Against Devil

21 - Demon's Wife

The cold hit me first.

A bone-deep, skin-burning cold that seeped into every inch of me like punishment. My eyelids fluttered, heavy, sticky. The air smelled like metal and rot. I was sprawled on a slab of concrete, naked, bruised, and barely breathing.

My throat was dry. My skin raw in places where the silver net had touched me.

What the hell happened?

I tried to move and pain lanced up my spine. Muscles ached from overuse. My memory crashed back all at once: the chase, the military jeeps, the fire, the sniper—Lizzy.

The one girl I swear to protect.

Gone.

I pushed myself up with a groan and glanced around. A concrete cell. No windows. No visible handle on the steel door, just a keypad outside and a wall vent overhead. Fluorescent lights flickered weakly. There was dried blood on my palm—probably my own.

The cell looked extremely well-equipped when I arrived at the bars, and when I tried touching it, it shot electricity up my finger. 

"Dumbasses" I hissed holding into my finger, "Why I always hurt the same finger!"

I looked around the cell, a concrete floor which looked like it had been mopped, but whoever did the cleaning looked like they had never cleaned before. 

"Pigs," I mumbled to myself.

I looked over my body, which was covered in dirt and blood. The wound that was left in my thigh since yesterday was almost healed, but it was doing so slowly. Cause there fucker used poisnes in their bullets. How could I have forgotten? 

I exhaled through my teeth and scanned for anything usable. A rusted cot frame in the corner. A bucket. A wall grate barely wide enough for a large cat, but I wasn't above squeezing.

I stood—legs trembling—and ripped off the frame's edge. It screeched, metal against metal, but I got what I needed: a sharp fragment.

Not a weapon.

A tool.

I climbed onto the cot and jammed the metal fragment into the air vent cover. Three tugs and a crack later, it popped loose. The space was tight, brutal on my ribs, but I pulled myself in. Crawling naked and bleeding through dust-choked ductwork was not my finest moment.

But I'd had worse.

Eventually, I dropped into a dim hallway. I landed in a crouch, wincing, and peeked around a corner. One guard. Young. Distracted.

I moved like a shadow. Caught him from behind. My arm wrapped around his neck as the other slammed the sharp cot shard into the side of his knee. He buckled. No scream. Just a breathless thud.

I dragged him into a supply room, yanked on his vest, and strapped a stolen knife to my thigh. No time for clothes. Just a dead man's boots and my own rage.

I moved deeper into the compound. Every corridor was sterile, industrial. Every corner, a risk.

But I didn't stop.

I took out another man near the mess hall—disoriented him with a head slam against the wall, then used his taser on his buddy. Bodies left where they wouldn't be seen.

Then I heard voices.

Not loud. Just around the bend. Four, maybe five men. A narrow-lit corridor. I ducked into a shadowed gap beside a broken vending machine, blood humming in my ears.

And then I heard it.

His voice.

Ravi.