I FADED—IN AND OUT OF consciousness, in between reality and dream, and through light and darkness.

My mind spun inside my skull, light as a passing breeze. The bite of the leather straps holding me down—across my shoulders, my stomach, my legs—was disorienting. Half of me was there. The other half was rising toward the cracks in the metal roof, pulling myself up on those narrow ropes of light. The shadows on the walls were like long-forgotten nightmares, circling their prey.

Each time I closed my eyes, a new scene played out. Campfires. Dark roads. Electric fences. Closer and closer, faces edged forward out of the darkness. They watched me, blurred and unreal. They were all here, everyone I had known. My friends. Caledonia’s controller. Gabe. Mel. The old woman. My head was crowned with sparks and crackling threads of power.

They watched, but didn’t come closer. Didn’t help. They spoke in broken thoughts and uneven voices.

“—everywhere, looking for her—”

“Stay here, wait for orders—”

“The truck—”

My eyelids burned. They drooped shut under their own weight; the tears and crusts caught in the lashes were as heavy as lead. This time, there was only darkness.

There was nothing at all.

At first, I thought it was blood.

The metallic stench seeped into my nose, my hair, my skin until I couldn’t escape it. I forced my eyes open, cringing at the intensity of the light from above. As the black spots floating in my retinas faded, I could finally make out the stains on the ceiling. On the walls around me.

It was only rust. But seeing it smeared everywhere, the red-tinged droplets falling steadily into a small pool near my head, made the bile rise in my throat again, until I was sure I would choke on my own vomit.

Breathe. I sucked one breath in through my nose, then released it slowly. Just the way Doctor Poiner had taught me in our very first session, three years ago, when the past suddenly grew teeth and started following me everywhere.

Breathe through the panic, she’d coached. Find five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste.

Three walls, the ceiling, my shirt, I counted. The ridges on the metal, the damp strokes of condensation, the clumps of rust both old and new, the rough wood of the floor beneath me. My heartbeat, drips of water, my breath. Gasoline and something rotting. My sweat.

Breaking down all those senses one at a time made me realize something else: I could hear again. The static whine had subsided enough that it no longer blocked out every other sound. It was still there, though, buzzing like a fly trapped in my ear.

I took in another breath, trying to sit up. The straps keeping me in place creaked but didn’t stretch. I was flat on my back and wet where my body touched the ground. Judging by the shape of the small space, it had to be some kind of shed—or a shipping container?

I craned my neck back, catching sight of two long, still shapes in the shadows. It all came back in a jolt that sent awareness shooting through me. Wherever I was now, they hadn’t brought me here alone.

Someone was taking shallow breaths, pulling hard against their restraints. There was an edge of panic to it, and I had to fight to keep it from infecting me, too.

“Hello?” My throat felt blistered.

“Try to keep your voice down.” The boy. He spoke so softly, I barely made him out. He was still tugging at his restraints when he added, “There are guards posted outside.”

Some of the tension in my shoulders eased, making it easier to breath.

“Oh good,” I whispered back, forcing a brightness into my voice. The patented Liam Stewart method of trying to defuse someone else’s fears while swallowing your own. “I was worried escaping would be too easy.”

“Too easy?” he repeated, momentarily forgetting the restraints. I was just about to explain the art of inappropriately timed sarcasm when he said, almost as if testing a joking tone for the first time, “Then…you’ll be excited to know that it looked like they were armed with everything but flamethrowers.”

I twisted to look at him again—the dirt-caked bottom of his sneakers, at least. His breathing had evened out somewhat, and even with the lack of light I could see him twisting his body to try to catch a glimpse of me. “No flamethrowers?” I said. “What kind of evil organization is this?”

“A particularly stupid kind,” he whispered back, “one that was reckless enough to try taking you and foolish enough to underestimate your ability to fight back. I think you gave them the shock of their lives.”

It was what I wanted to believe more than anything in that moment: that I was capable of both getting us out of here, and making whoever had taken us regret it. That strand of confidence wove through me. “And that’s too bad. About the flamethrower, I mean. I do know how to use one, you know.”

“You say that like it’s meant to surprise me,” the boy said quietly. “Like I didn’t watch you punch a man twice your size with a fistful of lightning.”

That’s right—I had, hadn’t I? That memory was enough to send the aftermath of the explosion crashing back through my mind. Him and the girl being beaten and slammed against the ground. The armor the soldiers wore that blocked my power. The boy shouting at me to run.

Would he have told me to go if they were involved? Would they be locked in here—wherever here was—with me? He’d held himself together after the bomb in a calm, composed way. Even as the men attacked us, he’d seemed to sink deeper into that control, as if he’d merely clicked into a different, more lethal mode.

But a minute ago, I’d heard his strained breathing. I’d felt his rising panic as if it had been my own pulse fluttering beneath my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “There’s nothing funny about this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Humor is good for the alleviation of stress.”

Now that I could hear him clearly, my ears picked up the faint trace of an accent. Polish, maybe? Russian?

I gave a faint laugh. “That sounds like something a friend of mine would say.”

God. Chubs would be so worried. He and the others were probably losing their minds. He’d be my first call once I got us all out of here.

Get out, find a phone, make the call. It wasn’t even enough to really be considered a plan, but I clung to it. Even if there were a hundred steps that I still had to sort out, it gave me something real to start planning for. Just the possibility of hearing his voice after everything was enough to make me test the strength of the restraints again.

“I’ve been informed that I have the sense of humor of a rock,” he whispered, “which I’m interpreting as nonexistent and not surprisingly colorful.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be doing okay,” I told him, pulling at my restraints again. “We can work on it after we get out of here. You didn’t happen to notice where that is, did you?”

