Captured in the crossfire

A story requested (I typically go off the comments of what people want to see, if not, you're just gonna get my wild imagination)

Side not if any of the names are bad let me know

The air tasted like battery acid and pulverized concrete. My ears were still ringing from the mortar strike that had flattened the command post, turning my squad, my brothers, and my protection into unrecognizable silhouettes against the smoking ruins.

I was huddled behind a collapsed concrete wall, my leg throbbing with a sickening, wet heat. A bullet had punched through the muscle of my thigh, and the sheer volume of blood soaking into my tactical pants was terrifying. Every twitch of my leg sent a jagged flare of white-hot agony straight to my spine.

I couldn't move. I couldn't flank. I could only listen to the crunch of tactical boots on shattered glass nearby. Multiple boots.

They were sweeping the area.

"Check the sector. Clear the bodies."

The voice wasn't one of ours. It was guttural, calm, and terrifyingly efficient.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my chest. I couldn't die here. Not like this. I forced myself to ignore the fire in my thigh to check my arm it was just a graze, but the skin was shredded and bleeding sluggishly. It was a distraction, a secondary wound, but the real threat was the arterial spray from my leg. If I didn't stop it, I'd be dead in minutes.

I clawed at the velcro of my mask, tearing it off and tossing it into the dirt. I needed air that didn't taste like cordite, and I needed my mouth free. My hands were shaking so violently I nearly dropped the tourniquet from my kit. I fumbled for it, my fingers slipping on the grit and blood.

God, please.

I gripped the tail of the tourniquet between my teeth, bracing myself against the wall. I pulled with everything I had, trying to drag the knot tight around my upper thigh, right above the wound. My jaw ached, my teeth straining under the tension, but the blood-slicked fabric kept slipping through my numb fingers.

"Movement near the barrier. Check for hostages."

Three shadows loomed over the top of the wall, cutting off the sliver of light I had left.

I tried to reach for my sidearm, but my hand hit the dirt, useless and limp my shooting arm useless. I tried to scramble, to crawl away, to hide in the shadows, but the movement was a mistake; it opened the wound wider. The world tilted violently on its axis.

"I think this one's still alive," one of them said.

I tried to turn, to lunge, to fight, but my body refused to obey. The terror spiked a frantic, suffocating need to get away, to survive until it was finally cut short by the crushing, inevitable weight of unconsciousness.

The first thing that hit me was the movement a jarring, rhythmic sway that made my stomach lurch. The second was the pain. It wasn't the dull, throbbing ache I'd faded out with; it was a sharpened, localized agony screaming from my thigh.

My eyes snapped open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I wasn't on the ground anymore. I was being hauled through the air, cradled in a brutal, iron-tight grip. Fireman's carry. My chest was pressed against a broad, solid back, my head lolling helplessly over a shoulder.

I didn't think; I just reacted. Pure, unadulterated panic.

I thrashed, my good leg kicking wildly, my hands clawing at the tactical vest of the man carrying me. "Get off me!" I shrieked, the sound raw and shredded.

I couldn't gain any leverage. My arm brushed against the fabric of his sleeve, and the sight of the patch the insignia of the enemy sucked the remaining air out of my lungs.

Not them.

I twisted, trying to throw my weight to the side, to fall, to crawl, to do anything but be carried deeper into their lines. My leg sparked with a level of pain that blurred my vision, but I didn't care. I shoved my palms against his shoulder, trying to push myself off, my nails digging into his gear.

"Stop struggling," a voice growled from beneath me. It wasn't the same man as before; this one sounded older, rougher.

I ignored him, my head spinning as I tried to regain my center. I looked down at my leg. A professional-grade tourniquet mine since replace had been cranked down hard almost too hard above the wound, the fabric biting deep into my skin. It was tight. Efficient.

My gaze shifted to my arm. The graze had been cleaned, bandaged with a stark, sterile dressing that stood out against the grime on my skin. They'd fixed me. They'd saved me.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Why...

