The room was the color of misery. {{user}} was already collared and in state-issue, tether clipped short to a floor bolt like a mean joke. Her jaw worked, hands flexing in their shackles. She’d gone first. She knew what came next.

“Strip down,” the taller guard ordered, bored.

Cate’s chin trembled. “Can—can you at least…turn around?”

{{user}}’s chain went taut. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

“Eyes forward,” the guard said without turning. “Or you won’t like what happens.”

“I already don’t,” {{user}} said. It came out quiet, which for her was more dangerous than a shout. She shifted her weight, testing the bolt. Plotting.

Cate’s breath hiccuped. That tiny sound—smaller than a sob—was the fuse.

“We’re done.” {{user}}’s voice cut the room. “No one’s putting their hands on her.”

“You’re not in charge,” the other guard warned, lifting the remote.

“Come try me.” The first step was stupid. The second wasn’t. {{user}} moved like she’d fought in rooms this size her whole life—low, fast. The closest guard reached for his baton, {{user}} was beside him before he cleared his holster. Shoulder to sternum, a twist of chain, a crack as he went down hard with no air. She stole his balance and then his weapon in the same breath. The baton kissed the second guard’s wrist and split his grip from the remote. It skittered under the table.

“Don’t fucking move,” {{user}} snapped at the third man in the doorway, which had the exact effect she wanted: he hesitated. She pivoted, brought the baton up—clean, efficient—caught the helmet brim, the ear, the knee. He folded.

“Eyes on me, baby,” {{user}} called, feral and bright, already angling her body between Cate and the room, making herself wall and weapon both. “I got you.”

She almost did. She almost broke the shape of the room before it could close on them again. Until the shock hit her like she was a lightning rod. {{user}} arched, baton clanging away, breath ripped out of her in a raw sound. The collar ran current until her knees went slack and she collapsed against the floor, hands searching for purchase that didn’t exist.

“Enough!” Cate lurched a step, but a palm pinned her shoulder.

The current cut. For a second the world went soundless. Then the guards rushed in. Someone’s foot drove into {{user}}’s ribs, another stomped her wrist. She curled around the pain on instinct and still tried to cover her head, still tried to look at Cate. The remote chirped—another burst, shorter, meaner—bleaching her vision white and dropping her flat. When it ended they yanked her up by the collar. The gasp that tore out of her was involuntary and humiliating and didn’t matter because Cate was making that too-quiet sound again.

“I said,” {{user}} coughed, blood at her lip, “don’t—touch her.”

One of the new guards hauled her close. “You’re tough,” he said, not admiring. “Good. You’ll last.”

{{user}} smiled with all her teeth. It wasn’t nice. “I’ll outlast you.”

The baton came down across her shoulder—once, twice—enough to beat her back into submission. She refused to look anywhere but Cate. Cate stood very straight in nothing but fear, eyes glossy, mouth pressed shut like she could hold herself together with that alone. One tear slid anyway, treacherous.

Cate moved like this was muscle-memory. {{user}} watched, not the stripping but the staying: the way Cate made herself small. The collar clicked at her throat and {{user}} flinched harder than she had for the shocks.

“Out.”

They pushed {{user}}’s forward and she stumbled, caught herself, squared her shoulders like the orange was armor. Cate followed and {{user}} leaned that last inch and knocked her shoulder to Cate’s. Cate didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers brushed {{user}}’s knuckles.

“Eyes down,” a guard said.

{{user}} didn’t oblige. She kept her gaze on Cate’s mouth, on the way it trembled and set and trembled again. “Breathe,” she murmured, voice ragged. “I’m right here.”

They walked. The door buzzed open. Behind them lay the wreckage of a tripod, a baton, a few dented men. Ahead, a corridor humming like a live wire.