Page 51 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Malfor waits beside the post in his rumpled suit. Sweat beads on his forehead but doesn’t diminish the cold calculation in his expression.
The guards force us into a line facing the post. Stitch, they drag to stand before Malfor. She stands straight, chin raised.
“I want to be clear about what’s happening here.” Malfor’s voice carries across the courtyard, pitched to reach all of us. “This isn’t punishment. It’s education.”
He paces before us, each step measured, hands clasped behind his back.
“One of you believed you could outsmart me. Could use my systems against me. Could signal your friends.” His gaze sweeps across us. “Let me explain why that was a profound miscalculation.”
He nods to the guards, who grab Stitch, forcing her against the post. Metal cuffs snap around her wrists, ankles, and waist. A final restraint locks around her throat, forcing her head up, immobilizing her completely. Her eyes remain defiant despite her vulnerable position.
“The signal was intercepted before it went anywhere.” Malfor moves to the table, running his fingers along the objects laid out there. “Your friends at Guardian HRS remain oblivious, still planning their doomed rescue mission. But this attempt suggests a failure in my conditioning program.”
His fingers select something from the table—a thin metal rod about two feet long. He tests its weight in his hand.
“The first lesson: disobedience has collective consequences.”
His thumb finds the remote in his pocket, and all our collars activate simultaneously. The pain is worse than before, not just stronger but somehow deeper, reaching parts of my nervous system that shouldn’t be accessible.
My spine arches, muscles contracting so violently I feel tendons tear. My vision whites out, then returns in fractured pieces. Around me, five bodies contort in identical agony.
When it stops, I’m on my knees, blood filling my mouth where I’ve bitten through my tongue. Jenna lies motionless beside me. Malia vomits weakly. Rebel makes a sound no human throat should ever produce. Mia groans, clutching her belly.
“That was thirty seconds at level four.” Malfor sounds like he’s discussing the weather. “There are three more levels available. I don’t recommend experiencing them.”
He turns back to Stitch, still immobilized against the post, her body trembling from the aftereffects of the shock.
“The second lesson: personal consequences for the instigator.”
Malfor turns back to the table, lifting two implements for us all to see. In his left hand, a bullwhip coiled like a sleeping snake, its leather tip worn from use. In his right hand, a thin metal rod, the kind prison guards might carry—heavy enough to break bone, light enough for precise control.
He steps toward me, both weapons extended. “Choose.”
The word doesn’t register at first. My brain refuses to process what he’s asking.
“Choose which one I use on her.” His voice softens to a terrible gentleness. “Or I use both.”
Stitch’s eyes lock with mine over Malfor’s shoulder. Even restrained, even bleeding, dignity radiates from her like heat. Her slight head shake tells me not to play his game.
But refusing means both weapons. Means twice the damage to her already battered body.
“The rod.” The words scrape my throat raw. The metal will hurt, will bruise, might crack ribs—but the whip will tear flesh and leave scars that never heal.
“Excellent choice.” Malfor hands the whip to a waiting guard, weighing the rod in his palm. “You see? Cooperation is so much simpler.”
The metal rod cuts through the air with a whistle, connecting with Stitch’s ribs. The sound of impact—metal on flesh, bone—echoes across the courtyard. Stitch doesn’t scream. Not for the first strike. Not for the second that lands across her thighs.
The third blow breaks her silence. Her scream tears through me worse than any shock from the collar, flaying something essential from my soul. And behind that scream, the knowledge that I chose this for her. That my hands might as well be wielding the rod.
“Stop!” The word rips from my throat as I lunge forward, only to be caught by guards on either side. “She was following orders. My orders.”
Malfor pauses mid-swing, turning toward me with eyebrows raised. The silence stretches between us, broken only by Stitch’s ragged breathing.
“Your orders?” His voice drops lower, intimate almost. “How interesting.”
He hands the rod to a waiting guard, then walks toward me. His shoes stop inches from where I kneel on the concrete.
“And what orders were those, Miss Collins?”