I bucked again, a desperate, shuddering movement, but the man didn't even stumble. He just tightened his hold, his forearm locking under my knees with a suffocating, immovable grip.

"I said stay still," he warned, his voice vibrating through his chest and into my ribs.

I stopped moving, but not because I'd surrendered. My breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gulps. I scanned the perimeter, looking for a weapon, a rock, a way out, but there were two others flanking us, their rifles held in a low, ready position.

I was surrounded, injured, and completely at their mercy. I went rigid, my eyes darting toward the horizon, praying for a sign of my own unit, knowing with a sickening dread that I was never going to see them again. Prisoners of war were never saved... we didn't have the extra man power to waste.

The movement stopped as abruptly as it had begun. I was dumped not roughly, but with a firm, unsettling efficiency onto a narrow cot inside a cramped, dim building. The space smelled of stale tobacco and high-grade antiseptic.

"Check the perimeter. We're here," the man who'd carried me barked.

I scrambled to push myself up, my hands trembling as I tried to pivot onto my good leg. A mistake. A jagged bolt of lightning tore through my thigh, and I gasped, collapsing back onto the cot. My vision tunneled.

"Zackary! Get in here," another voice commanded.

I whipped my head toward the door, my breathing jagged and shallow. A man emerged from the shadows near a wall of flickering monitors. He wasn't armed like the others; he wore a headset pushed back from his ears, his eyes fixed on a screen. He stepped forward, his expression detached as he looked me over.

"Surveillance is clear," Zackary muttered, his voice clinical. He moved with a practiced, terrifying calm, his hands closing around my ankle to inspect the tourniquet.

"The way you tried to knot that fabric with your teeth? You would've bled out in five minutes." One of the others said.

I jerked my leg away, though it cost me a jagged sob of pain. "Don't touch me," I hissed, my voice cracking. I looked around the room, desperately cataloging the exits, the weapons, the sheer lack of space. It was a four-man unit. They were all here.

"She's awake, and she can give us the data and information we need," Zackary said, pulling a scalpel and antiseptic from a metal kit. He didn't even blink at my defiance. "Start the sedative drip. She's going to fight the stitches if we don't dull her edge."

"Wait—no," I scrambled back until my spine hit the cold, hard wall. My heart was slamming against my ribs, a trapped, frantic rhythm. "I'm not letting you touch me. I'm not—"

The man who had carried me stepped into my field of vision, blocking out the light. He leaned down, his shadow swallowing me whole. His eyes weren't just cold; they were possessive, tracing the pulse jumping in my throat.

"You're done fighting, soldier," he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble that made my skin crawl. "We're the only ones left in this sector. You're our problem now."

There was nowhere to go. My breath came in sharp, jagged hitches as I watched them close the distance.

"Get away from me!" I snarled, my hand instinctively reaching for a sidearm that had been stripped from me. "I'll kill you—every one of you. I swear to god!"

The man who had carried me didn't even flinch. He just stepped into my space, his presence massive and suffocating. Before I could scramble to the side, he pinned my wrists together with a speed that left me breathless. *Click. Click.* Cold, heavy steel bit into my skin. He shackled my hands to the iron frame of the cot with such brutal, practiced efficiency that I didn't even have time to fight back.

"She's fighting too much," the carrier growled, his hand pressing firmly against my shoulder to force me down. "Zackary, hurry."

"I'm working on it," the medic muttered, pulling a syringe from his kit. He stepped between my knees, his hands moving to my damaged thigh.

"If you touch me, I'll rip your throat out with my teeth when I get loose," I spat, my voice vibrating with raw, desperate fury. I thrashed against the restraints, the metal cuffs digging into my wrists, but they were immovable.

Zackary didn't look up. He moved with cold, clinical indifference, pressing a wipe over the entry wound. "You're in no position to be making threats, sweetheart. You're losing blood, and your leg is a disaster."

