Mo
Two days.
Two days in this cell and I’ve memorized every crack in the stone, every rust spot on the bed frame. I know the guard rotation by the sound of their boots on the stairs. Heavy-set comes at dawn and dusk. The lighter one, the younger one, comes midday with food.
If you can call it food. A tin plate with whatever scraps the kitchen couldn’t be bothered to serve to anyone else. Cold rice. A heel of bread so stale I could hammer nails with it. A few bites of something grey and meaty that I don’t examine too closely.
I eat every bite. Every single crumb. My body needs fuel for what I’m about to do.
The bucket in the corner stinks. I’ve been pissing in it for two days, and nobody’s emptied it. The smell is rank and humiliating, and I hate it. But the bolt came free last night, the one that was drilled into the cement securing the bed frame.
Four inches of solid metal, heavy enough to do damage if I swing it right. My hands are raw from working it loose, the skin on my fingertips cracked and bleeding, but I’ve got it—my weapon and my way out.
I’ve been watching the midday guard. He’s young. Careless. He slides the plate under with one hand and barely looks inside. He’s bored with me already, this scrawny omega who hasn’t made a sound in twenty-four hours. I stopped screaming and cursing yesterday morning. On purpose. Let them think I’ve given up. Let them think the cell has done what it’s supposed to do.
The old me would have kept screaming. The old me would have rattled the door and spat at whoever came near.
This new me is much, much more dangerous.
I hear the lighter set of boots on the stairs. It’s showtime.
I’m curled on the bed with my back to the door, the bolt hidden in my fist under the thin blanket. I’ve smeared some of the bucket water on my face and neck so my skin looks clammy. I’ve slowed my breathing down to something shallow and irregular. I smell sick, willing my scent to turn sour, leaning into the fear and the distress and the dehydration until my body puts out exactly the scent a dying omega would.
The footsteps stop outside the door. The scrape of the plate being slid under.
I don’t move. I don’t reach for the food. I’ve been grabbing it the second it appears for two days. Today I leave it.
There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door, trying to decide if he cares enough to check.
Come on. Take the bait, asshole.
The door unlocks and opens.
“Hey. Omega. Eat your food.”
I don’t respond. I make a small, weak sound and curl tighter, selling it.
He takes a step inside. One step. Then another. I hear him crouch beside the bed, and his hand reaches for my shoulder.
I roll toward him, not away, closing the distance before he can react. The bolt swings and connects with his temple. His eyes go wide, then blank, and he crumples sideways, hitting the stone floor with his full weight.
I’m on my feet and grab the keys from his belt, then check his pulse. He’s alive. I’m not a killer. Not yet, anyway.
I step over his body and lock him in the cell.
The stairs are at the end of the corridor, about twenty feet away.
I make it halfway before another guard appears at the top.
He sees me, sees the keys in my hand, and his face goes from bored to alert in half a second. He’s bigger than me by a hundred pounds, already reaching for the weapon at his hip.
But I’m faster than he thinks.
I charge up the stairs. He expects me to run, but he doesn’t expect me to runathim. I duck under his arm as he grabs for me, pivot the way Archer taught me, drop low, and drive my shoulder into his knee. He buckles, grabbing the stairwell wall for balance, and I bring the bolt down on his hand. His fingers crack, and he howls and lets go. I shove past him, scrambling up the last three stairs on my hands and knees.
He grabs my ankle. I kick back with my other foot, heel connecting with his nose. He grunts, his grip loosens, and I yank free and I’m up, through the door, locking it behind me.
My lungs are burning, and my pulse is slamming so hard I can feel it in my eyeballs.