Page 105 of Rescuing Aria
I move forward cautiously, ears straining for any sound. In the distance, I hear the faint hum of machinery. I follow the sound, hoping it leads to a utility area. Somewhere with an exit.
We round a corner and nearly collide with two guards rushing toward the stairs. They halt, recognizing me instantly.
The girl moves with surprising speed, darting forward to slam her knife into the guard’s thigh. He goes down with a cry of pain as his partner lunges for her.
I grab a fire extinguisher from the wall and swing it at the second guard’s head. He staggers but doesn’t fall. His hand closes around my throat, lifting me off my feet and slamming me against the wall.
Black spots dance before my eyes as oxygen dwindles. Behind the guard, the girl hesitates, knife dripping with blood, clearly torn between running and helping.
TWENTY-NINE
Jon
The restraints are professional grade.Industrial, military, top-tier. Cold stainless steel embedded with reinforced lock housings and pressure-force pivots. There’s no give. No loosened loop or warped hinge. Engineered with intent: to hold someone dangerous. Someone like me.
They’ve done their homework.
But they missed something.
No restraint is flawless. Not forever. There’s always a weakness—we’re just trained not to see them. A seam in the weld. A pressure point in the design. Something waiting. Something hidden. It just takes someone desperate enough—someone broken in all the right ways.
I let my body be still.
Breathe shallow.
My heartbeat thuds in my temples, strained and echoing like sonar. The metal wraps too tight around my wrist, tight enough to sing with each pulse. The edge has already peeled back the skin to raw meat. Blood warms the inner curve of my arm. Doesn’t matter. I catalog pain now like an ally, not a warning.
I tense my hand. Flex. Rotate.
Skin peels more. My wrist slides just far enough that I can turn my thumb inward.
The next movement has to be fast. One motion, absolute. There’s no halfway.
I grit my teeth and snap it.
The sound is liquid and brutal—like violent bubble wrap. The knuckle pops right out of the socket, sinew and tendon yanking free. Pain doesn’t just bloom—it explodes. A white-hot fracture down my arm that punches through my lungs.
Motherfucker.
My throat locks. Vision fuzzes, the world narrowing to a white tunnel with a grenade siren screaming inside it. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. Everything collapses for a searing moment.
Then I come swimming back.
I sag forward and suck in air through clenched teeth. The burn lingers, but it’s background now. Manageable.
Functional pain. Necessary pain. The kind that buys escape.
That buys time.
I wrench against the cuffs. The change in joint angle creates just enough slack—microscopic—and I force my hand backward through the ring. Bone grinds. Skin splits wider. The taste of copper hits the back of my throat—I’ve bitten my tongue. Fingertips stretch, shaking and numb, reaching for one thing.
The waistband seam.
Custom-stitched. Double-knit. Reinforced. I find the edge beneath the layered fabric and twist two fingers into it. I pull.
It holds.
More pressure. Pull harder.
