Almost Human

Three days bled together in a haze of half-sleep and pain. Harper barely moved from the floor—blanket pulled over her head, concrete cold against her hip, her body curling tighter with each hour. The bruises settled deep, ribs aching with every shallow breath, jaw stiff where it had split beneath Vex’s fist. She drifted in and out, never fully waking, never fully gone, her stomach twisting on nothing but water when it came. The meals left in her cell went untouched until the guards carried them out again, the smell of them sour in the stale air. Time stretched thin and formless, measured only by the hum of the light above and the throbbing pulse of her wounds.

The scrape of the lock jolted her out of her half-awake haze.

She went rigid under the blanket, breath trapped sharp in her chest. For a moment she thought Vex had come himself—that the three days had just been a reprieve before the end. Her pulse thudded high in her ribs, every ache flaring with it.

The door swung open. A heavier shadow fell across the thin fabric. Brock.

Metal clinked faintly as he stepped inside, boots leaving grit in their wake. He set something down with a muted scrape: a tray, the faint steam of food curling through the stale air. The door shut behind him with a metallic snap that echoed off the walls.

Her throat locked. Food didn’t mean mercy. Not here.

The blanket clung to her face, damp with her own breath. She held still, hoping if she didn’t move, he’d leave it there and walk back out. But the smell reached her—steam curling under the fabric, warm, unfamiliar. Her stomach tightened, hollow enough that it hurt.

Slowly, she peeled the blanket back. The light stung her eyes.

The tray sat on the floor in front of her: scrambled eggs, plain toast, an apple cut into uneven wedges, black coffee in a dented mug. Food she hadn’t seen in weeks—something real, not the rice and crusts shoved through the slot. It startled her more than comforted her. She blinked at it once. Twice. Long enough that for a moment she forgot he was still in the room.

Then the weight of him shifted.

Brock crouched beside her, boots scuffing against the concrete. The sudden nearness made her jolt, body tensing before she could stop it. She kept her eyes on the tray, throat locked. Every part of her braced for the cruelty she’d learned to expect.

Brock’s eyes stayed on her, the corner of his mouth tugging like he almost found her reaction amusing. “You look like you’re waiting for a blow,” he said, tone calm enough to scrape at her nerves. His hand shifted, resting on his knee instead of reaching for her. “It’s just food. Eat.”

She shifted under the blanket, forcing herself upright. The motion pulled a groan out of her before she could bite it back, ribs protesting as she braced against the floor. Damp hair clung to her face, the bruise on her jaw throbbing with the effort.

Brock’s gaze tracked every inch of the movement, steady, measuring. When she settled, leaning against the wall with the tray between them, he spoke again—calm, almost casual. “How’re you feeling?”

Her throat worked around the answer. “Sore,” she said at last, the word flat, thin, and true.

Her eyes stayed low, fixed on the tray like she couldn’t decide if the food was meant to feed her or test her. Steam curled up from the eggs, the toast already softening at the edges, the coffee black and bitter. It smelled real. Too real.

Brock shifted beside her, lowering himself onto the concrete with unhurried weight. The scrape of his coat, the thud of his boots settling—each sound snapped through her like a jolt. She flinched before she could stop it.

“Harper,” he said, her name carrying the same steadiness as every order he’d ever given.

She didn’t look up.

“Harper.” Firmer this time, enough to leave no space for silence.

Her gaze lifted, slow, reluctant, until it locked with his.

He held it. Watched her like he was studying every flicker of resistance, every shiver she couldn’t hide. The quiet stretched, his eyes steady on hers, before he finally spoke again.

“You’ve been through worse,” he said at last, voice low, steady, almost soft compared to everything she’d heard from him before. “This isn’t the thing that breaks you.”

His gaze flicked to the tray, then back to her. “Eat. Get your strength back. You’ll need it.”

She didn’t move at first. Just sat there, watching him like she was waiting for the weight behind his words to fall, for the turn that always came. The silence pressed against her chest until it ached.

Then, slow, cautious, she reached for the tray. Her fingers hovered, then closed around a piece of toast. The crust flaked beneath her grip, warm against skin still cold from the concrete. She lifted it halfway, pausing again as though the act alone might trigger something.

Brock didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

Only then did she bring it to her mouth, small bite breaking the quiet.

She chewed slow, the dry edge of the toast sticking in her throat, every swallow cautious. Her eyes stayed on the tray, not him, as though looking up might shatter the fragile quiet. Another bite followed, smaller, almost tentative.

