Page 41 of Operation: Defiance

“There,” a man says, mildly. “That’s better.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and anchor myself there instead.

I think of Tessa.

Not her face. I won’t survive that.

Her hands. She was always holding something. A mug. A pen. The edge of a desk. Until she wasn’t. Until she was standing in an elevator, her hands completely empty, on her way…here?

The thought almost unravels me.

I force it away. I can’t afford to lose focus. I tell myself I’ll think about her when I’m out. When I can act. Then start counting my breaths again.

The cold worsens in waves, coming and going in a rhythm I can’t place.

Maybe at night. The hood never comes off, so I can’t be sure. But I cling to the logic of it anyway because without structure, my thoughts will simply float away.

The ache in my feet is constant now.

I press my heels together for warmth and immediately regret it. Fingers compress a nerve at my ankle. Not hard enough to cause pain, but enough to remind me they can.

I start planning.

Not for escape. They’re too careful with the restraints to give me an opening.

For release.

They want compliance. Predictability. Language alignment. Answers that land within acceptable parameters.

I adapt—replying quicker, mirroring their phrasing, and keeping my reactions tightly controlled. When they cause me pain, I breathe through it and recover as quickly as I can.

They notice.

I know because the timing changes.

Corrections come faster with less time in between. They don’t wait for me to settle—to return to whatever baseline they recorded—before moving on.

Once, when I steady myself too quickly, the touch lands on my shoulder.

Right where it still aches from the dislocation.

I gasp without thinking about the consequences.

“Easy,” a voice murmurs. “We’re just helping.”

Something shifts inside me. It’s small at first. A single thought I can force away. But then it returns. The pattern clarifies, and understanding cuts through the haze of pain.

All those agents who disappeared from the duty rosters. Mostly women. A few men. I thought they’d been reassigned. That someone had mishandled paperwork. Or that there was an explanation I simply hadn’t seen yet.

I never considered this.

Did GSD send them all here? To a place with chairs bolted to the floor and hoods that smell like someone else’s pain and evaluations that never end?

And if they did…what does that mean for me?

I don’t know how this ends. But if I get out of here, I won’t be quiet. I won’t be forgiving.

I won’t let them erase another woman and call it care.