The chair was cold.
Metal arms locked tight around my wrists, chains biting into my shoulders, my legs bound so hard I couldn't feel them anymore. I tasted iron before the first punch even landed.
The Director didn't shout.
He didn't rage.
He stepped forward and hit me—clean, precise, like he was correcting a mistake.
My head snapped to the side. Blood spilled from my mouth and splattered onto the floor. I coughed once, spat red, and forced my eyes back up to him.
He smiled faintly.
Again.
My ribs screamed. Something cracked. Breathing turned sharp and shallow, every inhale dragging fire through my chest.
He leaned close. "Still smiling?"
I didn't answer.
That annoyed him.
He struck harder. Over and over. Not fast—measured. Like he had all the time in the world.
When my body finally gave in and slumped forward, he stepped back and sighed.
"Heal him."
A soldier hesitated, then obeyed.
Warmth spread through my body—bones knitting, torn flesh sealing, pain dulling just enough to keep me conscious.
Just enough.
The Director picked up a metal rod.
"This," he said calmly, weighing it in his hand, "is where hope goes to die."
The first hit knocked the air out of me. The second hit my shoulder. The third landed across my spine. I screamed once—more from reflex than pain—then bit it down.
I refused to give him more.
Somewhere far away, I heard Monisha.
Crying.
Not loud. Broken.
I knew what she wanted to do. I knew Aira, Ren, Kazim—every single one of them—were ready to tear the world open to get to me.
But they didn't.
Because I asked them not to.
If everyone is safe, let me be the cost.
That was the deal.
The Director noticed my smile then.
Small. Blood-soaked. Unsteady.
And it made him furious.
"Why?" he snapped, slamming the rod against my leg. Pain flared white-hot. "Why won't you beg?"
I laughed—weak, breathless, almost silent.
"Because," I whispered through blood and broken teeth, "this is all you have."
That was when he lost control.
He hit me with everything—fists, rod, boots. He shouted. He cursed. He demanded fear. Demanded screams.
Every time I healed, he broke me again.
And every time—
I smiled.
Not because it didn't hurt.
It hurt more than anything I had ever felt.
But because he needed me broken.
And I wasn't.
Not for him.
Not for the academies.
Not even for death.
I stayed conscious through sheer refusal.
And somewhere beyond the walls, my people stayed still.
Because this wasn't just about saving lives anymore.
It was about proving something simple—
That even stripped of power, freedom, and hope…
I was still choosing.