Chapter 6: The Inheritance

The stall had become our world.

Four walls, a concrete floor, a drain in the center. Straw that we pushed into corners to make a bed. A water bucket that I refilled from the spigot in the hallway when the handlers allowed it. A camera in the corner, its red eye blinking, recording every breath, every tear, every moment of our slow undoing.

And the door. The door that opened when Delgado wanted something.

I had stopped counting the days. Time moved differently in the facility. It stretched and compressed, bent around the edges of fear and exhaustion. I knew it had been weeks, maybe months, since we arrived. I knew the bill was supposed to be coming up for a vote. I knew Agent Chen was out there, somewhere, fighting for us.

But knowing and believing were different things.

Santa lay beside me on the straw, her body curled against mine, her head tucked under my chin. Her breathing was slow and even, but I knew she wasn’t asleep. I could feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her muscles stayed coiled even at rest. She was waiting. We both were.

The gear was a second skin now. The burgundy leather of her harness had molded to her body, the straps leaving permanent impressions in her flesh. My collar had become so familiar I forgot it was there until I swallowed and felt the pressure against my throat. The permanent straps across my chest, down my stomach, around my hips were part of me. They would never come off.

Neither of us wanted them to.

That was the strange thing, the thing I couldn’t explain to anyone who hadn’t lived it. The gear had been forced on us, used to control us, to degrade us. But somewhere along the way, it had become something else. It had become our armor. Our identity. The physical manifestation of everything we had survived.

The night handler’s footsteps echoed in the hallway. I tensed, my arm tightening around Santa. She felt it and went still, her breath catching in her throat.

The footsteps passed. The handler was making rounds, checking locks, ensuring the camera was working, verifying that Delgado’s property was secure. He didn’t stop at our door. Not yet.

I exhaled slowly. Santa relaxed against me, a small sound escaping through a bit of soft, nasal exhalation that was the closest she could get to a sigh.

“Almost morning,” I whispered. “We’ll make it through another night.”

She shifted, pressing her forehead against my collarbone. Her mitted hands found mine, the leather of the mitts warm from her skin. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t hold my hand properly, but she could press against me. She could let me feel her warmth, her presence, her refusal to give up.

I held her tighter.

The door opened.

It wasn’t the handler. It was Delgado.

He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. Behind him, two handlers waited, their faces blank, their hands empty but ready.

I sat up, pulling Santa behind me. My body blocked hers, my arms spread to shield her. It was instinct. It was useless. But I couldn’t stop myself.

Delgado stepped into the stall. His eyes moved over us, cataloging our positions, our expressions, our fear. He looked satisfied, the way a collector looks at a new acquisition.

“SF3JD33,” he said. “PNY356. How are my girls tonight?”

Neither of us answered. I couldn’t speak. Santa couldn’t.

He walked closer, his shoes clicking on the concrete. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the cologne on his skin, the faint metallic tang of the blood he’d shed earlier in the day. Someone else’s blood. Someone else’s pain.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice soft, conversational. “About what to do with you. The pony, especially. She has spirit, this one. More than I expected. The way she growled at me in the county building. The way she stood between us.” He reached out and touched Santa’s face, his fingers tracing her jaw. She flinched but didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.