Page 24 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Nine

Time stops behaving the way I expect. Without light or sound, it becomes impossible to hold onto.

At first, I try to measure it. I count breaths. Track muscle fatigue. I notice the slow burn in my shoulder as inflammation sets in.

But the markers don’t line up.

My calves start trembling before I think they should. The ache in my ribs deepens too quickly, eases, then flares again. I’m thirsty, but I don’t know how long that’s been true.

Cold air hits my forearms, then vanishes. Returns somewhere else. My throat tightens as my breathing shifts without my permission.

The ventilation isn’t steady anymore. It reaches me in waves. Gentle. Then harsh. From behind. Then somewhere to my left. I can’t angle away from it. I can’t block it with my shoulders. It’s like sandpaper over my skin—rough and abrasive, destabilizing in a way I can’t correct for.

I keep still, because stillness costs less.

Eventually, they return. Two of them, from the sound of their footsteps.

They don’t rush or speak. One loosens my restraints just enough to shift my position, easing the pull on my ribs while tightening it at my shoulder. I swallow the gasp that wants to break free.

The hood lifts a fraction. Not enough to see, but enough to let air rush in across my mouth and nose.

Fingers dig into my jaw, and something presses to my lips. I clamp them shut without thinking. A man snaps, “Food,” then tightens his grip until tears gather in my eyes. I open my mouth a fraction, and a hard plastic straw hits my teeth.

The smell registers first, sweet and chemical in a way that doesn’t match any definition of the word food. A second later, thick liquid floods my mouth.

Understanding comes too late. They didn’t explain how I’d eat because that would have given me time to prepare. To refuse. They didn’t want me bracing for this. Bracing is resistance.

I choke, panic flaring as my body rejects the texture, the temperature, the wrongness of it. My throat spasms. My stomach heaves. Every reflex screams to gag, to pull back.

I override it.

Again.

And again.

Mechanics take over. Angle my chin. Breathe through my nose. Swallow cleanly. Don’t aspirate. Don’t give them a reason to step in and do this for me.

The tube is pulled away without warning. No comment. No confirmation.

The hood drops back into place, the ties drawn close against my neck. Footsteps fade away and the door locks with a loud thunk.

Time slips again, not forward or back so much as out of reach.

I can’t orient by anything real.

The next time the door opens, I’m drifting, exhaustion setting in. Seconds later, the restraints change, my wrists brought in front and my ankles chained so tightly together that my body doesn’t understand how it’s meant to exist like this.

Hands guide me down to the floor and onto my back. The position is wrong immediately. Too open. My ribs flare with every breath. My chest feels exposed in a way I can’t mitigate, and panic takes over. I can’t get enough air. Sharp, quick gasps strain for oxygen and my heart stutters. I curl inward, desperate to shield myself.

“No moving!” a man barks out before the door slams shut.

I flinch, return to the position they put me in, and let the discomfort settle in layers. The strain of holding myself still when everything in me wants to move. The ache in my ribs with each uneven breath. The pressure of the hard concrete against my spine. Each sensation is harder to ignore than the last. I try to regulate, but fail over and over again. The cold is everywhere now.

First, I count my breaths. Then my heartbeats. Then nothing at all.

My thoughts slow. For a moment, I wonder if this is how people die. Not dramatically. Just…discarded and forgotten.

I drift in and out of something shallow and fragmented that might be sleep or might just be exhaustion masquerading as rest. At some point, I stop being aware of my own breath.