Prologue – Torin

7 Years Ago

I wake in inky blackness. Not a sliver of light—just the tink, tink, tink of water…or blood…dripping nearby.

The air is warm, stagnant, and reeks of blood, shit, and piss.

My head lolls to the side, shoulders burning. I have no idea how long I’ve been dangling here. Naked. Nearly every inch of me is cut, bruised, or burned.

There were six of us in here a few days ago. Now I’m the only one left.

Torture’s an art when it’s done right—and these assholes haven’t learned it. I’m grateful for that. Maybe next time they electrocute me, they’ll crank it too high or leave it on too long. Then I’ll finally get out of this hellhole. At least my soul will—if I still have one left after everything I’ve done.

The deep gash down my face is the worst injury—the only one they didn’t give me. That came from the crash. They grabbed me right after. I’ve been locked in here ever since— pumped for information, punished when I don’t answer, which is always.

Pain stops mattering after a while. The body dulls it; the brain blurs it. I learned that in training, but living it is another animal entirely. Still, I put on a good show—flinching, thrashing, screaming—so they don’t get more creative.

Muffled voices echo down the hallway, and I groan. Same routine every day.

Come in the morning.

Feed me just enough to keep me breathing.

Give me just enough water to keep me alive.

Then they have their fun.

The fat one throws open the door and sneers, followed by his two smaller companions. Fatty likes to use his fists. Thing 1 likes knives. Thing 2—electricity.

They all like making me scream.

A woman in a black burqa steps in behind them carrying a plate of food and a medical bag. They’ve never brought anyone else in here before. She walks to the table near the door and sets the plate down, fumbling it. The ceramic clinks when it hits the surface.

Ceramic. My foggy brain clocks the potential weapon instantly.

Fatty slams the door, plunging the room back into darkness before clicking on the overhead light. The burn is brutal after hours in the dark. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The woman murmurs something to Fatty. He doesn’t like it. They argue in low voices. I don’t give a damn what they’re discussing. My give-a-fuck meter emptied out yesterday when they killed Thibodeaux.

Their voices rise. I let them fade, focusing on my breathing. The smell of the food is heaven. I’m starving.

Footsteps retreat, followed by a loud slam. I crack my eyes open. I’m alone with the woman.

She’s a blur at first—just a feminine silhouette. Quick footsteps stop in front of me. In accented English, she whispers, “I have two minutes.”

She rises onto her toes and collides with my chest. Fire shoots through my shoulders and I groan. She scrambles to the table, grabs a stool, and places it behind me.

What the hell is she doing?

“Hold this,” she hisses, pushing something small into my numb hands.

My fingers fumble. “What is it?”

“A key. They’re getting you down today—use it.” She slides the stool away again and steps in front of me, making sure I don’t drop it.

“Who are you?”

She shakes her head, eyes darting to the door. “You saved me in the square. A life for a life.”

Oh.

I remember—the square.

The man.

Her screams.

The blood.

The satisfaction of putting a bullet through his skull.

I give her a faint nod just before the door slams open again. She ducks her head and digs through her medical bag, pulling out a salve. She applies it to a few of the worst burns— gentle, efficient fingers. Fatty’s eyes burn into me. He’s impatient.

When she finishes the infected spots, she mutters something and rushes out. I keep my gaze on Fatty, fist clenched tight around the key. I sneer.

He snarls something to Thing 1, who lowers me to the filthy ground. I try not to look at what coats the floor, but it’s too late—bits of hair, skin, teeth, whole nails. Old blood ground into the concrete.

My knees buckle from disuse, arms and hands screaming as the blood rushes back.

Fuck, that hurts so good.

I kneel there, gulping air—the first real breaths I’ve had in days.

It doesn’t last long. Thing 1 and Thing 2 grab me under the arms and haul me into a chair.

“You’ll get food today after you talk,” Fatty glowers, arms crossed.

I cock my head, smiling. “Same as yesterday, asshole. McDonnel. Captain. Seven-six-eight four-two-nine-one-three-five. Fourteen November, 1987.”

He sighs, wiping a hand down his sweaty face, then says something to Thing 2—who grins. He just got the green light to zap the shit out of me.

I glance around. None of their toys are here. They’re always within reach. That’s…odd.

Fatty notices too, brows pulling together. Thing 1 and Thing 2 look confused but shrug it off.

They start for the door, but Fatty pauses, glancing back at me. I know I look pathetic as hell—hardly threatening at this point. I play it up—let my head fall to the side, eyes close, even add a pitiful groan for flair.

He chuckles darkly and shuts the door.

Alone. I’m alone.

I work the key into the handcuff lock. A little tinkering…and it clicks.

I sprint to the plate of food, shoveling mouthfuls in before smashing it as quietly as possible.

I’m feeling stabby today.

A few minutes later, the door bangs open again and their little cart of horrors rolls in.

Only, I’m not where they left me.

All three step inside. I slip between them and the door.

The broken plate shard is jagged and warm in my hand.

I bare my teeth in a slow, evil smile.

“Hello, assholes.”