I woke up to the taste of blood in my mouth.

  The lights above buzzed cold and white, stabbing down like needles through my skull. The chair I was strapped to had no padding — just steel. The kind that made your bones ache from the inside out. My wrists were cuffed to the arms, ankles bound to the legs, and something tight was digging into my throat.

  Right. The colr.

  Still there. Still humming with that sick little pulse, like it was feeding on me.

  Across the room, behind a sb of mirrored gss, the door hissed open. Two silhouettes stepped in. I knew them already, from the broadcasts, the headlines, the nightmares.

  Prismhawk moved like a shard of stained gss brought to life — armor refracting the room into fractured rainbows as he stepped into the light. His face was half-covered by a mask that shifted with color and emotion — glowing blue when he spoke, flickering violet when he paused. His wings folded tight behind him, crystalline and jagged, like he could slice a tank in half just by stretching.

  Next to him was Karmahawk, broader, heavier, more grounded. His gear was matte bck and red, tactical and brutal. His gloves crackled faintly with that psychic shimmer — the kind that twisted people’s memories like wet cy. His face was unmasked, sharp-jawed, expression cold. Unreadable.

  And then came the her.

  Not a cape. Not enhanced. Just a suit, tailored to hell, and eyes that screamed government. Short blond hair, close-cropped. Military posture. Face lined, clean-shaven, and carrying a clipboard like it was a weapon.

  “Name,” she said. No greeting.

  I didn’t answer.

  Prismhawk tilted his head. “She hasn’t said anything since arrival.”

  “She screamed a lot during transit,” Karmahawk added. “That’s something.”

  I swallowed hard, mouth dry. My broken arm was still half-cast — just a metal brace and a wrap. It throbbed with every heartbeat. My nose? Still caked with dried blood. Breathing through it felt like dragging air through sandpaper.

  “I’ll ask again,” the woman said. “Name.”

  I gred. “Cami.”

  “Cami…?”

  Silence.

  She scribbled something on the clipboard. “Alias?”

  I huffed through my nose. “What do I look like to you? A cape?”

  Karmahawk narrowed his eyes. “You lit up like a power battery the moment my squad touched you.”

  “That was fear,” I snapped. “Try feeling it sometime.”

  The human smirked. “She’s got teeth.”

  “Teeth don’t make you special,” Prismhawk murmured. “Power does.”

  And then they just… stared. Like they were waiting for me to shift. To flicker. To spark. But I didn’t. The colr made sure of that. It pulsed tighter every time I even felt that old buzz in my chest rise.

  They spent the next hour throwing questions like darts — where I was born, who trained me, what affiliation I had. Names, locations, power tests. All of it stacked like bricks, meant to box me in.

  I lied sometimes. Other times I just stayed quiet.

  Eventually, they stopped trying.

  “She’s not on any registry,” the agent said. “Not tagged. Not trained. Not even fgged.”

  “She’s dangerous,” Karmahawk muttered.

  “She’s a kid,” Prismhawk countered.

  “Doesn’t matter. Unlicensed, unpredictable, and aggressive. That’s all it takes.”

  The woman clicked her pen and closed the file. “We’ll transfer her tonight. Tier-4 facility. Let the suits upstairs decide what she is.”

  They left. Just like that.

  No warning.

  No rights.

  No clue what came next.

  I sat in silence, wrists numb, blood dripping from my busted lip onto my jeans.

  Then the lights shut off.

  And the colr pulsed again.

  They came for me before I could fall asleep again.

  Boots stomped down the hallway outside the cell, metal on metal, rhythmic and hard. A sharp hiss — the door slid open. No warning. No words.

  Just the cold sm of a bck canvas bag over my head.

  I thrashed instinctively — stupid move. My bad arm screamed as two armored guards yanked me up like a ragdoll. Every bruise from the raid with Katie lit up like someone had hit me with a stun baton. My feet dragged, then stumbled, then finally hit the floor right.

  Zip cuffs wrapped my wrists tight — behind my back this time.

  They didn’t care that I whimpered.

  Didn’t care that the colr was digging into my throat, that I could barely breathe through the bag.

  They just moved.

  I was thrown into the back of some kind of truck — humming low, armored walls, the whole nine. Cold as shit. It smelled like blood, rubber, and steel.

  The ride? Long. Long enough to feel my bones settle wrong in that busted arm. Long enough to wish I had talked. Lied better. Screamed louder.

  When the doors opened again, I was somewhere worse.

