Page 113 of Operation: Defiance

They took time first. Sequence. Day and night. Light and dark.

There was nothing but the hood. The restraints. The chair. The floor. Shattered minutes of sleep that wasn’t sleep, punctuated by food that wasn’t food, touch that was nothing but pain.

When stopped meaning anything. There was only again.

My fingers curl tighter in the blanket. The tremor spreads up my forearms. I try to catalog what I remember, and hit the same blank wall.

I don’t want to know.

I have to know.

My throat tightens. I force the words out anyway.

“How long?” I ask. The question feels like glass on my tongue. “Give me the number.”

He lowers his gaze for a single beat, jaw locking hard enough that the muscle jumps, then looks back at me.

“Eight days. Almost exactly. You arrived at 1800 hours last Wednesday. I got you into the car at 1652 yesterday. Today⁠—”

“Is Thursday?” I whisper.

“Yes.” After a beat, he blows out a breath. “Raine? For the record you’re building, what matters most is you. Not the number. You.”

I focus on the blanket. The weight of it over my legs. The socks. My toes curled safely in cotton instead of freezing against cold concrete.

“Okay.” The word wavers, but I fight my way through it. “We start with pictures. Then notes. I’ll say what I remember. You can…help me fill in the holes later.”

“Okay. But…not right this second.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“Because you’re shaking,” he says. “And we’ll get further if we don’t start on an adrenaline spike.”

I look down. He’s right. My hands are trembling harder than I realized.

“Fifteen minutes,” he suggests. “I can make you something warm to drink. Tea. Or more electrolytes. I’ve got crackers. A banana. Or we can just sit here and breathe and pretend we’re not about to catalog war crimes.”

A startled sound slips out of me. Not quite a laugh, but closer than any other reaction I’ve had in days.

“Tea,” I say. “And…crackers, I think.”

He stands slowly, telegraphing every movement. Hands open. Palms empty. “They’re plain, but they’re not half bad.”

I watch him cross to the door then head down the hall until he’s out of sight.

Eight days.

The number sits in the center of my chest. Too heavy. It hurts. But it gives all the blurred memories edges I can almost line up.

Water runs in the kitchenette. A cabinet opens. The soft clink of a mug. The music changes again, something slower and soothing.

Asher moves with care, not silence, leaving a trail of sound I can follow.

When he comes back, he sets a small tray on the nightstand.

Steam curls from a plain, white mug, and a matching plate holds four crackers and half a banana, sliced into bite-sized pieces.

“Is it okay if I sit on the edge of the bed?” he asks. “I’ll help you with the tea.”