When nothing happened—no hand snatching it away, no sudden violence—she reached for the fork. Her fingers trembled around it as she prodded the eggs, lifting a bite that barely made it halfway before she forced herself to eat. The taste sat heavy, foreign, but real. She took only a few mouthfuls before setting the fork down, her shoulders tight, the food resting in her stomach like a stone.

Brock finally spoke, his voice low. “Good. That’s a start.”

Her hand hovered over the mug before she finally wrapped her fingers around it. The metal was still warm, a faint ribbon of heat rising into the air. She lifted it to her lips, took one swallow—and winced. Bitter, black, too harsh on her tongue. She set it back down quick, the scrape of tin loud in the small space.

Brock’s eyes tracked the motion, but he didn’t comment. Just watched her, steady and unreadable.

Then his voice cut through, low and certain. “Three months. That’s what Vex gave me. And we’ve already burned three days.”

The weight of it settled between them, heavier than the tray.

Her stomach clenched. The words dragged her back to the office, to the blur of blood in her mouth and light splintering overhead, to Vex’s hand in her hair and the barrel of his pistol leveled at her skull. She’d been too dazed then to hold onto the details, too far gone in pain to measure the threat. But now it landed, clear and heavy.

Three months. That was all she had. Three months to prove she was worth the space she occupied, worth the effort of keeping alive. Three months to be stripped down and reshaped into a weapon for the same machine that had gutted her crew, burned her home, carved every name she loved off the map.

Her chest tightened, ribs aching with every shallow breath. Survival meant surrender. Defiance meant death. And she couldn’t yet decide which ending was worse—

“I need to see what I’m working with,” Brock said, cutting clean through her thoughts. His tone was steady, almost clinical. “You’ve been caged too long. Banged up. I want an assessment today.”

He rose as he spoke, the weight of his shadow stretching over her. “Up,” he added, leaving no room for refusal.

Harper’s fingers twitched against the blanket before she pushed it aside. Her body obeyed because it had to, knees locking as she forced herself upright. Every muscle felt stiff, her ribs ached with the shift, but she stayed standing.

Brock’s hand closed around her arm—not rough, but firm enough to steady her and keep her moving. He turned her toward the door, steps slow but certain. “First, you clean up,” he said. “Then we get you in something better than rags. After that—we start.”

Brock’s grip stayed firm on her arm as he steered her into the hall. The hum of the lights followed them, steady as her uneven steps. He didn’t aim her toward the elevator—he turned for the stairs.

Her chest tightened at the sight of them. Two flights, the concrete rising steep above her. Each step demanded more than she had, ribs aching, legs stiff from days curled on the floor. But Brock didn’t slow. His hand stayed locked just above her elbow, keeping her upright, guiding her forward.

The climb dragged her breath ragged. Bare feet slapped against the concrete, skin scraping raw at each misstep. Her palm caught the rail once when her knee buckled, but Brock’s grip steadied her, forced her on. By the time they reached the landing, sweat clung cold along her spine, her ribs burning with every shallow inhale.

He didn’t pause. Another flight. Another grind of concrete underfoot. By the top, her vision swam, the light overhead smearing pale. Brock finally eased his pace, steering her into a wide hall lined with steel doors and muted fixtures.

“Training floor,” he said simply, like that explained the ache hollowing her chest.

He kept her moving. The corridor narrowed, and the smell hit first—cleaner and rust. Then he pressed her through a heavy door into the shower block itself. Tile spread out underfoot, cold against her raw soles. The ceiling ran lower here, the space echoing with distant drips and the faint groan of old pipes.

Brock released her arm at last. “Here,” he said, gesturing toward the open row of stalls.

On the counter sat a folded stack—black cargo pants, a black tank top, and her boots, scuffed but scrubbed clean from the last time she’d worn them. The sight twisted something in her chest—familiar, but stripped of all meaning, like they belonged to someone else.

“Clean up. Change into those. You start looking like one of mine before you set foot on the floor.” His tone left no space for argument. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, steady, unreadable, before he turned for the door.

“I’ll be outside,” he said, boots carrying him out, the door dragging shut behind him with a heavy scrape.

She pulled the scrubs off piece by piece, letting them fall where they landed. Bare skin prickled in the cooler air, but it didn’t feel like a threat this time. It was hers.

