Time didn't exist in this place. No windows. No clocks. Only silence thick enough to choke on and shadows that crawled across concrete walls like secrets refusing to die.
Rose sat on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her back leaned against the cold wall, and her thoughts raced louder than her heartbeat. The first time she cried in the cell, she swore she'd never do it again. It didn't help. It didn't bring anyone. It only made her feel smaller.
But today… something had shifted inside her.
She had cried enough. Now she was thinking.
Every time the guards came in to give her water or food, she studied them—how long they stayed, where they stood, what kind of weapons they had. Their routines were sloppy. Cocky. They didn't see her as a threat.
And maybe she wasn't.
Not yet.
But she had one thing: her mind.
And a mind set on escape was dangerous—even if the body wasn't ready for war.
She remembered the masked man's voice, cold and mocking: "You'll talk one way or another."
Her hands clenched into fists.
"Not today," she whispered into the dark.
---
It started with a metal tray.
She used it to scrape at the edge of the wall near the locked gate when no one was around. It made almost no progress, but it gave her something—control. If even for five minutes.
And then it happened.
A guard came in, yawning, distracted with his earpiece in. He wasn't looking.
She noticed the ring of keys hanging on his belt. The way they jingled when he walked.
Opportunity was shy—it didn't knock twice.
When he bent down to drop a bottle of water, she lunged.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't clever. It was raw panic and instinct. She slammed the tray into his face, and he stumbled back, bleeding and cursing. She grabbed the keys, heart pounding, and bolted through the cell gate before he could get up.
The hallway was dimly lit, just a stretch of grey with pipes running along the ceiling. Alarms didn't blare—yet. Maybe he didn't press the panic button.
She ran.
Barefoot. Bruised. Terrified.
The first door she tried was locked. The second too. But the third—click.
Inside, an empty office with metal drawers, a dusty chair, and—God bless fate—a pistol lying carelessly on the desk beside a half-eaten burger.
"Who leaves a gun on a desk?" she muttered in disbelief. But she didn't question it.
She took the gun. Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped it.
"I don't even know how to use this."
But she'd seen movies. Point. Pull. Pray.
She stuffed the weapon under her shirt and peeked into the hallway again.
Footsteps. Voices.
They knew.
She bolted again, taking the opposite direction, weaving through the maze of corridors. Her lungs screamed. Her legs begged. But adrenaline doesn't ask permission.
Then the worst happened.
She ran into someone.
Not just someone—Biggie. The same man who had lifted her like she weighed nothing. His eyes widened, but he moved fast. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward.
"Thought you could run?"
Rose didn't think. She pulled out the gun and fired.
The shot rang through the hallway like a bomb. It didn't hit him—God, she didn't even aim properly—but it startled him. He dropped her out of reflex, grabbing his ear.
"My ear! What the—?!"
Rose scrambled to her feet, half running, half limping. "Guess I just defended my ear for once," she whispered breathlessly, cracking a shaky smile.
She heard more footsteps coming. Too many.
There was a metal door ahead—heavy, rusted, but maybe…
She pushed it.
It didn't budge.
She banged her fists against it, cursed, kicked it.
Then—by some miracle—it clicked open.
Light.
Night air.
She was outside.
Some sort of alleyway, trash scattered, chain-link fence in the distance. She bolted again, the gun still in her hand, her lungs now tearing apart.
A truck sped past the alley, nearly hitting her. She dove behind a dumpster. Heart in her throat.
She could hear the shouts behind her.
"They said she's armed!"
"She got out through the south wing!"
"She's headed for the fence!"
They were close.
She sprinted toward the fence, grabbing it with raw hands and climbing like she'd never climbed before.
One leg over.
Then the other.
She jumped.
Fell hard. Rolled. Hit her shoulder.
But she got up.
She didn't stop running.
---
She didn't even know how far she got—blocks? Miles? She had no phone. No direction. Just cold air, aching bones, and the sharp pain in her ribs that told her she was still alive.
Alive.
Out.
She finally collapsed in an abandoned alley behind a run-down auto repair shop. Her breathing was ragged. Her hands were scraped and bloody. Her head pounded.
But she was free.
For now.
And whoever "Bullet" was… he wasn't ready for the storm coming for him.
Because this "nanny"?
She was done being helpless.