Page 46 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

Act normal and keep your headdownwas a mantra that ran on repeat in her head.

A couple of ordinary guards came from around the corner, the low timbre of their small talk unthreatening, and yet her heart pounded, and she gripped the handle of the trolley with a white-knuckled force.

Relax.

To them, she was nothing—just another woman in a shapeless garment pushing a squeaking cart with her eyes lowered in humble compliance.

Once the guards' voices faded, she took a deep breath and grimaced at the unpleasant scent. This building smelled even worse than the rest of the compound. Maybe it was an offensive mix of chemical disinfectants, the rot of neglect, or both. Or maybe she was registering the faint whiff of the human emotions permeating this space.

Fear, pain, despair, and their counterparts—hatred, greed, and cruelty.

The worst part was that the smell was familiar, and it evoked a surge of panic that Kyra couldn't afford to let distract her. She needed details about the prisoners behind the steel doors and perhaps some clues about what had been done to her.

Shuffling down the winding corridors, she encountered the same neglect she had seen in the other building. Nothing special had been done to fix the place ahead of the new commander's arrival. The paint on the walls was peeling away in scabs of green and yellow, revealing the dull cement underneath, and the floors, worn by decades of heavy boot traffic, bore scuff marks that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase. Many of the overhead fluorescent lights either didn't function or flickered as if they were in their last death throes, casting some areas in brightness and others in shadowy gloom. The effect was disorienting—like her disjointed memories—a few patches of clarity surrounded by stretches of dark unknown.

Two guards stood at the bottom of the concrete stairwell that led to the eastern wing's upper floors.

Kyra kept her gaze on her cart, and the guards barely glanced at her. She passed them without incident and climbed up, carrying her cart up the stairs and pretending it was a considerable effort.

On the third floor, a hush blanketed the corridor. Metal doors punctuated the walls, each with a small barred window near the top.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with a man whose uniform bore a colonel's insignia.

"Watch where you're going," he snapped, stepping aside.

What was that smell?

The colonel reeked of something that triggered a visceral fear and brought about an involuntary tremor, evoking memories she assumed were from her days in the asylum. Her memories of the place were murky, and she didn't remember how she'd gotten there or what had been done to her, or even how long she'd been imprisoned in the vile place. She barely remembered the route she'd taken in the final chaos when she'd freed the other captives and fled into the night or how she'd ended up with the Kurdish rebels. And yet, she remembered that smell.

Quickly lowering her eyes, she murmured an apology.

After a charged beat, he moved on, with an aide hurrying after him.

"Regarding the prisoner in cell twelve, sir, should we increase the dosage?"

"Not yet. The doctor wouldn't want her brain fried. We need to await his commands."

As the colonel and his assistant disappeared behind the corner, Kyra remained frozen momentarily.

Cell number twelve.

She had to see for herself who was held there. Gripping her cart, she wheeled it to the next corridor. When she was sure no one was watching, she parked it by a supply closet and continued walking.

Each door in this section also had a small, barred glass pane. She scanned the numbers by the frames: fifteen…fourteen …thirteen… twelve.

Standing on tiptoes, Kyra peered through the window, and her breath caught.

A woman lay shackled to a narrow cot, wrists and ankles held by thick restraints. Her dark hair clung to a pillow soaked with sweat, and tears and bruises marred her face.

Kyra had seen this kind of damage before—a mixture of chemical sedation and physical abuse she couldn't comprehend the purpose of, other than satisfying the sick pleasure of a sadist.

For a moment, Kyra's vision blurred. Emotions churned. Why did this stranger's face spark such a visceral reaction?

A swirl of memories battered at her mind: the asylum corridor, the doctor's eyes gleaming, her own screams sounding only inside her head.

Her chest tightened. What had they done to her and why?

As footsteps echoed in the stairwell, Kyra quickly stepped away from the window. With a shaky breath, she slinked back to her cart and pressed forward down the corridor, posture stooped and feet shuffling.

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