I close my eyes, trying to stave off the nausea that bites at my insides. My hands twist quietly behind my back. I’ve been tightening and loosening my hands against the ropes for hours now. My wrists are scraped down to the flesh, and I can feel the blood trickling wet down my hands, probably soaking crimson into the rope fibers. But it’s not for nothing; the rope has loosened slightly since I first started working on it. Another couple of hours, and I might be able to slip a hand through one of them.

After that, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do. But I’m used to taking crises one step at a time.

Near the door, the women switch out with two male guards. I see them turn their heads in my direction, but my figure stays limp against the chair. After several long minutes, they lean idly away and against the doorframe. My last round of guards make their way down the hall outside that I’ve never seen, their boots echoing against marble.

I listen closely to them until they fade away. It takes a long time. How big is this place? The hall they walked down seems to continue forever, and only after long seconds have dragged by am I no longer able to hear their echo at all.

My wrists keep twisting. The pain of it makes me clench my jaw, but I fight to keep the grimace off of my lips. The metal of my artificial leg cuts cold through my pant leg as I keep my ankles crossed.

The new guards don’t pay me any attention. They must have been warned about the way I bit the first man, but they haven’t seen it, and as far as they’re concerned, I look pretty harmless.

My wrists keep twisting. Fresh blood flows down my hands. I can feel it dripping silently down my fingers to the rug behind me. The slickness of it makes my hand slightly more mobile within its bond. I tug slowly, careful not to show my arms at work.

The bonds loosen a fraction more. Just enough.

I stop twisting and pull one of my hands gently against the frayed bond. My thumb and pinkie finger are squeezed together as I tug as hard as I can. At first, the bond doesn’t give, and the ropes cut hard against my already-damaged skin. I let out a quiet, shaky breath. Then I pull harder.

Finally, the rope gives a little. The tight bond edges closer to the rim of my knuckles. I keep working it. By the door, one of the guards casts me a casual glance.

I stop moving for a moment and keep still, my eyes still focused on the ground.

He nudges his friend and says something about me in a low voice. They laugh. Then they do what I’d hoped, going back to their positions.

I give my hand one determined tug, ignoring the pain.

This time, my knuckles finally squeeze past the rope, and my hand comes free.

I don’t dare react. My arms stay firmly locked in place behind my back. But my freed hand searches for the knots tying my other hand down, and quietly I start to work on that.

My second hand loosens, then starts to come free.

By the door, one of the guards looks in my direction. This time, instead of glancing away again, his gaze lingers. I stop moving for a moment and shift uncomfortably in my chair, letting myself look like I’m settling back into a restless sleep. But through the slit of my half-opened eyes, I can tell that he’s not looking away.

Then he pushes back from the door and starts heading toward me.

For some reason, this triggers a flicker of a memory. June, standing at the door of an underground bunker, approaching me and motioning for me to get up. Her hands brush my waist, my chest, my chin. She positions me for a fight, then teaches me how to view my opponent. She throws a purposeful punch and shows me how to dodge and counter.

I try to hang on to this wisp of a memory even as it starts to fade. Over the years, I’ve learned to hold my own in a fight, have fought back the urge to run and replaced it with the bracing of an attack. And now, as the guard steps toward me, I can feel my muscles tensing, my hands instinctively tightening into fists.

The guard stops in front of me with a frown. Then he starts moving to look behind the chair.

My second hand slips free. I move.

He shifts toward me in surprise—but I’m already in motion. I snap to my feet in an instant, then swing the chair up. The guard has only a moment to bring his arms up in defense before the chair catches him in the side hard enough to send him sprawling onto the floor.

I don’t wait. Instead, my eyes fall on the gun at his belt. I lunge for it. He kicks out at me.

The other guard runs toward me now. I manage to get my hands on the gun, but the first man’s leg kicks up at me. Better to let the gun go instead of falling. The thought flashes through my head and I snap backward, giving up on grabbing the weapon. I race toward the entrance.

But I’m weaker than normal right now, and my swinging of the chair has sapped more of my energy than I thought. I stumble in my steps.

One of the guards catches up to me and points a gun at me. Gritting my teeth, I thrust the chair at him. The chair leg hits him in the face—just enough time for me to whirl and dart out the door. I’m temporarily in the open.

Running—now that I can do. The hall before me is long and narrow, cutting through several rooms, and I race down it. At the end of the hall stand a couple of guards who don’t yet realize I’m coming. I won’t be able to go around the bend, but there’s a window against this wall. The first window I’ve seen.

The guards at the end of the hall turn toward me for the first time. Behind me, the others let out shouts. A bullet pings near my leg.

My breath runs shallow. The lack of water holds me back. Spots appear in my vision as I go, but I force myself to push back against it all.

As I reach the second set of guards now trained on me, I slide against the marble and turn my feet at the last instant. I lunge for the window, my bloody hands nearly slipping against the windowsill, but they catch, and I’m swinging myself through the window and out of the hall.

One glance out this window tells me that this building is entirely underground. High ceilings rise multiple floors over me. The complex is sprawling. And far ahead, I see what looks like a construction site and part of a large, circular machine.

Eden. My heart lurches. The guards had said he was working on some site. Was that where it was?

It’s all I have time to see. Then I’m twisting my body up, my boots pushing off against the windowsill and propelling me up toward the roof. My hands catch the edge of the roof and pull me up. I land in a firm crouch. Below me, I can hear shouts coming from inside. A spotlight starts to sweep across the estate.

This must be just one of Hann’s many hideouts. How many other places does he have? I duck behind a chimney as the spotlight sweeps close. My eyes narrow. As if bred out of years of muscle memory, my body knows exactly how to avoid the light, thinks it’s in Batalla Hall again and trying to find a way out. Thinks it’s on the Colonies’ airfield again and searching for a way to get close to their parked fighter jets.

I dart across the roofs. The construction site nears.

Then a bullet scrapes the roof nearest me. It misses me—but it chips the roof tiles hard enough to shatter them into fragments. My boot catches in just the wrong way against the breaking tiles.

I slip.

My hands scramble to grab the edge of the roof, but they’re too slippery with blood. I tumble off and to the ground.

Immediately, I try to scramble up again, but now a guard has reached me.

A Republic soldier, seizing me as a bullet shatters my knee. My scream, hoarse with rage and grief.