Page 88 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Rebel snarls, lips bloodied, eyes blazing.
He slices her slowly, from temple to jaw. The blade moves with surgical care, skin parting clean, blood spilling in a crimson river down her neck. It’s not meant to kill. It’s meant to ruin.
To brand.
But she doesn’t scream this time.
She just laughs.
Not loud. Not sane. Just the whisper of something broken and burning. Her eyes lock on his, gleaming with hate so pure it feels holy.
“Gonna need a sharper knife,” she rasps, teeth red with her own blood. “If you want to cut out the fight.”
Malfor pauses, only for a second, but it’s there. A flicker of doubt.
And Rebel grins through the ruin of her face.
Unbroken.
Unbowed.
Unafraid.
“Take them back.” Malfor rises, tucking the bloodied blade into his pocket. “Miss Collins stays.”
The guards drag the others away—Malia still sobbing, raw sounds torn from her throat that echo down the corridors. Mia moves like a sleepwalker, white-faced with shock, her body going through the motions while her mind retreats. Stitch allows herself to be led mechanically, still dissociated, staring at nothing. Jenna walks with military bearing despite everything, already compartmentalizing the trauma. Rebel, they carry between them, blood dripping from her face to mark their path across the concrete, but her eyes still burn with defiant fire.
When we’re alone, Malfor positions himself directly before me. His breath smells of mint and coffee, with a hint of something rotten underneath.
“No one is coming, little bird.” His voice drops to an intimate whisper. “Not for you. Not ever.”
His finger traces my jawline, the touch raising bile in my throat. “The sooner you accept your new reality, the easier your life becomes.”
My voice emerges from some distant place, hollow and strange. “They’ll never stop looking.”
“They already have.” He straightens, satisfaction evident in every line of his body. “By this time tomorrow, Guardian HRS will have officially listed the mission as a catastrophic failure. All hands lost. Search and rescue abandoned due to hostile conditions.” His smile widens. “And you? You’ll be listed as collateral damage. Presumed dead alongside your would-be rescuers.”
The screen behind him continues its endless loop—helicopters approaching, exploding, falling. Approaching, exploding, falling. The death of hope on infinite repeat.
“I’ll leave you with your thoughts.” Malfor gestures to the guards. “One hour. Then return her to her cell.”
He pauses at the courtyard entrance, silhouetted against interior light. “Tomorrow, you return to work. With renewed focus, I trust.”
The screen plays on as he leaves. Helicopters die again and again before my eyes.
Grief has weight, has mass, has a gravitational pull that collapses lungs and crushes bone. It presses against my eyes until my vision darkens at the edges. It fills my throat until breathing becomes impossible.
They’re gone.
Everyone who might have saved us.
Everyone who loved us.
Gone.
Yet we remain.
Collared. Imprisoned. Forgotten.