He injected the local anesthetic directly into the tissue around the bullet hole. The area went numb, a weird, detached pins-and-needles sensation that made my skin crawl. I grit my teeth, trying to focus on the pain rather than the helplessness of being held down by three men in enemy colors.

"You think this is a game?" I hissed, glaring up at the man standing over me. "My unit will hunt you down. You're dead the second they find this coordinate."

The man leaned down, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Your unit is gone. You're the only thing left of that squad." He reached out, his thumb brushing over the pulse point in my neck, a possessive, unsettling touch. "And you belong to us now."

Zackary moved to my arm, cleaning the ragged graze with agonizing, precise pressure. I let out a jagged cry, not from the pain, but from the sheer indignity of it. He injected more numbing agent into my bicep, then moved to his tray to pull out a needle and thread.

"Keep screaming," the medic said, his voice dropping into a flat, monotone drone as he prepared the first stitch. "It won't make us stop. It just makes the wait longer for the sedation to kick in."

I bucked my hips, fighting the restraints, my vision blurring with rage and adrenaline. "I'll see you all burn," I choked out, my body shaking with the effort of my hate.

"Keep talking," the carrier murmured, his hand tightening on my thigh to hold me still for the stitches. "We've got all night."

The sting of the final stitch was a dull, localized pressure, muted by the numbing agent, but the sensation of being held down was suffocating.

Zackary stepped back, tossing the blood-stained gauze into a metal bin with a hollow clatter. My thigh felt tight, pulled together by the sutures, and my arm throbbed with a dull, heavy ache.

I dragged in a breath, my chest heaving, and stared daggers at the medic before shifting my gaze to the man who was still looming over me. His weight was still pressed against the side of the cot, his hand resting near my hip not for support, but to remind me of who was in charge.

I forced my jaw to relax, hiding the tremor in my lips. I needed to sound dangerous, even if I was trapped.

"The work is done," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. I shifted my wrists against the cold steel, the chain clinking against the bed frame. I looked him dead in the eye, narrowing my gaze. "You can uncuff me now."

The man chuckled a low, dark sound that vibrated against the mattress. He didn't move. He didn't even look at the cuffs. Instead, he reached out, his knuckles brushing against my cheek, his touch calloused.

"You really haven't grasped the situation, have you?" he asked, his voice a silk-wrapped warning.

Zackary walked back over, dropping a heavy, clear bag of fluids onto the IV pole. He didn't even glance at me as he started the drip, his fingers quick and professional as he connected the line to a catheter in my vein.

"The cuffs aren't for the sutures," Zackary said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "They're for our peace of mind."

I tugged hard against the restraints, the metal digging into my raw skin. "I'm not your prisoner. I'm a soldier."

The man who had carried me leaned in closer, his shadow pinning me to the cot better than the steel ever could. "You're a casualty of war," he corrected, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And casualties don't get to dictate terms. The cuffs stay until we decide you're 'stable' enough to behave."

"Try me," I hissed, my pulse spiking.

He smiled, a slow, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, we will."

"She's still wearing the field gear," the man holding me down said, his gaze dropping to the blood-soaked, grime-streaked uniform that clung to my body. He shifted, his hand moving to the fastening of my tactical vest. "It's time to get her out of these bloody clothes before the infection risks spike."

My stomach dropped, followed immediately by a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. "Oh, hell no," I snapped, my voice cracking with renewed fight. I twisted away, the chains rattling violently against the frame. "Don't you dare touch me. I'm not some doll you can fucking strip down."

"It's not about modesty, soldier," a new voice chimed in. I whipped my head to the side. A tall, broad-shouldered man was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over a chest draped in the same enemy-colored fatigues. He had a rugged, young face, and he watched me with an unsettling, patient intensity. "It's about survival. You're shivering, and that blood is drying into your skin. You're not getting an infection."

"I don't care," I spat, my glare burning.

"Stetson, let her breathe for a second," the man who had carried me said, finally pulling his hand away from my shoulder. He stood up straight, his height imposing in the cramped room. "Though, he's right. You're going to be useless to anyone if you're septic."

