Page 141 of Reaper Daddy

The bond pulses faintly.

Sharp.

Alive.

CHAPTER 23

KIMBERLY

The cell is a concrete rectangle with a ceiling low enough that I can touch it if I stand on the cot, lit by a recessed strip that flickers every few minutes like it’s thinking about dying just to spite me.

The walls sweat.

Not dramatically.

Not in cinematic rivulets.

Just a constant, quiet dampness that leaves my fingertips cold and gritty whenever I pace too close, the moisture carrying a faint mineral tang that coats the back of my throat and never quite goes away. The floor slopes slightly toward a drain in the corner that smells faintly of rust and old coolant, and the thin cot bolted to the wall creaks every time I shift my weight like it’s offended by my continued existence.

Somewhere beyond the concrete, machinery pounds in slow, distant rhythms.

Thud.

Pause.

Thud.

It’s either a pump system or part of the old transit infrastructure cycling through a load balance routine, and therepetition is just irregular enough to keep my nervous system from settling into anything resembling calm.

Good.

Calm is a liability.

I sit on the cot with my back against the wall, knees drawn up, my injured ribs wrapped tight in a strip of scavenged cloth torn from my shirt, and I listen.

Not passively.

Actively.

Aggressively.

I map this place the way I used to map dinner rush flow patterns back at the Grill: by sound, by rhythm, by interruption, by what changes when people think they’re not being watched.

Footsteps pass my door every nine to eleven minutes.

Not regular patrols.

Guard rotation.

Two different gaits.

One heavy, heel-first, sloppy with fatigue.

One lighter, more precise, trained.

The heavy one hums under his breath.

The trained one doesn’t make noise at all unless he wants to.