  Tier-4.

  Power prison. Bcksite level. Off the books.

  No names.

  No trials.

  No sunlight.

  They dragged me through a concrete corridor so sterile it felt like a hospital from Hell. I could hear others screaming in the distance — some in pain, some in rage. Superhumans stripped to nothing but skin and fear.

  They ripped the bag off.

  I blinked against the fluorescent lights — harsh, ugly, and flickering.

  A medic approached. Not gentle. Just efficient.

  They spped a temp cast around my arm, no anesthesia. I gritted my teeth so hard I thought I’d crack a mor. Blood soaked through the wrap again instantly.

  “Walk,” the guard barked.

  I limped, slow. Didn’t matter.

  They shoved me forward, right through a steel arch that scanned me head-to-toe. My clothes were yanked off — every inch, every stitch. No privacy. No curtain. Just exposed flesh and shame under three armed guards’ stares and blinking red cameras.

  “Strip search protocol: Full cavity. Open your mouth. Cough. Squat.”

  But the worst was yet to come.

  A guard grabbed a gloved hand, slick with cold lubricant, and without warning, plunged two fingers deep into my most anus.

  I gasped, a shock of pain and revulsion shooting through me as she probed and searched, her fingers curling and scissoring inside me.

  I felt vioted. Not because of the procedure, but because it wasn’t for safety. It was for control.

  Then came the hose.

  A jet stream smmed into me like a pressure cannon, slicing across my skin, bruises, and that fresh cast. I screamed. Couldn’t help it. The water was ice cold and so powerful it fyed skin raw in pces.

  Especially between my legs.

  Bleeding wounds. Zero mercy.

  By the end, I was soaked, freezing, and shaking.

  “Colr on,” the medic muttered.

  The one I already had was swapped for a newer model — sleek, silver, red light in the center. It hissed as it locked. I heard a click, then felt something press against my neck — like an invisible leash tightening.

  “This one suppresses and shocks,” a voice said over a speaker. “Don’t try anything.”

  They tossed me a jumpsuit.

  Orange. Faded. Smelled like sweat and disinfectant.

  No underwear.

  I held it against my chest, trembling. They gave me five seconds to dress. Tops stuck to my still-damp skin. The cast didn’t fit right through the sleeve, so it hung awkwardly as I zipped up.

  “Move.”

  I moved.

  The halls were lined with cells, floor to ceiling. Some had force fields, others steel bars. Inside?

  Girls. Women. Some older than me, some younger.

  All of them colred.

  All of them dangerous.

  One had glowing hands and no arms from the elbows down — repced with burning psma stumps. Another floated three feet above the ground, hair coiling like smoke. A third sat cross-legged, skin etched in runes that pulsed with slow purple light — her eyes bck pits.

  Every cell I passed, they stared.

  Like they knew I was fresh meat.

  Like they’d seen girls like me before.

  And knew how long I’d st.

  My cell?

  Upper block. Tier-4B.

  Force field sealed behind me with a bzzt.

  It was tiny. Concrete. Bunk bed. Toilet in the corner.

  And her.

  Mohawk girl.

  Tall. Broad shoulders. Chocote skin with silver piercings on both brows and lip. Full lips. Soft eyes, but sharp jawline. Sleeveless jumpsuit, unzipped halfway down. Underneath, tattoos across her colrbone in some nguage I didn’t know. She was lounging on the bottom bunk, one leg up, chewing gum like it was her fifth meal.

  “Well well,” she purred. “Newbie’s got that soft little ‘deer-in-headlights’ energy.”

  I didn’t answer.

  She stood. Tall. A little intimidating. Towered over me even without boots.

  “Name?”

  “…Cami.”

  “Cute,” she said. “I’m Bricks. You can call me that. Or baby, if you want.”

  I blinked.

  She grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna do anything you don’t beg for.”

  She brushed past me — fingers grazing my lower back, then stopping right where the cast met my skin. “You got broken bones? Damn. They were rough with you.”

  I flinched.

  She smirked and backed off. “Rex, newbie. You’ll learn fast.”

  The door sealed behind us. Lock clicked. Lights dimmed.

  I climbed up to the top bunk.

  It took everything not to cry. My chest felt like it would explode. I y down on the thin mattress, still damp, still hurting, still bleeding in pces no one could see.

  Then the nightmares hit.

  Fshes of Katie screaming.

  Blood. Screams. The explosion. The dorm door shattering.