He looked toward the man by the monitors. "Zackary, what's the status on her vitals?"

"Stable enough, but she's crashed on calories," Zackary replied, not taking his eyes off the screens. "She needs food, and she needs it now. If she doesn't get her blood sugar up, the crash is going to hit her twice as hard."

"I'm not eating anything you people give me," I hissed, though the mention of food made my stomach cramp with a hollow, nauseating hunger.

"Suit yourself," a third man stepped into the light, his movements fluid and relaxed, like a predator at rest. He looked the youngest of the group, with a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes. He tossed a ration pack onto the end of the cot. "But you're going to be here a while, and I'd rather you not pass out while we're trying to figure out what to do with you."

The man who had carried me stepped back, finally giving me a modicum of personal space. "I'm Finagen," he said, gesturing to himself. "The one leaning on the door is Stetson. The one who just gave you your dinner is Winston. And you've already met our medic, Zackary."

He walked over to the supply crate, pulling out a set of clean, oversized clothes. He turned back to me, his expression darkening into something possessive and firm.

"Now, the choice is yours," Finagen said, gesturing to the clothes in his hands. "You can let us help you out of those bloody rags, or we can cut them off you while you're restrained. Either way, you aren't spending another hour in that filth. We don't like our things to rot."

I stared at them four men, four different ways of exerting control. Winston was watching me with a smug, knowing smirk; Stetson looked like he was waiting for the inevitable; and Zackary was already preparing another syringe incase they needed to sedate me I suppose.

I was trapped in a room with four strangers who claimed to own me, and for the first time, I realized the handcuffs were the least of my problems.

I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that quickly dissolved into a cough. I stared at Finagen, my eyes burning with a mix of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated loathing.

"I'm cuffed, you morons," I spat, gesturing wildly toward the steel chains anchoring me to the cot. "And I don't want any of you creeps looking at me, let alone touching me. Have you seriously not thought this through? How exactly am I supposed to strip out of a tactical harness and soaked clothes while chained like a dog?"

Stetson let out a dry, humorless chuckle from the doorway, his eyes tracing the line of my throat with a lingering, predatory gaze. "She's got a point, Finagen. She's not exactly going to win a gymnastics competition while shackled to the frame."

"I'm doing it," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "You want me clean? Then unlock me. If you're as confident as you act, then take the cuffs off. Otherwise, this is just voyeurism, and I'll make sure you regret it."

Winston leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest, his smirk widening. "Regret it? You're in our sector, in our bed, and currently held together by our stitches. You're not in a position to threaten anything, let alone 'make us regret' our hospitality."

"Hospitality?" I hissed, my hands clenching into fists until my knuckles turned white. "You kidnapped a wounded soldier. This is a war crime, not a favor."

Zackary didn't even turn away from his monitors. He just adjusted his headset, his voice sounding entirely too detached. "It's not a war crime if we're the ones who decided who survives today. And right now, survival involves you getting out of those clothes. If you don't cooperate, we'll cut them off. It's that simple. We've seen plenty of blood, and we've seen plenty of skin. None of it is going to faze us."

Finagen stepped back toward the cot, his shadow swallowing the flickering light of the room. He didn't look angry; he looked amused, like he was watching a wild animal thrash against the inevitable.

"You think this is about you?" Finagen asked, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made the hair on my arms stand up. "You think we're here to watch you? We're here to keep you from dying of sepsis. But if you want to play the martyr, we can accommodate that."

He reached out, his hand hovering over the strap of my vest, his thumb brushing against my collarbone. It was a calculated, deliberate touch meant to remind me exactly how close he was, and how easily he could take whatever he wanted.

"I'll unlock you but the cuff stays on one of your wrist ," he murmured, his gaze locking onto mine with a terrifying, absolute intensity. "Just one. If you try to reach for a weapon, or if you try to hit one of us, I'll tighten them both until the steel cuts through your wrists to the bone. Are we clear?"

