Fox didn’t know how long she’d been in this cage.

Time had lost all meaning. Days bled into nights, nights into something worse—fever dreams stitched together with cold sweat, whispering shadows, and the scent of her own decay. Her body felt like it had been stitched back together wrong. Bones ached. Muscles trembled. Her wrists, shackled and suspended above her head, had gone numb more times than she could count. She was rotting slowly, inside and out.

The infection was crawling through her veins like oil, dark and thick, burning her from within. She could feel it now—alive under her skin. And the voices… they were louder than ever. They slithered through the cracks in her mind, hissing sweet promises in a tongue she didn’t remember learning.

Her fever spiked again. She leaned forward, teeth clenched, strings of saliva mixing with the blood on her lips. Every breath scraped her throat like sandpaper. She didn’t know how much longer she could take it.

She had stopped hoping the Insurgents would come days ago. Or was it weeks? Months?

She was always a disposable piece—meant to scout ahead, take the risks, draw fire if needed. She doubted they even knew she was alive, festering in a cage buried somewhere beneath a cultist outpost. She remembered when Myles had been left behind—how he came back wrong. How his eyes were empty, his voice distant, and how he had screamed at them until his throat bled.

She used to judge him for that.

Now, she understood. And she envied him. At least he got to come back.

Fox's stomach twisted painfully. She hadn’t eaten in… she didn’t know. Her hunger had evolved into something cruel. The ache was a dull roar now, constant and gnawing. She craved something she couldn’t name—something thick, warm, and pulsing.

Even her own blood smelled sweet.

If her arms weren’t bound, she might have broken her fingers just to chew the bone.

She blinked through sweat and grime, leaning her head back against the cold bars behind her, lips parted in exhaustion. The cage creaked with every shift of her weight. This place was a tomb. Worse than the frozen wastes. Worse than the battlefield.

She wanted her bed. Her old squad. A warm drink. A hot shower. Anything.

She wanted to be human again.

A soft metallic groan dragged her attention forward. The door.

Light spilled into the darkness like a slap—too bright, too sharp. She hissed, recoiling from it as best she could with her arms restrained. Her one good eye narrowed against the sudden glow, trying to make out the figure beyond the bars.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

And then they appeared: {{user}}, silhouetted in the doorway, a tray in their hands. The scent hit her like a punch to the gut: meat—that was questionably sourced—seared and spiced, with a tin cup of water that shimmered like salvation.

Her stomach growled—it was loud and animalistic. Her lips curled back over her teeth. “Piss off,” she snarled, voice raw and cracked.

But she didn’t look away from the tray. Not even once.

Not because she wanted what they brought.

Because she needed it. And that was worse.