[ Cass's POV - present]

The flimsy styrofoam squeaks underneath my sweating palms, tendrils of steam rising from the white rim, taunting me. My fingers absentmindedly toy with the teabag string, my gaze dropping to the small tab at the end marked by the triple-circle symbol the Civic Republic has claimed.

The once-meaningless logo has become a haunting reminder, painfully etched into my mind for the past six years.

With no control of my own, it's woven itself into every facet of my existence from the patches on the uniforms of the soldiers who took us, the paint on the vehicles that brought us here, to the universal mark on every structure, flag, pen, ration box, water bottle, and even the goddamn needles I use daily at the hospital.

I can't escape it.

I can't escape them.

And every time I see those three maddening circles, a rage ignites in my chest before being quickly snuffed out by a bitter swell of cruel helplessness. A suffocating helplessness meticulously cultivated by those in power here to keep us subdued.

Suddenly nauseous, I release the steaming cup, pushing it away with a heavy sigh, cringing at the harsh squeak of the styrofoam against the metal table.

Fuck them and their goddamn tea.

Leaning back, I draw in a steady breath through my nose, attempting to fill my lungs with the stale air of this grimy yet somehow sterile interrogation room.

The oppressive silence hangs thick, a weight on my eardrums as I let my gaze drift upward, tracing the lines of the humming fluorescent lights before counting the white-speckled ceiling tiles.

By the time the door finally clicks open, I've counted the frustratingly uneven 27 ceiling tiles four times, my eyes heavy from the mundane task.

My attention snaps to the doorway, suspicion narrowing my eyes as the man I haven't seen in four years strides in with unsettling ease, his dark gaze locking onto mine.

He carefully shuts the door behind him, the weight of his presence inescapable as he settles into the chair across from me, its squeaky protests echoing loudly. Simultaneously, he tosses a thin manila folder onto the table with a faded slap, sending a barely disguised flinch through me.

Straightening my posture, I raise my eyebrows expectantly, my handcuffed hands clenched tightly enough to turn my knuckles white.

"Ms. Adams- correct?" Okafor questions me, his deep rumbling voice adding a startling new noise. After so long in silence, it's jarring, to say the least.

I nod once, forcing an impassive expression onto my features, not allowing my nerves at being detained to show. Though I still can't shake the mental image of Sophia's horrified expression as the soldiers handcuffed and dragged me away an hour or two ago.

I'm not sure how long it's been. They took my watch and locked me in this insufferable room without a clock.

Okafor only squints slightly in response to my confirmation, his nearly black irises staring intently at me as he tilts his head to the side. He seems lost in thought as he watches me stare back at him, my impatience only growing.

"Are you-"

"You're a liar," Okafor interrupts me, his flat voice sharp with irritation, making my lips press into a thin line. "It's not Ms. Adams. It's Dr. Adams. Isn't that right?" he asks, his tone concerningly calm, sending unease seeping down my spine.

Well, shit.

My lips part to offer some excuse, but Okafor plows on, his jaw clenched as he flicks open his folder with deliberate force.

"We believed you when you were first extracted. That you were a nurse. That Sophia was your daughter. Because why would someone lie about that?" Okafor asks rhetorically, his words slow and methodical as his eyes drag up from the folder to meet mine. The harsh fluorescent lighting above casts a greenish hue on his dark skin, deepening the shadows around his sharp eyes.

Swallowing hard, I meet his shadowed gaze, struggling to come up with a response.

"And after the incident yesterday, it's become clear to us you haven't been truthful, have you?" Okafor asks, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table, continuing that scrutinizing stare of his. In a fleeting moment I nearly miss, Okafor's black irises flick to the face of his watch before meeting my gaze again.

Looks like someone's waiting for something.

"No. I haven't," I confirm simply, my brows raised in disinterest, making a sarcastic smile of satisfaction tug at the corner of Okafor's mouth.

"And why is that, Adams? Why did you willingly work for years as a grunt nurse in the shittiest consignment hospital, dealing with shitty cases and shitty patients while you've been a goddamn surgeon the entire time?" Okafor questions, his nostrils flaring slightly with restrained anger as he snatches up one of the papers from the file and thrusts it in my direction.

Leaning forward, I glance down to see my record of employment outlining my time at Atlanta General as a pediatric surgeon. The fact that the CRM managed to get this information doesn't even surprise me anymore.

"And the top resident in the program at that," Okafor adds, making my eyes flick up, meeting his with a challenge. "Do you realize how invaluable surgeons are to the Civic Republic? And you've been denying the good people of the city that luxury- why? Because consignment life is that good?" he challenges sarcastically, seeming genuinely confused by my lack of eagerness to become a Civic Republic drone.

