Chapter 63 Lance Levine
Lance Levine
Location: Ascendancy Detention Wing
The camera hums.
I can hear it even over the ringing in my ears—the faint mechanical whine of something watching too closely. Too patiently.
They want a reaction.
Pain pulses in slow waves through my chest, each breath scraping like broken glass. The bandages are too tight. That’s on purpose. Keeps the ribs from shifting while they work you over. Keeps you alive longer.
Malenkov likes alive.
The guard steps back after the second strike, baton resting casually against his shoulder like this is a drill, not an execution rehearsal.
I keep my head up.
Not because it doesn’t hurt.
Because I know who’s watching.
The lens adjusts—zooms just enough to catch my face. The busted eye. The blood. The tremor I don’t bother hiding in my hands.
Good.
Let him see it all.
Let Ronan see I’m still here.
I don’t know where Jonah is. Don’t know if he made it. Don’t know if this is already over or just beginning.
Doesn’t matter.
Four years ago, Malenkov made a mistake.
He thought isolation would turn us inward.
He thought pain would make us selfish.
He thought fear would make us forget who we were.
Instead—
It gave us time.
Time to memorize routines.
Time to learn which guards flinch and which enjoy it too much.
Time to decide what we would never give him, no matter how hard he tried to carve it out of us.
The camera light blinks.
I look straight into it.
Not at Malenkov.
At Ronan.
He’ll read it right. He always does.
Don’t move yet.
Another prisoner groans beside me—low, involuntary. I feel the chair next to mine shift as the guard leans closer to him this time.
“Say something,” the guard mutters. “He wants to hear you.”
I smile.
It pulls at split skin and makes my vision blur, but I smile anyway.
Because Malenkov doesn’t understand silence.
Silence is discipline.
Silence is training.
Silence is a message.
I draw in a slow breath, ignoring the fire in my ribs, and speak just loud enough for the mic to catch it.
“You should’ve killed us.”
The room stills.
The guard stiffens.
Somewhere beyond the camera, Malenkov inhales sharply—just once.
I keep going.
“Because now,” I say, voice rough but steady, “you don’t own us.”
The baton slams into my shoulder. White-hot agony explodes down my arm. I grunt this time—I’m human—but I don’t bow my head.
I don’t break eye contact with the lens.
“Four years,” I force out. “That’s all you got.”
The guard hesitates.
That hesitation?
That’s fear.
And fear means Malenkov’s control is already slipping.
I lean back as far as the restraints allow, chest screaming, lungs burning, and give the camera one last look.
A promise.
Ronan Pierce will come.
Jonah Elliot is already free.
And when this place burns—
It won’t be because we begged.
It’ll be because we endured.
The camera cuts.
The silence that follows is heavier than the pain.
And for the first time in four years—
I know we’ve already won something Malenkov can never take back.