Page 10 of Rage
First comes Valen. My half brother enters like he owns the room because men like him were raised to believe ownership is a birthright. Charcoal suit. Clean hands. Eyes cold enough to make violence look administrative. He looks at my restraints with aflicker of distaste, as if my being strapped down is a personal scheduling inconvenience.
“You look pathetic, Saint. Father would be disappointed.”
“Your father is a pussy,” I say, and the monitors begin beeping. “Say his name again, and I’ll eat your throat.”
“See?” Zero appears behind him, already plugging his tablet into the wall jack.
He’s all sharp angles, quick fingers, and terrible instincts disguised as confidence.
“Totally lucid. That’s our Saint,” Valen adds.
Garret leans in the doorframe, silent and armed, jacket hanging heavy with enough firepower to change the architecture of this floor. He doesn’t smile. Garret never does when he’s hoping someone gives him a reason.
Then the twins move in.
Dravin and Draven. Identical faces. Different damage. They glide into the room with that synchronized, predatory stillness that makes people forget there are two of them until it’s too late.
“Ready to walk?” Dravin asks, pulling a serrated blade from his belt. “Or are you enjoying the view from the mattress?”
“Get. Me. Out.”
The blade goes through the leather like paper.
“Azriel,” Valen says.
My youngest half brother steps out from behind Garret. He’s the only one in the room who looks like he genuinely doesn’t want to be here.
He hands me a duffel bag, knuckles pale. “Put these on. We’ve got five minutes before the loop breaks.”
I sit up.
The room tilts.
I grab Valen’s jacket to anchor myself, and he lets me. His eyes go to ice, but his body holds still.
“Careful,” he says. “I’m the only reason they haven’t lobotomized you.”
“And I’m the only reason you’re still breathing. You need a monster? Here I am.”
I dress quickly in black tactical pants, a thick black hoodie, and boots.
When I catch my reflection in the metal above the sink, I look exactly like what I am: a ghost haunting its own body. Pupils blown wide. Years of broken sleep hollowed around my eyes.
We move through the hallway in formation, me at the center, the others a shell around me.
An orderly rounds the corner carrying a medication tray.
He freezes.
Draven has him against the wall before the tray hits the floor, and pills scatter across the linoleum in cheerful primary colors. “Not a sound. We’re just taking our friend for some air.”
The orderly nods.
I step on a blue pill on my way past. No more pills.
We hit the stairwell, and I start to feel it. The adrenaline winning, the antipsychotics fully routed, my heart a sledgehammer against my ribs.
By the time we burst through the fire door into the cold night air, I’m not just awake.