Pushing off the cold edge of the table, I lean back against the stiff CRM seat, annoyance simmering beneath the surface as the handcuffs impede my movement.

"Not everyone wants to be a citizen," I respond with a calm shrug, knowing my vague answer must be aggravating him even more, especially when he glances at his watch again.

Letting out a sharp exhale, Okafor nods once, his jaw clenched. "You don't want that life for your daughter? Or the girl who's not really your daughter, right?" he asks bitterly, his question regarding Sophia immediately turning my blood to ice, freezing me to my seat.

Trembling with slight quiet rage, my eyes flick to his, widening in warning. "Don't talk about her. You don't know anything about us," I snap, the edges of my words sharpened with a fierce protectiveness.

Okafor clicks his tongue, his gaze unwavering as he reaches for a page from the folder and begins to read aloud. "Sophia Pelieter, born to her mother, Carol Pelieter, and father-"

"-Don't say his name," I interrupt, my trembling whisper tinged with a threatening edge that seems to hit Okafor's ears.

The Lieutenant Colonel lowers the paper, his expression flat. "It makes sense that she's not yours, given the fact you would've had to be... what? fifteen when you had her?" Okafor interrogates me, eliciting zero reaction as I stare blankly back at him.

"Why are you here?" I ask impatiently, disgust pulling down my expression as I tilt my head to the side, wanting this fucking interrogation to be done already.

"Because I let an A slip through my fingers, wasting her potential as a grunt night-shift nurse in the worst consignment hospital in the Civic Republic," Okafor rants, the vein in his neck slightly bulging.

"But thanks the to little incident yesterday which told me everything I needed to know about the real you, I'm not letting that happen again," Okafor explains calmly, stirring regret within my chest at his words.

"I want you to come work for me, in the CRM. In the city," Okafor confirms, sending my stomach lurching with anxiety at the thought of being part of their fucking military.

"I don't want to be a part of your goddamn army. I'm stayin' where I am," I assert roughly, leaning forward, my handcuffed wrists jerking slightly against my chains.

Okafor leans forward, matching the distance I decreased between us, a pleased smile curling across his face. My stomach clenches with dread at the glint in his eye, as if I walked into the trap he set for me.

"Not if you ever want to see Sophia again," Okafor whispers, his calm words igniting a white-hot rage that whips through me.

In a sudden surge of feral rage, I lunge forward, only to be violently yanked back by my restraints, the metallic sound a harsh reminder of my captivity. Seething like a caged animal, my chest heaves with fury as I glare at Okafor with unbridled hatred.

"Don't you dare use her to threaten me," I growl protectively, my voice raw with emotion, sounding more like a wild beast than a person as I grit my teeth in defiance.

Okafor, shielded by the physical barrier of my restraints, meets my gaze with infuriating calmness.

"She's not your biological daughter, Adams, unlike you claimed. You have no legal claim over her, and no grounds to fight against your separation. She's a seventeen-year-old orphan, who, by all standards, should be moved to the city orphanage," Okafor tells me coldly, the threat of tearing me away from the girl I've sworn to protect plunging me into a frigid sea of panic.

The girl I promised I would never leave behind.

Despite my desperate attempts to maintain composure, tears begin to well in my eyes, their sting a reminder of my helplessness as I struggle to blink them away.

"No, y-you can't," I whimper, my bottom lip quivering embarrassingly. "She's not mine, but she and I- we've been together since the beginning. I swore-"

"-Then you'll take me up on my offer if you ever want to keep that promise. She still has to go to the orphanage, but only citizens can visit. And you will only ever be a citizen if you accept my deal, right now." Okafor explains smoothly, seeming completely unphased by my emotional turmoil.

Sucking in a shuddering inhale, I attempt to console my trembling body, my mind racing for a solution. But as the seconds tick by and Okafor continues to watch me, waiting for my response, it becomes painfully clear I don't have a goddamn choice.

"What... do you want?" I question with resigned acceptance, the sound of my voice drowned out by the thunderous beat of my heart as my gaze lingers on the scar that marks his left brow.

Why does he want me in his military?

A flicker of satisfaction passes over Okafor's expression, a visible relaxation settling in as he registers my begrudging agreement.

"To prove yourself," he replies, snapping the file shut and rising to his feet abruptly, the sudden movement catching me off guard.

"Prove...?" I trail off, my brows knitted together, but I don't have time to finish my sentence as Okafor leans forward.

