing fluorescent misery beyond the bars, and the slow leak of time measured in pain.
My wrists are cuffed above my head, iron biting bone. My shoulders burn constantly—on fire, then numb, then on fire again. My feet barely touch the floor. Enough to keep me from dislocating completely. Not enough to let me rest.
They designed it that way.
The Warden.
That’s what they call him, like it’s a title and not a warning.
I’ve never seen his face. I’ve only heard his boots. Heard the way the guards get quieter when he’s near, like even breathing too loud might earn punishment.
I’ve heard other things, too.
Screams, sometimes—cut short. Not close enough to be real, not far enough to ignore. Like the facility wants you to believe you’re alone, even as it reminds you you’re not.
It’s a game.
A slow, deliberate dismantling.
And some part of me—some stubborn part that used to follow orders like religion—has refused to break.
Until the hallucinations start.
It begins with sound.
A faint radio crackle that isn’t there. Footsteps that stop when I stop breathing. The whisper of my name in a voice I loved trusting.
Cal… hold the line.
Lieutenant Pierce.
Ronan.
My throat tightens so hard it feels like it might tear. It’s been years. It has to be. It has to.
They told us he was dead.
They showed us a clip once—grainy, shaky footage of a helicopter burning against a mountain ridge, bodies blurred and indistinct. They didn’t have to say it.
We knew.
Ronan Pierce doesn’t go down easy… but everyone goes down eventually.
And Lena—
The journalist who got too close, who refused to stay behind, who stared danger in the face like it owed her answers. Ronan’s lady, whom he loved more than anything.
She was dead too in their story.
They made sure we swallowed it.
Because grief is a weapon.
If you believe your leader is gone, your mind starts making bargains.
You start thinking maybe you’ll talk. Maybe you’ll give them something—anything—to stop the ache.
I didn’t.
Not out of heroism.
Out of rage.
Because if Ronan were dead, then the world didn’t deserve my cooperation.
So I gave them nothing.
And they punished me for it.
The door in the corridor opens.
I flinch before I can stop myself. My muscles jerk, chains clink, and the motion sends lightning down my arms. The chains are released through the ceiling enough for me to fall to the cement floor. I go through this whenever they decide to feed me.
Footsteps approach.
Slow.
Measured.
The slot slides open.
A metal tray shoves through—thin soup and a chunk of bread that tastes like old paper.
No words. No eyes.
Just feeding the prisoner and walking away.
I exhale shakily, forcing myself to lower my feet enough to take a sliver of weight off my shoulders. My legs tremble—my vision swims.
I take a bite anyway.
Because surviving is the only rebellion left.
That’s when I hear it.
Not a guard. Not boots.
A voice.
Faint. Distorted. Like a transmission bleeding through concrete.
“…Ghostline… do you copy?”
My entire body locks.
My heart stutters so hard it hurts.
No.
No, that’s not real.
That’s my brain reaching for comfort like a dying man reaching for water.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forehead pressing to the chain that is wrapped around my wrist. My lips move without permission.
“Ronan…”
The corridor stays silent.
Then it happens again.
Stronger this time. Sharper. Realer.
“…repeat… Ghostline, come in…”
I suck in a breath so hard it burns.
Because I know that callsign.
Not from rumor.
From orders barked in the dark, from missions that never made the news, from a man who walked into hell and made the rest of us believe we’d live.
Ghostline was Ronan Pierce.
And if someone is calling for him…
Either I’m finally losing my mind—
Or Ronan Pierce is alive.
My pulse hammers.
I strain against the cuffs, pain ripping through my shoulders, but I don’t care. I lean toward the corridor like sound can save me.
“Who is that?” I rasp, voice shredded from disuse. “Who—”
Nothing.
Static.
Then the faintest breath of words:
“—not dead… find us…”
My chest caves in.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and humiliating. I swallow them down, jaw clenched so hard it shakes.
Don’t hope. Hope gets you killed in places like this.
But it’s too late.
Something has cracked open inside me—something I’ve been holding shut with sheer will.
A door.
A possibility.
And the facility feels different now. Not safer.
More dangerous.
Because if the Warden realizes a signal got through…
He’ll tighten the cage.
He’ll punish harder.
He’ll try to snuff out the spark before it becomes fire.
Footsteps return—fast this time, angry.
A guard’s voice barks in Russian.
The slot slams open.
A baton strikes the bars.
“Silence!” the guard snaps, like he heard something. Like he sensed something.
Like fear has finally reached them.
I lift my head.
My wrists scream—my vision blurs.
But I stare straight into the darkness beyond the bars and force the words out of my ruined throat.
“Ronan Pierce isn’t dead.”
The guard pauses.
Just for half a second.
And that’s all I need to know.
They heard it too.
The guard curses, shoves the tray back out, and storms away down the corridor, barking into a radio.
I sag against the chains, panting, pain roaring through me.
But beneath it—
Beneath everything—
Something else rises.
Not comfort.
Not relief.
A promise.
If Ronan is alive…
He’s coming.
And when he does?
This dungeon won’t be a grave.
It’ll be a killing field. He will kill everyone who did this to his men.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel myself breaking.
I feel myself sharpening.
Waiting.
Ready.