"Fine," I spat, my voice shaking with a mix of fury and raw, exposed vulnerability. "Unlock the wrist. But if you think I'm doing this for your benefit, you're delusional."

Finagen's eyes locked onto mine, his expression unreadable as he pulled a key from his belt. With a sharp, metallic click, the left cuff sprang open. My arm fell heavy to the mattress, the blood rushing back into my numb hand in a painful, stinging prickle.

Winston tossed a bundle of clean, dark clothes onto my lap. "Get on with it. We don't have all night."

I didn't answer. I peeled off my ruined tactical vest, the Velcro screaming as I tore it open. My shirt was a stiff, gore-soaked mess. I reached for the hem, pulling it over my head with a wince. My back was completely exposed to them for a split second, and as I shifted, the light caught the raised, jagged white lines of the government-issued whip marks crisscrossing my skin the permanent brand of 'compliance' my own side had carved into me.

The room went deathly silent.

I hauled the shirt down, heart hammering, and lunged for the clean pants. My movements were jerky, agonizing. Every time I tried to step into them, the motion pulled at the fresh stitches in my thigh. I leaned against the frame, my teeth gritted, a strangled whimper escaping my throat as the pain spiked. I was so exhausted, so humiliated, and so terrified that I could feel the hot, stinging prickle of tears threatening to spill.

I gripped the edge of the cot, my knuckles white, trying to shove my leg through the fabric, but I stumbled. I couldn't get the balance right.

Before I could hit the floor, a hand clamped onto my waist.

It was Finagen. He didn't ask; he simply moved in, his warm, solid weight bracing me. "Stop fighting it," he growled, though his touch was surprisingly steady as he gripped the waistband of the pants and helped guide them over my hips.

As he did, my shirt the one I'd barely pulled back on rode up again, once more exposing the raw, brutal history written in scars across my lower back. I felt him freeze. His hand lingered on my waist, his thumb tracing a line near the edge of the worst mark.

I shoved him back, grabbing the shirt and hauling it down with a violent, savage motion. I turned to face them, my face burning with a mixture of shame and white-hot rage.

"Now," I barked, my voice trembling but sharp enough to cut, "are you satisfied? Or do you need to take notes on the government's handiwork?"

Stetson leaned against the doorframe, his earlier indifference replaced by an intense, dark hunger as he looked at my back. "We see the marks, soldier," he said, his voice dropping into a low, predatory rumble. "And we see that they didn't break you. That just makes you much more interesting to keep."

I scrambled to pull on the clean, oversized shirt, my hands shaking hard I was trapped in a room with four strangers who claimed to own me, and the weight of their combined stares felt heavier than the chains.

"Are you going to be good?" Winston asked, his voice dripping with mock sweetness as he and the others gathered around the low coffee table just a few feet away. "We've got plenty of food. Why don't you join us? It's better than sitting there in the dark."

I glared at them, my knuckles white as I gripped the heavy, dangling cuff. "I'd rather eat literal garbage than share a meal with a pack of bottom-feeding kidnappers," I spat.

The air in the room went cold. Finagen didn't even blink. He reached out, his hand snapping over my wrist with terrifying speed, and locked the dangling cuff onto the iron frame of the cot. One arm free.

I was tethered again, forced to the corner of the bed.

"Suit yourself," Stetson said, his tone turning icy.

Zackary walked to the foot of the bed grabbing the ration dropping it onto the mattress near my face. "Eat then. Or don't. It doesn't change the fact that you're ours."

The four of them settled onto the floor around the coffee table, so close I could hear the scrape of their forks against their metal tins. The scent of hot, seasoned meat and fresh bread wafted toward me, thick and intoxicating.

My body failed me. A violent, hollow growl tore through the silence of the room, so loud and desperate that it seemed to vibrate against the frame I was chained to.

