LYRA
The chair was too hard, but I welcomed the discomfort. After days locked in that rotting concrete cell, I would’ve welcomed broken glass beneath my feet. Anything that reminded my body what it meant to feel.
Freedom wasn’t here yet.
But it was close.
I could taste it sharp, metallic, cold like blood and iron on my tongue.
At the door, I paused. Voices drifted in from the hallway—two men. Not in uniform. Tired. Bored. The kind of lazy that came with power they thought couldn’t be taken from them.
Exactly how I wanted them.
I sat straighter, ran a hand through my matted hair, and smoothed it down like it might do any good. All I needed them to see was weakness. Fragility. Something breakable.
Because once they believed that—
I would take everything from them.
One of the guards