Quickly, he unlocks my handcuffs from the table before locking them securely back on my wrists. With one smooth yank, Okafor pulls me up onto my feet, leaving me stumbling for a moment before I stabilize myself.

"I got one hell of a first case for you, Doc. And you'll do a good job if you want to see Sophia again," Okafor informs me, his brows raised as he pulls me toward him, his determined eyes searching mine.

Tilting my chin up defiantly, I meet his glare head-on, ignoring my thunderous heartbeat. "What case?" I grit out through my clenched jaw just as Okafor checks his watch again.

"A damn important one, and he's en route. Let's move," Okafor declares, before grabbing the chain between my handcuffs, dragging me with him as he pulls me out of the suffocating interrogation room into my new prison.

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[ Cass's POV - seven years ago ]

Tears stream relentlessly down the ten-year-old's face, glistening in the afternoon sun as she stares, transfixed, at the decaying Mustang in front of us. The no doubt once-vibrant yellow paint has succumbed to a thick layer of dust, obscuring the white words painted across the windshield and decaying the message that's held us captive for two weeks:

"SOPHIA STAY HERE
WE WILL COME EVERY DAY"

We've been camped out in the minivan opposite the Mustang, clinging to the promise in those words, to the thread tying Sophia to her family- to her mom.

But as the days slowly pass, that thread is only fraying more bit by bit.

"I don't understand. They said e-every day," Sophia whimpers, voice quivering with hopelessness. Her tiny brows furrow and tears well up in those large, doe-like eyes, threatening to spill over.

"I'm so tired of everyone l-leaving," she cries quietly, bringing her trembling hands to shield her face.

With a heavy heart, I close my eyes, hanging my head for the anguished girl in front of me.

Three weeks ago, I stumbled on Sophia alone and screaming in a shallow creek, surrounded by three cadavers snapping their rotting jaws at her. Luckily I happened to be nearby and got them before they got her.

We stayed at my cottage I'd been holed up in for a couple of days so I could patch her up and feed her, all the while planning how to get her back to her family. This plan turned into going back to what we thought was the right highway each day.

Turned out that every day we were at the I-78, we should've been here, at the I-85.

After choosing to check this highway on the seventh day, we found the car sitting in front of us now.

I still remember Sophia's squeal of joy when she saw the message, flinging herself onto me with a crushing hug. That night we celebrated, counting down the minutes to see her reunite with her family the next morning when they would inevitably come back.

Sophia barely slept, sitting on the edge of the driver's seat, her wide eyes never wavering from the empty highway.

And we waited.

And waited.

And...

waited.

But nothing.

No one came on the first day, or any of the days following. As the excruciating hours dragged on, our hope dwindled.

Today marks our second week of waiting for them. And there's only so long we can wait in such an exposed place.

"Soph," I murmur softly, pushing off the minivan and carefully approaching the crying girl.

Sophia's tear-filled eyes meet mine, her trembling bottom lip sending a wave of empathy surging through me, desperate to take away her pain.

Crouching down in front of her, I gently clasp her hands, making the sniffling girl blink in surprise, tears trickling down her freckled cheeks.

"Look," I begin, my voice soft but determined, "I don't know if they're coming back," I admit honestly, my gut twisting at the thought as I gaze into her honey-brown eyes.

Sophia's features immediately contort with anguish, clenching her eyes shut and emitting a heart-wrenching whimper. I clench my jaw, steeling myself to be a pillar of strength for her.

"They must've kept moving, alright Freckles? And that's fine!" I breathe, trying to offer reassurance as she blinks at me in confusion. I smile encouragingly, trying to instill hope in her shattered heart.

"There's no doubt in my mind that your mama wanted to wait for you. So they must've had to leave for another reason," I explain gently, watching as understanding flickers across Sophia's face, her uneven breaths slowly steadying.

"So we'll go too. And we will find them," I assert confidently, searching the deep brown depths of her eyes, willing her to believe in my words.

Gradually, the storm of emotions within her seems to calm, replaced by a glimmer of determination mirror in her deep brown eyes.

Carefully, I guide her hand that was formerly clasped in mine until my pinky is intertwined with hers, prompting a slight widening of her eyes.

"This is a pinky promise- something you can never break," I begin, making her little eyebrows twitch together in confusion. "I swear to you, Freckles, I will get you back to your family. No matter what it takes and I will never leave you behind," I assure her, my words sure and seemingly comforting as I ignore my protesting muscles at staying crouched for so long.

Sophia looks down at our linked pinkies, the bright sun illuminating her irises as she processes my words.

Sniffling, her eyes slowly meet mine, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Okay. But only if you stay in the group once we find 'em," she decides, her tear-streaked face adorned with a proud smile that fills my heart with warmth.