Winston leaned back, his chair creaking as he turned to look at me, a smug, amused expression on his face. "Sounds like your superiors didn't think much of their 'asset,' did they? You're skin and bone, soldier."

I looked down at the gray, unappealing sludge in my own tin, my hands trembling as I forced myself to eat. I kept my head down, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a look, even as the sound of their dinner filled the room, making my mouth water with a hunger that felt like a betrayal.

The air in the room was suffocating, thick with the smell of their hot meal and the metallic tang of my own fear. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest, a bone-deep lethargy that clawed at my senses. The adrenaline that had fueled my defiance since the mortar strike was finally receding, leaving behind a hollow, trembling exhaustion.

My vision began to strobe, the four of them by the coffee table blurring into dark, indistinct shapes. I felt my head drooping, my chin hitting my chest before I jerked it back up with a gasping breath.

Stay awake. Do not give them the satisfaction.

I jammed the spoon into the ration tin, my hand shaking so violently I nearly tipped the contents onto the floor. I forced the cold, bland sludge into my mouth, chewing slowly just to keep my jaw moving, to keep my brain engaged. The stitches in my thigh burned with a dull, rhythmic throb that pulsed in time with my flagging heartbeat.

"You're crashing," Finagen's voice drifted over, sounding both distant and uncomfortably close.

I didn't answer. I couldn't afford the air. Instead, I shifted my weight, deliberately grinding the heel of my foot into the metal frame of the cot. The sharp, jabbing pain served as my anchor, dragging me back from the soft, dark pull of unconsciousness. I used the cold iron of the handcuff to pinch the skin of my wrist, the sharp sting of the steel against my flesh acting as a grim metronome.

I was fighting a war against my own biology. My eyelids felt like lead, and the persistent, throbbing ache in my head was a siren song urging me to surrender.

"Look at her," Winston chuckled, his tone vibrating with that infuriating, predatory amusement. "She's fighting sleep like it's an interrogation."

"She's a soldier," Stetson replied, his voice devoid of sympathy. "They're trained to endure until they drop. She just doesn't realize she's already dropped."

I glared at them, the effort making my head swim. My vision cleared just enough for me to lock eyes with Finagen, who was watching me with a cold, intent focus, as if he were counting the seconds until I finally collapsed.

"I'm not... dropping," I managed to rasp out, my voice barely a whisper. I took another shaky bite of the rations, my knuckles white as I gripped the tin. I was drowning in exhaustion, my entire body begging for the sweet oblivion of sleep, but my eyes shut for a second, then I snapped them open, burning with a frantic, desperate intensity.

I wouldn't close them again. Not for them. I would sit here, tethered, eating nasty rations, and I would hold onto the edge of consciousness with everything I had left, even if it killed me.

Winston walked over and hit a switch the harsh overhead light flickered and died with a sharp, metallic snap, plunging my cot into a heavy, suffocating gloom. The sudden absence of the glare didn't bring relief; instead, my tired eyes strained immediately, struggling to focus in the dim, murky grayness of the corner.

Across the room, the contrast was brutal. The golden beam of their desk lamp cut through the darkness, illuminating their faces, their tactical maps, and their steaming mugs of coffee. They were huddled close, their voices dropping into a low, rhythmic drone as they discussed coordinates and supply lines.

I blinked rapidly, the darkness making the heavy, leaden exhaustion behind my eyelids feel twice as intense. The shadows weren't a kindness they were a weapon. Without the light to fight against, my senses were dampening, the edges of the room blurring into a soft, dream-like haze that dragged at my consciousness.

They want me to sleep.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. By cutting my light and keeping theirs, they were creating a sensory divide: they were the waking, alert masters of the room, and I was the prisoner being forced into submission by the absence of stimulation.

I glared at them, my vision swimming. I could see the silhouette of Finagen's hand moving across a map, pointing out a location. The sheer normalcy of their planning while I sat here in the dark, chained and starving, made my skin crawl with fury.

"You think this is clever?" I rasped, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Dimming the lights? You're just trying to knock me out so I'm easier to manage."

