I sat in the passenger seat of the lead van, hands clenched in my lap.
The hum of the engine was low and steady, the road a blur of gray outside the window. Nothing but cracked asphalt and ghost-thin trees, blurred by the speed we were going. The world passed by in smears, but my thoughts didn't move. They stayed locked in that crate.
With him.
With Nine.
I hadn't seen his face when they shut the doors. Just a flash of white hair and the sound of chains brushing against metal. Then silence. No bond. No sense of him at all. Like the van had swallowed him whole.
He had to be cold.
I hadn't been allowed to speak to him. I hadn't even been allowed to walk beside him. The guards made sure of that. I was just here for show—for control, in case something went wrong.
As if I could control him.
As if I would.
My nails bit into my palms. Nyx paced behind my ribs, bristling, growling. She hadn't stopped moving since we left. She hadn't stopped snarling his name.
He's not okay, she whispered, her voice sharp and low. I can't feel him. I don't like this. I don't like this at all.
"Neither do I," I whispered back.
The driver beside me didn't say anything. They weren't here to talk. They were just one of the hired muscle—scarred neck, bored expression, smelling faintly of blood and burnt oil. I doubted they even knew what they were carrying.
Or who.
I wanted to scream. Tear the van apart. Throw myself into the back and pry that crate open with my teeth.
But I didn't.
Because there was a chip in Nine's brain. Because one wrong move meant detonation. Because he'd be gone in less than a breath if I let my rage take over.
I turned my head slightly, eyes fixed on the side mirror.
The second van behind us was still there. Containing the cargo. Containing him. I couldn't see the crates from here. I couldn't hear anything.
Was he awake?
Was he hurting?
Was he scared?
I closed my eyes. Tried to focus. Tried to stretch my senses through the bond, but it was too faint. Muted. Like his mind had been wrapped in cotton or submerged underwater. Distant.
The memory of him being kicked into the crate flashed behind my eyes. That quiet flinch. That way he curled into himself, like disappearing might protect him.
My throat tightened.
I'd held him. Kissed him. Felt his body melt against mine like I was something safe. And now he was locked up like an animal, bruised and aching and probably thinking this was all his fault.
He always thought everything was his fault.
You should've taken him and run.
Nyx's voice again, bitter this time. Accusing.
"I couldn't."
You should've.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
The roads kept winding. We were hours away from the Supreme Leader's estate. Hours from handing Nine over like a gift on a silver platter. Dressed up, drugged out, primed for whatever nightmare waited at the end of this trip.
I pressed my forehead to the window. It was cold. My breath fogged the glass.
The van hit a pothole, jostling slightly. I wondered if he felt that. If he stirred. If the impact jarred his already aching limbs.
The silence was thick.
And inside it, a promise formed—not a loud one. Not violent or impossible. Just a quiet, aching vow:
I'll find a way.
Not to burn it all down.
Not to destroy the system.
But to get him out.
Just him.