The man named Brad Killian—tactical, cop, emotionally dominant but sensitive—sat across from her. Calm. Intentional. Elias had seen the interaction twice already, rewound it frame by frame. The man didn’t talk at her; he spoke to her. Waited. Let silence work.
And Mara had moved. Not much. But enough. Her fingers. Her breath. The look in her eyes. Elias leaned forward slightly, one hand on the desk. She’s still in there. His eyes stayed on her. Always on her.
Mara wasn’t gone. Just buried. And now, finally, someone besides him was trying to dig her out.
Brad had gone to the prison with Charlotte’s Alex—another name Elias remembered well. A puzzle piece. Maybe a threat. Maybe something else. But Brad… Brad was trying.
And for that, Elias didn’t feel suspicion. He felt hope.
He reached over to the desk and picked up a small, worn notebook. He opened it to the page marked only with her name. Below it, in his tight, precise handwriting, he wrote, “Still fighting. Hold the line.”
He looked back at the screen. “I’m watching, Mara,” he whispered. “And if they come for you again, I won’t let them take you. You belong to me.”
The monitor flickered. Mara turned her head slightly toward the door, reacting to something outside the frame. Elias didn’t move. His jaw clenched. His hand curled into a fist. She’s not alone. Not anymore.
The lightsin the chamber never dimmed.
Alex hung suspended by his arms now, wrists bound by reinforced cuffs above his head. His feet barely touched the ground. Muscles screamed, his shoulders on fire, ribs aching with each shallow breath. Sweat soaked his naked frame, cold against his skin. Blood—some dry, some fresh—marked his throat, his temple, the side of his mouth.
He didn’t know how long it had been. Time had stopped meaning anything. But pain? Pain never lost its clarity.
The door hissed open again, and Monroe entered with sharp steps, flanked by two of her techs—young, pale, visibly rattled. One held a tablet, eyes bouncing nervously between it and the biometric monitors lining one wall. The data was clear: Alex’s vital signs were spiking, dangerously high.
“Cortisol’s through the roof,” the tech murmured. “Heart rate erratic. BP’s unstable—he needs a recovery window.”
Monroe didn’t even look at him. “No. We move forward. Begin the next phase.”
“Monroe,” the tech said, lowering his voice, “we’re already past safe threshold. If we push again without a full reset, he could go into cardiac arrest?—”
Monroe turned. One look.
The tech shut up.
She approached Alex slowly, heels echoing in the sterilized room. His head lolled forward, chin bloodied, breath ragged.
“Still in there?” she asked softly. “Still clinging to the hero fantasy? You fascinate me.” Her hand ran down his sweating body.
He coughed—half breath, half laugh. “You’re going to a lot of trouble to kill a nobody.”
She tilted her head. “Not kill. Rebuild. You are quite far from a nobody.” She turned to the second tech. “Queue Protocol Nine.”
The tech hesitated. “That’s a wipe tier. It’s not approved for human beings.”
“I don’t care if it’s approved. I care if it works.”
The tech nodded slowly and started inputting commands. The overhead hum deepened, and the ceiling lights flickered once, twice. A cold hiss began to pulse from the floor panels, chemical induction lines warming.
“You were never supposed to be more than a tool,” Monroe said, circling him now. “A well-placed investigator with just enough charm to pass for loyal. But you got too close. Too involved. That makes you a liability.”
Alex lifted his head, barely. “You’re scared.”
She stopped. “Excuse me?”
“You’re rushing,” he rasped. “You’re desperate. Because I figured it out. Because Elias isn’t your problem anymore… I am.”
The room froze for a second. Monroe’s face twitched. Just a flicker.
Then she smiled. Cold. Flat.