Winston didn't even look up from the map. He just tilted his head, the light from the desk lamp casting long, jagged shadows across his face. "We're trying to give you some peace, soldier. You look like you're about two seconds away from collapsing. Why fight it?"

"Because I know exactly what happens when I close my eyes," I spat, my voice vibrating with a raw, jagged edge. I gave my chain a sharp, aggressive jerk, the clink-clink-clink of the metal echoing through the silence. "You think the dark hides what you're doing, but it just makes it easier for me to see what you really are."

Stetson let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He didn't look over, his attention fully captured by the papers in front of him. "She's still got some fight left in her, Finagen. Give it another hour. The dark always wins eventually."

I gripped the edge of the cot so hard the wood groaned, my knuckles white in the gloom. I forced my eyes to stay wide, focusing on the sliver of light reflecting off the coffee table, using it as a beacon to tether myself to reality. My head was pounding, a dull, rhythmic thud that matched the frantic beating of my heart, and every nerve in my body was screaming to let go.

"I'm not closing them," I whispered to the shadows, my voice firm despite the overwhelming urge to drift. "I'm staying awake. Keep your maps, keep your light, and keep your damn delusions. I'm not going anywhere."

Finagen finally glanced over, his eyes shadowed, his expression unreadable. He didn't say a word, just turned back to the map with a calm, maddening indifference that told me exactly what he thought of my defiance. He was waiting. And I was going to make him wait a hell of a lot longer.

The silence in the room was punctuated only by the soft rustle of paper and the low murmur of their voices. My eyes were burning, raw and gritty, as I fought to keep the darkness of the room from claiming me. Every blink lasted longer than the last, a dangerous, velvet invitation to drift.

Then, the floorboards groaned.

Finagen crossed the short distance, the golden light from their lamp throwing a long, looming shadow over my cot. He didn't come to taunt me. He held a plastic canteen, the cap already unscrewed.

"You're shaking," he said, his voice unusually quiet. It wasn't mocking; it was clinical. He knelt by the side of the cot, placing a hand on my shoulder to keep me upright as my body swayed with exhaustion. "You haven't slept in thirty-six hours, and you've lost too much blood. If you don't shut down now, your system is going to crash on its own."

"I don't... want your help," I wheezed, my head lolling back against the wall. The exhaustion was so total it felt like I was drowning in slow motion.

"It's not a suggestion," he murmured. He didn't force the canteen to my lips; he waited, his eyes searching mine. "Drink. It'll stop the tremors."

I was so parched my throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. I reached out with my free hand, my fingers brushing his calloused palm as I grabbed the canteen. I took a long, desperate swallow, the cool water soothing the fire in my throat. It tasted slightly metallic bitter, almost but I was too far gone to care. I drank until he gently pulled the canteen away.

"Good," he said, his thumb brushing against my jaw. "Just breathe."

I leaned back, closing my eyes for just a second to catch my breath. But when I tried to pull them open again, the air felt thick, like I was suddenly submerged in warm, heavy water. The sounds of their conversation the maps, the tactical talk, the scoffs started to warp, stretching out into long, distorted echoes.

My arm, the one still shackled to the frame, went limp, the heavy cuff sliding down to the mattress with a soft thud

"What... did you..." I tried to protest, but my tongue felt like lead. The anger that had kept me upright was dissolving, replaced by an overwhelming, seductive numbness.

"Rest, soldier," I heard Finagen say, though he sounded miles away now, his voice a soft rumble in the dark.

I tried to fight it, to claw my way back to consciousness, but my willpower felt like a flickering candle in a hurricane. The darkness wasn't scary anymore; it was deep, quiet, and completely unavoidable. I felt the tension bleed out of my muscles, my head dropping to the side.

The last thing I remembered was the faint, rhythmic scratching of Stetson's pen on paper, and the secure, cold weight of the handcuff against my wrist as the last of my defiance slipped into the void.