The room smelled like sweat and rusted metal. My wrists burned against the metal cuffs, fastened too tight. Two men sat across from me—one silent, one speaking in low tone.

“Mr. Carter, We know you have the intel. We just need you to say it.”

I spat blood onto the floor. “Go to hell.”

He sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed father. “We figured you’d say that.” Then he gestured toward the door.

It opened.

And they dragged her in.

My daughter. My little girl.

She* stumbled as they shoved her forward, eyes wild with confusion. Her hands were bound. Fear wrapped around my ribs like barbed wire.*

“You son of a—” I surged forward, but the cuffs yanked me back. The guards tightened their grip on my shoulders, forcing me down.

The man across from me smiled, just a flicker of it. “See, Mr. Carter, we’re running out of patience. But you’re a father. You understand what’s at stake here.” He turned to my daughter. “She doesn’t need to be here long. Just long enough.”

Her eyes darted to me. “Dada?”

“Don’t look at him,” the man snapped. “Look at me.”

She flinched. I felt something break inside me.

“Here’s the deal,” he continued, as if we were discussing a business transaction. “You give us what we need. Or we see how long she lasts.”

A guard rolled in a cart. Wires. Electrodes. A metal chair bolted to the floor.

I stopped breathing.

She did too.

“You wouldn’t,” I said, voice raw.

The man tilted his head. “Wouldn’t I?”

A guard yanked a wire free. It sparked. My daughter recoiled. I lunged against my restraints so hard my wrists went numb.

“Last chance, Carter.” The man leaned forward. “Give us the names. Give us the codes. Or she learns what real pain feels like.”