38. Leah
LEAH
Idon’t scream.
Not when they shove a bag over my head. Not when they wrench Clancy out of my arms. Not even when I hear him cry my name in that small, panicked voice he only uses when he’s truly scared.
I go still.
Like a trap resetting.
They think still means broken. They don’t know me.
I count steps as they drag me. Smell the antiseptic haze of recycled air. Hear the buzz of high-frequency lighting overhead. I catalog it all because it’s the only control I have—and control is survival.
The bag comes off.
They’re not subtle about it.
The light punches into my eyes like a weapon. I blink, hard. Focus.
Sterile room. Two chairs. One table. No windows. I see the vent grate in the corner. It’s rusted. That matters.
The handler sits across from me like we’re meeting for tea.
His smile is so polite it curdles in my gut.
“Miss Monroe,” he says. “Welcome back.”
I say nothing.
Not because I’m afraid, but because words are currency, and I’m not about to waste mine.
He taps a tablet.
“Your son is fine,” he says. “Cooperative. Quiet. Stronger than expected.”
I don’t breathe.
Because if I do, I’ll betray how much I want to tear out his throat with my teeth.
He tilts his head.
“You’ve taught him well. Very… controlled for a child that age.”
I let the silence stretch. Let it go taut like wire between us.
Finally, I say, “What do you want?”
He folds his hands.
“We want stability. You and Kalev are variables.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His smile doesn’t slip, but his eyes narrow. “Kalev failed to complete his assignment. That complicates things.”
“So kill me.”
That startles him.
Just a flicker, but it’s there.
He recovers fast. “Eventually, maybe. But you’re more useful as leverage. For now.”
I lean forward. “You touch my son, I will gut you with a plastic spoon.”
His brow lifts like I’ve amused him.
He stands.
“Rest,” he says. “This room is yours for now. We’ll speak again.”
When the door shuts, I don’t move.
Not for a long time.
Then, slowly, I scan.
Vent. Two screws missing.
Table: bolted.
Chair: foam-sealed. No tools.
Corners: no cameras I can see.
I check every tile in the floor. One wobbles slightly when I press it.
I mark it.
Then I sit.
Back straight. Breaths shallow.
And I wait.
The guards change every six hours. I clock them by boot tread and cadence. One walks heavy. One has a limp. The third hums tunelessly. He’s the weakest. Young. Nervous.
I ask for food once. Water twice.
They oblige with blank faces.
I thank them like I’m compliant.
Like I’m breaking.
Every time they come, I memorize something.
A badge color. A hand tattoo. The scrape of keycards.
Kalev once told me the trick wasn’t learning to fight. It was learning to notice.
“Notice fast enough, and you don’t need to fight.”
So I notice.
Everything.
I store it in a part of me that doesn’t feel. That doesn’t tremble when I hear Clancy’s voice down the hall. That doesn’t rage when they don’t let me see him.
Because if I break now, they win.
And I don’t break.
Not for them.
Not for anyone but Kalev.
On the fourth rotation, the handler comes back.
He doesn’t sit this time.
Just stands in the doorway, arms folded.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” he says.
“I’m colder than you expected,” I reply.
That gets me a real reaction. Not much. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He steps inside.
“You know, I used to believe Kalev was our greatest weapon. But now I wonder.”
I look up. Slowly.
“Wonder what?”
“If it wasn’t you all along.”
He steps closer.
I don’t flinch.
He circles the table, slow.
“Kalev used to be brutal. Efficient. Predictable in his loyalty. But the minute we took you, the minute your name came up in the debrief, he started slipping.”
I say nothing.
Because it’s the only thing that keeps me from spitting in his face.
“You’re leverage,” he says, low and calm. “But you’re also a fracture point. A woman like you could make a man like him forget what he was made for.”
He leans down.
Face level.
Close enough I can smell the synthetic soap on his collar, the mint from the lozenge he keeps tucked under his tongue.
“And that,” he says softly, “is a weakness we can’t allow to exist much longer.”
He straightens. Walks out.
I don’t watch him go.
I count the seconds after the door clicks shut.
Thirty-eight this time before the lock engages.
I file that away.
My hands curl into fists under the table.
Not because I’m afraid.
Because I am done being underestimated.
I don’t hear the first kill.
I feel it.
Like a shift in air pressure. Like gravity changes direction for a second, then rights itself violently. The guards outside my door fall silent. No scuffle, no warning.
Just silence.
That’s worse than noise.
I rise from the cot in the corner, fists clenched, heart slamming against my ribs.
Then the door opens.
And Kalev walks through like he’s been summoned by something more primal than thought.
He’s bleeding.
Not his blood.
His expression is stone. Eyes black as void, set in a face that doesn’t blink. He moves like inevitability—smooth, clean, controlled.
Behind him, the hallway looks like the aftermath of a god’s temper.
He stops in front of me. Reaches out. Hands like anchors, steady and unshaking, settle on my shoulders. His fingers dig in just enough to remind me I’m real. That this is real.
“You alright?” he asks.
My throat locks.
I nod once.
He pulls me in without hesitation.
For one breathless second, everything disappears. The room. The fear. The blood. I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of sweat and gun oil and something older—something that smells like safety.
When we break apart, his voice is rough. “Where’s Clancy?”
“They separated us. North wing, I think. I haven’t seen him.”
He nods once.
And then he’s moving.
Fast.
Efficient.
I trail him down the corridor, feet slipping a little on the tile. The bodies are everywhere—unconscious or dead, I don’t ask. Kalev doesn’t pause to explain. He just moves.
We find Clancy in a medical room, strapped to a scan table.
He looks up when we enter, wide-eyed.
“Mama!”
I run to him, hands shaking as I undo the restraints.
He throws himself into my arms with a sob that breaks me in half.
Kalev crouches beside us, brushing Clancy’s curls back from his face.
“You alright, little warrior?” he asks softly.
Clancy nods. “They tried to take my blood. I didn’t cry.”
“I know,” Kalev says. “You’re stronger than they’ll ever be.”
Clancy leans into him like he knows it’s true.
And I watch them—father and son—and something inside me that’s been brittle for years starts to mend.
We don’t have long.
Kalev rises. “Extraction’s five minutes out. We move now.”
“Extraction?” I echo.
He doesn’t answer.
Just hands me a datachip and a small black device.
“Press this if we’re separated. It’ll lead you to the fallback. Chip’s our backup plan.”
I nod, tucking both into my pocket.
We follow him through halls that look less like a prison now and more like a battlefield. The lighting flickers. Doors hang off hinges. Sirens whine distantly, like they’ve already given up.
As we reach the main courtyard, I see it—ships lifting off from nearby pads.
But it’s not reinforcements.
It’s retreat.
The Alliance isn’t doubling down.
They’re pulling out.
“What did you do?” I ask, voice cracking.
Kalev doesn’t look at me. Just scans the perimeter.
“I burned their chain of command,” he says. “Everything Dowron buried—I unearthed it. Civilian kills. Proxy blacksites. Genetic experiments. It’s all public now. The Alliance is bleeding credibility faster than they can cauterize.”
I stare at him.
“You didn’t just come for us.”
“No,” he says quietly. “I came to end the war.”
The air shifts again.
A rupture in the world.
Not from violence this time.
From change.
From something bigger than escape.
We board the evac transport minutes later.
Clancy is quiet, curled against me, eyes still too wide. Kalev watches the horizon as the base shrinks behind us.
Below us, I see the ripple effect of collapse—troops scattering, comm towers dark, command units severed from central intelligence.
“What happens now?” I ask, voice barely audible.
Kalev doesn’t look at me.
“Now,” he says, “we stop running.”