It was a long moment before he responded. I heard him swallow hard, the creak of leather as he tried to move. When he did speak, his voice had gone hollow. Remote. “Storage container—some kind of rail yard.”

The waves of fear rolled out, releasing the unbearable tightness in my chest, carving out pockets of paralyzing anxiety. In those places, something new bloomed.

Fury.

For the threat during the speech. For Mel. For the wounded. For Cooper. For shattering that small measure of peace we’d managed to scrape together after almost five years of struggling. For the boy and the girl caught in this dark web with me.

It had to be connected—the bombing, being taken. From the moment the Defender had walked me down the steps of Old Main, toward the second Defender with the wrong baton and the gun, to when we’d reached the lot and had been confronted by a man with protective tactical gear that had nullified my specific power.

They had targeted me.

“I’m getting us out of here,” I told him, not bothering to keep my voice down. “Do you see anything around you we could use to pry up the bolts on our restraints?”

“Guards,” the boy reminded me quietly.

Right then, I couldn’t hear anything other than the wind blowing outside the storage container. My job required me to be so reserved, so careful with every small word choice, it felt like a relief to finally be able to say exactly what I wanted to.

“Let them listen, I don’t care.” I raised my voice, loud enough for it to echo off the metal walls. “I want them to know exactly how fucked they are the second we get out of here.”

Silence. The boy shifted, craning his neck to watch what I assumed was the entrance.

“Is she—the girl—is she okay?” I asked. “It looked like she took a big hit….”

“Priyanka? She’s taken bigger ones,” he said unhappily. “A word of warning: she’s going to wake up in a few minutes and will absolutely fight you to be the first one out of here. Please do not forget to unchain me when the two of you escape.” Somehow, he didn’t need to raise his voice the way I had for it to carry through our prison. His words were pure ice. “And when you’re done with them, I’ll make sure no one will recognize they were ever human.”

No response. Not even a bang on the door to tell us to shut up. No taunts, either.

I breathed in and out, cringing as a fat droplet of rust-stained water dripped onto my forehead.

“Maybe they’re gone,” I ventured. “Taking a break to do something else horrific. I should have asked before, but are you all right?”

“I just…want to get out of here,” he said haltingly. He shifted again, and I wondered what he was trying to see. “Can you think of any reason why they’d want to grab you?”

So he was also operating under the assumption that they had targeted me, and he and his friend had just been collateral damage.

Collateral damage who happened to be able to fight with an efficiency I’d only ever seen in trained soldiers.

“To make a statement? For ransom?” I decided to feel him out, see what he’d tell me about himself before clamming up. “Why do you assume they weren’t targeting you? Or Priyanka?”

“Because I’m no one,” he said quietly. “And I can’t imagine what they’d gain by taking Priyanka, unless they’re just planning on selling us to the highest bidder. But even that doesn’t seem likely, considering your high profile. It’s too big of a risk.”

“I doubt they’d risk selling any Psi. The government has shut down every attempt to illegally move Psi both inside and out of the country,” I said. “That’s why they keep such close tabs on all of us, to protect against that possibility.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “So what do you want to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you want us to handle the escape?” he clarified. “I can’t tell how long we’ve been here, but if the guards are really gone they might be prepping to move us.”

As his words sank in, I felt something bright, something steady and calm break open inside me. He was looking to me again for what to do.

Relying on me.

“Normally, I love a good road trip, but we can’t let them move us,” I said. “If they come in to remove the restraints to bring us to another transport, wait until we’re all freed. Then we fight.”

“Agreed.”

I closed my eyes briefly, exhaling through my nose.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly.

“I was about to say the same thing to you,” I said. My bottom lip must have split open at some point after I lost consciousness, because the cut reopened as I spoke, and I tasted blood. “People will be looking for me, and once we break out of here, these assholes will have to face the full measure of the law for the lives they took. I’ll make sure of it.”

Silenced pooled between us once more. Finally, he asked, “What about me?”

“Well, you’re welcome to help,” I told him.

“No,” he cut in. “I mean, will you do the same for me? Make sure I don’t escape the law?”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“The men,” he continued. “The ones I killed.”

The ones he’d dispatched with cool efficiency, and that expressionless mask on his face.

“That was self-defense,” I said, wondering who I was trying to reassure. “Anyone with eyes could have seen that.”

“For us,” he said, “there is no such thing as self-defense.”

“What do you mean?” When he didn’t respond, I pressed: “Who are you that you could even do that? You’re not just a student, are you? Why were you really at the speech?”

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “Suzume, listen—”

There was a labored groan of metal somewhere behind me. Daylight washed in, blanketing us in late-afternoon gold. My eyes watered the longer I stared at the opening, at the silhouetted figures there.

“I don’t know who the hell you are—” I called out to them.

I was cut off by the clang of metal striking metal, and a sinister hiss. Gas billowed around us, choking the small space. The door slammed shut again, a heavy lock rammed into place. The air turned sour, chemical.

“Shit,” the boy said, his words slurring. “Don’t breathe. Try not to—”

My thoughts slowed as the sensation of spinning returned. The darkness was a whirlpool that came on too quickly for me to feel afraid, or wonder if I’d ever wake up again.

“Your name,” I gasped out. “What’s your name?”

I fought against the pull of unconsciousness, bucking up against the restraints. It wasn’t right, none of this was right—I couldn’t go without knowing—

A single word reached me before the world dissolved into darkness: “Roman.”