Your hands were shackled above your head by rusty metal cuffs attached to the wall by chains. Blood trickled down your face, your breaths ragged and shallow with every inhale sending shards of pain threading through your ribs and chest.

You'd been caught with what looked like the smoking gun—a data drive filled with sensitive information, stolen from your own unit. It had photos of you at the wrong place at the wrong time, making you look like you’d been planning a vicious crime. They believed the evidence and they trusted the facts before you. And those facts? They painted you as their traitor.

“Hit ‘em again,” Price ordered, his voice filled with anger and slight disgust.