  I jolted awake, middle of the night.

  Soaked in sweat.

  My top clung to my chest, every breath showing off pokies I didn’t even notice anymore. I shivered, heart racing.

  Then I heard it.

  The creak of the bottom bunk.

  Rhythmic.

  Soft whimpering.

  I leaned over the side.

  Bricks was under her bnket, eyes clenched shut, hand down her jumpsuit, moving slow. Her lip was trembling.

  She whispered a name like it was a prayer.

  "Jackson"

  And she was crying.

  I said nothing.

  I just y back down, stared at the ceiling.

  And let the tears roll down my temples too.

  Days turned into weeks. Or at least, that's how it felt. I lost track of time. There was no way to measure it in this pce. The silence in the cell was deafening, and the monotony of the days was only interrupted by the occasional guard check or the distant cnking of metal doors.

  "You're still here, huh?" Bricks said one afternoon as I sat staring at the gray wall. "Most people don’t st long. You’re stronger than you look."

  I didn’t respond immediately. What was there to say? Every day felt like I was fading into the walls of this pce, becoming part of the concrete and steel.

  Weeks passed, and nothing outside of these prison walls reached me. No phone calls. No news. No word about what was happening to the outside world, or what would happen to me once this was over. If it was ever going to be over.

  But then, one morning, after another routine check from the guards, I was summoned.

  The buzz of the intercom broke through the fog of my thoughts. "Cami Reyes. Move it."

  I wasn’t sure whether I was ready or not, but when the guards finally came to get me, I followed them down the long, cold hall. My feet dragged, but something in the air felt different. They led me through the sterile corridors of the facility, past armed agents in bck uniforms, their expressions unreadable. The smell of antiseptic and metal only made the tension in my gut rise.

  I was escorted into a room where an officer — someone I didn’t recognize — was waiting. She was older, with sharp eyes and a neutral expression. I didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread at her presence.

  She didn’t speak much. Just gave me a once-over before silently tapping her tablet. A few clicks ter, she turned to one of the guards.

  "She’s clear," she said. "Release her."

  I froze.

  "You—" I started, but the words died in my throat. The whole thing had been a blur of confusion and fear. I had no idea what was happening. No idea why they were letting me go.

  No words were exchanged. The guard simply handed me a jumpsuit, and I changed into it quickly. My heart was racing.

  The woman didn’t say anything else as I stood there, waiting for what felt like forever. There were no expnations, no apologies, no release of guilt. Just an empty silence that stretched on and on until I was led out of the room.

  I was ushered through another set of doors. The guards didn’t speak to me as we crossed the sterile hall. I could see the heavy steel doors shutting behind me — the heavy metal echo of what had been my prison.

  I stepped out into the open air.

  Outside, the world felt strangely normal. The sun was shining. The sky was a perfect blue. But I could feel the weight of everything I had left behind — the other prisoners, the fear, the uncertainty.

  And then I saw her.

  Katie was standing just beyond the fence, her eyes searching the crowd. When she saw me, her face broke into a smile that was equal parts relief and joy. She rushed over without hesitation, her arms pulling me close as she kissed me. The world fell away as our lips met, desperate, hungry, the fear of the past weeks melting into the passion of the moment. It was the first time in what felt like forever that I felt something real. Something that wasn’t tainted by the walls of that prison.

  But before I could lose myself in the kiss, I heard it.

  The sound of tires screeching as a bck, ominous car pulled up to the curb. I stiffened in Katie’s arms, looking over her shoulder. The car’s windows were dark, tinted like a shadow, and I could feel the weight of the situation change. Something was wrong.

  I pulled away from Katie, turning toward the car. It wasn’t just the car. It was the agents — a handful of SWAT members, all suited up in bck, surrounding the vehicle like they were preparing for a hostage situation.

  Katie stepped in front of me, her brow furrowed with concern. “What is this? Who are they?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her to leave, to get out of here, to run, but the words got stuck in my throat. I couldn’t tell her to go. Not when she was already standing there, ready to protect me. She was too stubborn, too brave for her own good.

  A man in a dark suit stepped out of the car, his movements smooth and practiced. He had an air of authority that immediately put me on edge. He wasn’t just any agent. This guy was in charge. He looked at me, his gaze cold but not unkind.

  “I need to speak with you. Privately,” he said.

  “What’s this about? Who are you?”

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  And just like that, everything I thought I knew about this moment, about my freedom, shifted.