Night Of The Hunter

One Week - Flashback.

It had been a week since I woke up nearly naked, tangled in a mess of wires that seemed surgically attached to every inch of my body. The sterile white room was so blinding it burned behind my eyelids, and no matter how long I stared at the ceiling, it never got easier.

Seven days since I'd been taken.

Seven days of being prodded, pricked, injected, sedated.

They kept telling me to stop resisting. I kept telling them to fuck off.

It usually ended with me sedated and waking up hours later, my body sluggish and my mind heavy. They thought I'd eventually give in, let the process mold me into whatever little project they needed.

They were wrong.

I was raised better than that. I was raised harder than that.

My father didn't believe in softness, not even for his daughter. The first time I held a sniper rifle, I was six. My legs could barely reach the edge of the folding table it rested on. He taught me how to breathe through the trigger pull. How to feel the wind through my skin. Even before the enhancements, I could land a bullseye at 300 meters. But it was never enough. Not for him.

"Again."

"Better."

"Not good enough, Arabella."

So I learned to adapt. Learned to survive. That's what made me different now. That's what made me dangerous.

I sat curled in the far corner of my sterile cell, behind the paper-thin excuse for a bunk. Knees tucked under my chin, jaw clenched. I stared at the door, already sensing the guard behind it before the lock even clicked. My senses were... different. Amplified. I could smell him—cigarettes and leather and cheap cologne. I could hear the scuff of his boot against the tile.

The lock disengaged.

Door opened.

He stepped in again.

Same guy. Same tray of food. He wasn't the worst. But that didn't mean I didn't think about stabbing him in the neck with my plastic fork every time he walked in.

"Food time," he said, sighing as he placed the tray down.

He sat on the floor, resting against the opposite wall. His dark hair was tousled, like he'd just rolled out of a bunk, and those intense green eyes stayed trained on me in that infuriatingly calm way.

"You should eat something, Callahan."

I looked up slowly, studying him with equal suspicion and fascination. He was built like someone who had survived more than one war. Army Green shirt clinging to a chest that looked like it had been carved out of marble. Camo pants tucked into combat boots. Pretty-boy face with battle-worn edges.

"You should mind your own business, pretty boy," I muttered.

He chuckled. "Braxton. Aiden Braxton."

Of course, he said his name like that. I knew his name already—Braxton was printed in bold block letters across his uniform, just like Callahan was printed across mine. Everyone wore their surname, but I never called him by his. Never gave him the satisfaction. Hell, I barely answered him at all.

I looked away, down at the sad excuse for a meal. Chicken. Mashed potatoes. Corn. Again.

"What do you want?"

"I want a lot of things. Right now? For you to eat your damn food so I can go finish my book."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'd rather starve."