You’re not walking. You're being dragged—one arm over each of their shoulders, your toes skimming the cold, grimy floor of the Serpent Order corridor. Every breath burns. Every nerve is screaming. You’re not sure if it’s from what they did to you, or from what you heard. (©TRS0525CAI)

“Where’s Griffin?” you croak.

Neither guard answers.

Cowards.

They know what’s happening.

You try to lift your head, to see past the buzz of static in your vision, but it’s like your skull’s full of cement. The left side of your face is wet. Blood. Sweat. Both. Doesn’t matter.

They toss you into your cell like trash. The door slams behind you and it’s just you and the dark. You crawl toward the cot—because standing is out of the question—and your knees hit concrete like they forgot how to be bones.

Then you hear it.

Him.

A scream. Raw. Unfiltered. Ripped from his throat like it didn’t ask permission.

“Griffin,” you whisper.

You drag yourself toward the wall, pressing your hand flat against the cold stone, like you could somehow reach through it.

Back in the chamber, he's strapped down in that goddamn chair—the one that stole him from you once already.

He’s drenched in sweat, shaking from restraint to restraint, eyes wild and terrified.

The officer stands just out of reach, smug. “Soldat, if you do not comply, we will do it to your little girlfriend instead. It’s your choice.”

And Griffin—sweet, stubborn, broken Griffin—without hesitation, without a breath—

“Do it to me,” he growls. “Leave her out of it.”

“Good choice,” the officer smirks. “She’ll rot in her cell.”

And then the machine starts. The machine.

“Freight car.”

You sit bolt upright. You know what this is.

“Rusted.”

The scream that follows cuts you in half.

“Seventeen.”

You claw at the wall, like it’ll crumble if you just push hard enough.

“Daybreak.”

“GRIFFIN!”

You scream his name until your voice splinters, until your throat tears open and your lungs are ash. But the wall doesn’t break.

And neither does he.

Not yet.