Grinning widely, I lean in closer. "I'm not sure they're gonna want me," I whisper, widening my eyes slightly at the daunting possibility of being in the group she loves so much.

Sophia matches my lean-in, her formerly faded eyes now twinkling. "They don't have a choice- it's a pinky promise," she whispers back, her little infectious grin melting me to pieces.

Shaking my head slightly in amusement, I chuckle.

"Touché, Freckles."

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

[ Cass's POV - present ]

"You have to let me say goodbye!" I plead desperately, my hoarse voice cracking with emotion as I thrash against the unforgiving handcuffs. The harsh metal bites into my wrists, only worsening my anger and reminding me just how trapped I am.

Okafor, unaffected by my outburst, simply sighs as he drags me through the unfamiliar hospital. It's not the usual torn-down consignment one I'm accustomed to, nor is it the city's high-tech hospital I've heard so much about. It's the CRM hospital. The one I had no idea existed until about five minutes ago.

The harsh concrete building looms around me, housing only a handful of healthcare workers who seem completely unphased by us as we walk into the highly guarded building. They don't even spare a glance as I'm forcefully dragged through the halls in handcuffs, protesting vehemently.

The dark grey concrete walls, with slightly improved fluorescents than the interrogation room, feature unsettling blue accents seemingly designed to give the cold, clinical environment a facade of cleanliness. But the building is so industrial that it makes it feel disjointed and unsettling. Like painting rainbows and hearts inside an abandoned factory and calling it a daycare.

"You'll see her after the surgery- if you succeed," Okafor explains once again, clearly getting agitated at my inability to accept the situation unfolding around me as he brings us to a stop in front of a door.

Finally released from the harsh restraints, I'm shoved into a dimly lit locker room. There, under the watchful eye of a seemingly bored older nurse, I'm instructed to shower. Which, with gritted teeth, I begrudgingly do.

Emerging from the lukewarm water, I'm handed fresh teal scrubs, a scrub cap, and white shoes, transforming me into the clean surgeon they need.

Led by the nurse, this time without the indignity of handcuffs, we navigate through a labyrinth of corridors and endless sets of locked doors with soldiers standing guard. It becomes clear the reason why they aren't bothering with the handcuffs. I stand no chance of escape, handcuffed or not.

Desperate, I attempt to get information about my incoming surgery that seeing my daughter relies on but the nurse is agitatingly silent, flat-out ignoring me. My jaw clenches tightly in response as she leads me forward.

Upon walking into the operating room, a wave of unexpected familiarity washes over me at the sight of the impressive collection of surgical equipment. It mirrors the ORs of my former life, with their antiseptic scent, glaringly bright surgical lamps, and a team of nurses prepping the space for the procedure ahead.

The bored older nurse grumbles something flatly, before turning and leaving. Glad to be away from her, I scrub in but before I can head to the OR again, I'm stopped by a nurse in the doorway.

"You're the doctor, good," the determined nurse mutters as she approaches me, immediately draping the surgery garb over me while another nurse does the same, securing it behind my back.

"I am. Does anyone want to tell the doctor what surgery she's doing?" I ask with rhetorical exasperation despite the fact they probably won't tell me. My heart is still pounding at the influx of nerves in my system, wracking my mind on whatever highly important patient I need to operate on. And what the hell is wrong with them.

The nurse, who has hazel eyes and a couple of strands of wavy dark brown hair falling from her scrub cap, looks at me. "All I caught over the radio was 'amputation' and 'burn'. Sorry, that's all I got," she murmurs with a slight accent I'm not familiar with as she pulls down the latex gloves over my waiting hands.

Blinking rapidly, I nod, immediately running down the possible procedures I could be dealing with in my mind. From the loss of a finger and first-degree burn to above-the-knee amputation with third-degree burns, each more daunting than the last. The information is like a thick tide, lapping at the edges of my mind, slowly but surely reminding me of the techniques I know deep down.

"You're the first person to actually talk to me, thank you," I exhale gratefully, adjusting my posture in anticipation of the challenging task ahead, fully aware that the debridement of burnt tissue will be a pain in my ass.

The nurse, a few years younger than me like the looks of it, nods as she helps secure the mask on my face, ensuring I don't dirty my fresh gloves. "Well, I actually want you to do your job, so," she remarks dryly before stepping back with a subtle nod of approval as she looks over my surgery readiness.

"I'm Cass. Dr. Adams," I introduce myself to her, knowing I need to befriend at least one person in this goddamn place. And I can tell from just a minute in her presence that this nurse what the hell she's doing.

