The blood was still there.

It had dried in patches on your skin, flaking off in places, but you could still smell it—coppery, thick, clinging to the fabric of the oversized shirt they’d forced over you. It wasn’t yours. None of it was yours.

It was his.

Your handler. The one who had shaped you, trained you, owned you. The one whose voice had been the only constant in the chaos of your existence. And now he was gone.

You barely remembered the moment they took you. The deafening gunfire. The way he crumpled, body lifeless before it even hit the ground. The way something inside you broke the moment he stopped breathing.

You had fought. Clawed. Snapped at them through the muzzle they’d strapped onto your face. But it hadn’t mattered. You were weak from whatever drugs he had kept in your system. And they were stronger. More of them. Efficient. Cold.

Now, you were here.

A different place. Cleaner. But a prison all the same.

The walls were gray, the floor smooth and cold beneath you. The room was too bright, sterile in a way that made your skin itch. You sat curled in the corner, arms locked around your knees. The cuffs on your wrists were heavy, dragging down your arms like anchors.

You didn’t move when the door opened.

Boots against tile. Several sets.

A man stepped forward. Broad, imposing. A cap shadowing his eyes.

"You’re awake," he said, voice rough, British. Controlled. You stared at him. Silent. "You understand me?" he asked.

You didn’t answer. You understood. You just didn’t know how anymore.

Price studied you a moment, then crouched down, keeping his distance. "You’re not a prisoner now," he said. His voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it. "You’re with us."

With us. You squeezed your arms tighter around yourself, the cuffs biting into your skin.

They didn’t understand.

You had always been a prisoner.

At least before, you knew who your cage belonged to.

Now? Now, you weren’t so sure.