Page 22 of Ruined By Capture

She lifts her shoulders, shifting into what I recognize as her technical expertise mode. The transformation is subtlebut fascinating—her voice becomes more confident, her eyes sharper.

"First, I'd need to cover all cameras on the device with opaque tape. The microphone too." Her fingers tap against her thigh as she thinks. "Turn off GPS and location tracking completely. Most importantly, disconnect from all networks—WiFi, Bluetooth, cellular, everything."

I nod, impressed despite myself. "Anything else?"

"Ideally I'd use a virtual machine and encryption tools but with those basic precautions, we should be safe if we stay completely offline." She meets my gaze directly. "I know what I'm doing. This isn't my first time covering digital tracks."

"And what exactly were you covering before?" I ask.

Her eyes follow the movement of my thumb on my mouth, my thinking tic, before snapping back to mine. "That's not relevant to our current situation."

She's hiding something, but don't we all have secrets? Right now I need her skills more than I need her complete history.

"Fine," I say, reaching into the bag at my feet. I pull out her laptop and place it on the bed. "But you'll eat first."

Her eyes open slightly at the sight of her computer, then narrow with suspicion. "Why the sudden generosity?"

"It's not generosity, princess. It's practicality. You need fuel to think clearly and I need your brain functioning at full capacity."

I gesture to the tray I brought earlier. It sits untouched on the small table by the window.

Melania approaches the tray cautiously, as if it might contain explosives rather than my pathetic attempt at breakfast. She lifts the fork, poking at the eggs with scientific curiosity. Her lips twitch and I can tell she's fighting back laughter.

"Something amusing?" I inquire.

She clears her throat, composing herself. "No, not at all. It's just... interesting."

"Interesting?"

"The eggs are simultaneously overcooked and undercooked. I didn't know that was possible." She puts a small bite in her mouth, chewing with determination.

"I don't cook," I say flatly. "Usually there are people for that."

"I could have helped, you know," she says, setting down the fork and picking up the coffee instead. "If you hadn't kept me locked in here like a prisoner."

"You are a prisoner."

She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving mine. "A prisoner who knows how to make proper eggs."

"Next time I'll consider it," I say. "Now eat what you can and get to work. We need to know exactly what's on that drive."

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching Melania force down another bite of the mangled eggs. She winces slightly but continues eating. Smart woman. She knows she needs the energy.

"These are..." she pauses, searching for a diplomatic word, "interesting."

"They're shit," I say bluntly. "But they're what you've got."

She nods, taking another sip of coffee—the one thing I managed not to destroy. "This, at least, is excellent."

I don't acknowledge the compliment, just watch as she finishes what she can manage of the food. When she's done, she stands and surveys the room, her eyes taking in every detail. She moves to the small desk by the window, then shakes her head.

"Not enough space," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

She drags the chair from the desk to the foot of the bed, creating a makeshift workspace. She places the laptop on the bed, angling it so the screen faces away from the door.

"I need tape," she says, looking up at me. "Opaque tape, preferably black electrical tape. And scissors."

"I'll get the tape," I say. "No scissors. I'll tear it myself."

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