Chapter 2: Blackstone Barbs
Blackstone Prison wasn't made for redemption. It was built to forget.
"Prisoner 7‑314," barked a voice as the iron gate slammed behind her. "Strip and sanitize."
Nora didn’t move.
Two guards grabbed her arms. “Want the hose instead?”
She spat blood at the floor. “Touch me and I bite.”
The taller one smirked. “Defect’s got fangs, huh?”
“Defects don’t shift,” the other muttered, unbuckling the cuffs. “She’s just another reject.”
Minutes later, cold water blasted her against tile. She didn’t scream—just shivered, jaw locked, watching the mold on the ceiling drip like tears.
---
Inside the cell, fluorescent lights buzzed above obsidian walls. Thin bedding. One sink. No mirror.
"Welcome to Blackstone," the intake medic said, marking her arm with a scanner. “You’ll be receiving experimental treatment daily. Reversion Serum. Don’t fight it—it’s protocol.”
Nora didn’t answer. Her gaze fixed on the tray of syringes.
The medic rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me the rebel silence crap. You’re a number here. Not a person.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not your experiment.”
“No,” he said. “You’re your own execution.”
---
The first injection came with fire.
Liquid agony spread from her veins outward, setting nerves alight. She convulsed, throat clenched too tight to scream.
Outside the cell, guards chuckled. “Twenty credits says she’s dead by day three.”
“She won’t make two.”
Nora crawled to the corner and threw up blood. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Her vision blurred.
Still, she whispered, “Not yet. Not like this.”
---
Days bled into nights. She counted seconds between doses. Memorized the pattern of bootsteps outside her door. She scrawled tally marks with broken fingernails beneath her bunk.
And then—
One storm-choked night, everything changed.
A different rhythm of footsteps approached. Calmer. Sharper.
The door clanked.
A new officer entered, long coat dusted with snow, gloves neatly tucked behind his belt. Steel eyes. A face she couldn’t forget—even if he had forgotten hers.
“Stand,” he said.
Nora stayed seated on the floor, staring at the shadows on the wall.
“I said stand.”
“I’d rather die lying down,” she said, voice rasped raw.
He stepped forward, gaze assessing her like a field map.
"You were arrested during the Morrow Ridge raid," he said. "The only survivor."
"Unlucky you."
"Or unlucky you, depending on what I decide."
She laughed weakly. “You’re not that important.”
“Commander Cyrus,” he said coolly. “And you’ll address me as such.”
She turned, slowly meeting his eyes. “You’re the one who gave the order, aren’t you?”
He blinked. “What order?”
“To burn Greywing.”
A pause.
“I don’t recall that name.”
“Of course you don’t,” she muttered. “Monsters never do.”
He narrowed his gaze, studying her face. Something flickered there—but it passed like a shadow under snow.
“You don’t belong in this program,” he said finally. “You’re wasting state serum.”
“So let me rot,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “I’m discharging you.”
---
The next thing she knew, her cell door unlatched. The guards looked uneasy. One held a pre-filled adrenaline injector. Another handed Cyrus a clipboard.
“She’s flagged for termination,” the medic warned.
“She’s flagged incorrectly,” Cyrus said. “Medical override. Immediate release.”
"Sir, she’s a known rebel. We’ve got no ID, no name, just—"
“She’s no threat.” Cyrus didn’t raise his voice, but the guards fell silent.
Nora tried to stand but collapsed, lungs burning again.
Cyrus knelt and, for a moment, his gloved hand hovered above hers. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said.
“You think I’d thank you?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away.
---
They dumped her outside the gate at dawn. No coat. No shoes. Just a torn uniform and bruised pride.
The snow was ankle-deep.
She crawled for what felt like hours. Then days.
Every tree looked the same. Every gust of wind howled like ghosts.
But she survived.
Because she had a name.
Because she had a purpose.
Because deep inside, past the rage and pain, a single question burned—
Why did the silver-eyed wolf let her live?