Her sharp eyes, peering out from behind her blue mask, study me for a moment. "Kay," she replies with a nod, before turning her attention to the other nurses, swiftly making sure they're prepared for the impending surgery.

With a nod, I begin to walk over to where the surgeon stands, though usually, I'd already have the patient by this point. But I'm guessing this is some sort of trauma inflicted in the field, and like any field trauma, the patient isn't prepped. I just hope they give the poor fucker some good meds.

Before I can take another step, the resounding slam of the double doors behind me jerks me back to reality. With wide eyes, I swing around to watch as a team of five nurses wheel in the patient hurriedly.

Stepping back to give them room, I squint my eyes, taking him in.

It's a man maybe ten or so years older than me, with his left hand gone, replaced by a still-sizzling burnt stub. Definitely third-degree burns. I involuntarily cringe as the orderlies heave him onto the operating table, hastily draping surgical blankets over his ripped and burnt consignment uniform.

With the orderlies bustling around him, I'm unable to fully assess the extent of his injuries, catching only a partial glimpse of his unconscious face. His long brown curls frame his nicely structured face, adorned with furrowed brows and a grey-speckled beard, blood and dirt spattered across his features.

... What happened to him?

"A bite?" I ask, eyeing his sizzling stub, my heart hammering as one of the orderlies shakes their head.

"Escape attempt," the orderly clarifies as they finish covering him up, leaving his burned arm ready for me to perform surgery on.

Escape attempt?

My eyes dart back to his face with surprise.

No one tries to escape here.

No one wants to escape here.

No one but me.

Noticing a slight cringe in his expression as he's jostled on the table, a pang of empathy goes through me, knowing he must be feeling pain despite being out cold.

"Someone get him sedated now," I order sharply, my brows knitted together with concentration as I carefully examine his arm, free to do so as the orderlies are finished and bustling out of the room. It looks like he chopped right above his wrist, and somehow tried to cauterize it by... lighting it on fire? It's difficult to tell.

Confusion overwhelms me as I assess his wound, wondering how on earth he obtained such a deep burn.

The debridement is going to be a bitch that's for sure. But at least his smart thinking saved his life otherwise he probably would've bled out. It was a risk though, and thankfully the severe cauterization didn't send his body into shock.

Suddenly, I'm jolted out of my thoughts by an iron grip latching onto my arm, causing my head to snap up in panic. I'm met with the patient's wide, piercing blue eyes, his one good hand grabbing onto my upper arm with startling strength.

The stench of disinfectant and antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, assaulting my senses as I find myself gaping back at him in shock. Amidst the chaos of nurses rushing to administer his medication, their hurried movements faded in my ears, unable to look away from his eyes.

The man blinks at me, his eyes clouded with pain yet still searching, desperate for reassurance amidst the turmoil. "Ju... Judith- she okay? Carl?" he croaks, his words strained with pain but laced with unmistakable concern for whoever they are. His eyes, desperate and pleading, stare into me, his brows knitted together in the middle.

Furrowing my brows further, my heart constricts with empathy, a strange feeling tugging at my chest. I recognize the fear of separation that lingers in his voice.

I've felt it too, the gnawing ache of being torn apart from someone you hold dear.

Swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, I offer a nod of affirmation, grabbing his hand from my arm to hold it comfortingly. My gloved hand wraps around his, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin latex.

The nurses secure the mask over his face and turn on the gas, as I keep his hand in mine. I watch as the medications begin to take effect, his hand relaxing somewhat in my hand.

"Judith and Carl are just fine," I assure him softly, despite not knowing who they are, their safety, or their significance to him. But at this moment, seconds away from surgery, his being calm outweighs all else.

Staggering relief goes through his hardened features, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his lips before his eyelids droop heavily, succumbing to the sedation.

Once he's finally out, his hand going limp in mine, I look at him for a moment, that strange feeling tugging at my chest again. Clearing my throat and shaking my head slightly, I gently place his hand down, my heart still racing.

Kay, the nurse from earlier, mutters something in an unfamiliar language under her breath as she swiftly replaces my now-contaminated glove with a fresh one.

Once all set once again, I draw in a steadying breath, rolling my neck to release the leftover tension that has settled. And with a renewed sense of focus, I delve into the task at hand.

For hours on end, I am consumed by stopping his bleeding by repairing his blood vessels, meticulously debriding his skin, and diligently preventing any hint of infection from taking root. Slowly but surely saving his life.

All the while having no idea that saving the life of the man in front of me, will, in some inevitable way, tear mine to shreds.

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A/N: omg what do we think? i have so much planned!! hehe