Chapter 17

"Bullshit," Damon spits. "She can't even use a knife and she's supposed to be the one while all the others failed? No way in hell. I think you fell for the pussy and now want to keep her." His voice is sharp, mocking, as he throws his knife at Dane.

The blade slices past Dane's face, grazing his cheek. He doesn't flinch.

"Think what you want," Dane replies coldly. "But she's different. That's why we brought her here in the first place. We wanted something new, and she is new. She doesn't follow like the other puppets. She uses her head. And she has a rage inside her that none of the others ever had."

"A little rage and intelligence won't mean shit if she can't fight or kill," Cobra says flatly, eyes locked on Isaak. "She's useless. This was a mistake."

For years, they had been searching for the perfect recruit—someone they could mold, manipulate, and eventually use for their own rebellion. Every candidate failed. They either died in training or on their first mission. Out of desperation, Isaak had suggested something radical: kidnap someone random, throw them into the system, and see what happened. Eliana was the result of that gamble.

But no one had expected anything from her. No one—except Dane.

Isaak sighs from behind his desk, visibly tired. "We'll observe her. If she really is useless, she'll die sooner or later."

With that the meeting ends and everyone starts to leave Isaak's office.

Theo strolls out with a bright grin, already cooking up a plan to test her. Isaak catches the look and narrows his eyes.

"Don't break the girl too soon," he warns, the warning goes for all of them. "Let's see her potential before she breaks."

---

What none of them know is that Eliana is already hanging by a thread. Every day is a blur. She's on autopilot, existing only because they threaten to kill her family otherwise. If they didn't, she might have jumped out of a window by now.

She attends every class, but there's little improvement. In combat today, Keith kicks her ass again.

A kick slams into her stomach. She gasps, crumpling to the ground, her arms wrapped around herself. Her skin glistens with sweat, her body covered in bruises. Hours of relentless training have worn her down.

"Get up," Keith snaps. "I taught you how to block. You just don't use it."

Since their kiss, she hasn't felt comfortable around him. Tristan's words echo in her mind—about Keith's old training partners. Why did he choose her? How long had he been here?

She doesn't care anymore.

She staggers to her feet, her gaze flicking briefly to Cobra, who watches them from across the room. Keith notices too. He wants to impress the mentor and get some bonus points.

He lunges at Eliana again. She tries to block this time, but he's too fast. His fist crashes through her block and into her face, and she hears the crack of her nose breaking. Blood floods her mouth.

"Enough… I can't…" she gasps, hand raised in surrender.

But Keith isn't done. He grabs her raised arm, twists it behind her back—and snaps it at the elbow. Her scream pierces the air.

The more time passes the more aggressive Keith is getting during training and Eliana doesn't understand why. Does he think the more brutal her beats her up the more impressed Cobra will be with him or what?

The pain blinds her and the darkness swallows her as she passes out.

Cobra gives Keith a small nod of acknowledgment which makes him feel proud and satisfied with himself.

With that Keith walks away, leaving Eliana crumpled on the mat.

Eventually, she regains consciousness. Her head pounds, her nose throbs, and her arm dangles at a wrong angle. She forces herself upright and staggers toward the infirmary.

She hates this pain. All of it. She misses college—where her biggest worries were exams and what to eat for dinner. Regret fills her for ever complaining back then. She would give anything to go back.

Those days feel like a lifetime ago.

She finally reaches the infirmary and stumbles inside—then promptly vomits on the floor from the pain.

"Ew," a deep voice mutters. "You could've at least aimed for the trash can. I'm not cleaning that up."

She lifts her head, pale and sweaty, and glares at Dane. For a moment, she imagines smashing his face into her vomit.

"Fuck off… my arm and nose are broken," she croaks, collapsing onto one of the beds.

Dane walks over, poking at her dislocated arm.

She hisses in pain. "Stop that and just heal me."

He turns away and grabs a syringe. "No please? You're in a mood."

"Maybe because I'm broken," she growls.

He snorts as he prepares the syringe and then puts on gloves. "And how exactly did that happen?"

"Combat training," she mutters, eyes closed, bracing for more pain.

"Why didn't you block or fight back?" he asks, inspecting her nose.

"Because I can't figh—AHHHH!"

He abruptly resets her nose which makes her scream in agony. Fuck, he could have warned her. Her vision blackens for a second from the pain and she blinks a few times only to see Dane's face right in front of hers.

"You can fight," he says, voice sharp. "You're just not trying. At this rate, you won't survive another month here." Why does he sound as if he is angry at her for not fighting back? It is none of his business and why would he care if she dies or not?

Their eyes lock—hers furious, his unwavering.

And for a moment, it's silent.