She stepped beneath the spray and twisted the handle. Water burst down, hot from the first rush, coursing over her scalp and shoulders. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move away. She tipped her head back, letting the heat pour through her hair, soaking every strand until it clung heavy down her spine.

A small bottle of shampoo waited on the ledge. She seized it like proof this was real, worked it hard through her hair until the lather foamed thick between her fingers, running white over her shoulders before the water stripped it clean. She did it again, and again, until the weight of it changed—no grease, no grit, just the drag of wet strands down her back. For a moment—almost—it felt like the den. Like she was just scrubbing off a run, getting ready for the day.

Soap sat beside the bottle. She worked it into her palms and scoured her skin—arms, ribs, thighs—until every trace of dirt and dried blood lifted and swirled away. No one forcing her. No one holding her flat. Just her own hands, her own pace.

By the time she twisted the handle off, steam clung thick in the air, damp on her face. She stepped out, dripping, breath slower, steadier, the silence wrapping her like a second skin.

She dragged the towel once over her skin, not caring if it stayed damp, then turned to the stack of clothes waiting. The cargo pants hung loose on her hips until she cinched the belt tight, the fabric bunching at her waist but holding. The boots felt strange after weeks barefoot—clean leather, stiff laces, solid weight grounding her to the floor.

The black tank slid over her head, clinging damp to her skin. Its sleeveless cut left her shoulder bare, where the serpent’s head curled into view. The bullet graze had torn the inked jaw in two, splitting the strike mid-snap. Now the wound was knitting closed, the scar a pink seam threading through the coils, leaving the tattoo broken but alive—etched deeper by the damage, like it had survived with her.

She dragged her fingers quickly through her damp hair, shaking loose the last clinging strands. Her shoulders squared, though the effort sent a tremor through her arms. A shaky breath slipped out, and she pressed it down, forcing her body forward.

The door groaned as she stepped into the hall. Brock leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, boots planted wide. His eyes swept her once, head to toe, then lingered on her face. The corner of his mouth tugged—not warmth, not quite cruelty, but something edged between.

“You look almost human,” he said.

She stayed silent, her jaw tight, the damp fabric of the tank clinging cool against her skin. Brock pushed off the wall, uncrossed his arms, and caught her lightly at the elbow. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it brooked no choice. He steered her down the hall, boots striking in unison with hers, until he stopped at a steel door and shoved it open.

The room beyond was stripped bare of anything unnecessary. A heavy bag hung slouched in one corner, leather scarred and split from years of strikes. A wall rack bristled with training gear—mitts, gloves, weighted bars—all worn, nothing polished. Near the far wall, battered pads slumped in uneven stacks. The floor was paneled with mats, their edges curled from years of use, dulled by sweat and impact. No mirrors lined the walls, no clocks marked the time. The silence inside was thick, broken only by the echo of their steps and the tick of her own uneven breathing.

Brock released her arm and stepped back, giving her space in the center of the mat. His arms folded again, weight steady, gaze fixed.

“Square up,” he said.

The words landed like a command, no room to twist them.

Harper shifted, one foot back, the other planted, shoulders angling. The motion tugged at her side, muscles stiff and bruised, but she forced her arms high, fists braced near her face. For a moment she thought her body might betray her—shake, sag—but it held. Her stance held.

Brock began to circle. Each step was slow, measured, boots whispering over the mats. Her pulse tripped hard, every nerve sparking with the memory of his weight crushing her down, his fists breaking her guard, his presence swallowing the air until there was none left to breathe. The instinct to flinch, to fold, screamed through her—alarm bells in her blood—but she locked it down. She tracked him with her eyes without turning her head, the way she’d been taught.

By the time he came back to face her, her lungs were tight, arms trembling from the strain, but her guard never dipped. Something flickered across his expression—quick, contained, but there.

Brock closed the gap without warning. His palm slammed into her shoulder, a hard drive meant to send her back. Panic flared in her chest, raw and instinctive, before her boots found purchase—mats sliding under her soles as she shifted weight, grinding herself steady. The jolt rattled through her torso, stealing her breath, but she didn’t fold. She straightened again, eyes locked on him, chest rising fast. He didn’t follow through. Just watched the way she planted, how fast she caught balance, the flicker of defiance she couldn’t smother.

He shifted again, low and sudden, a sweep at her ankles. Her balance snapped sideways, the floor rushing up—then her palms hit first, sting jolting through wrists and elbows. The twist wrenched her ribs, a white-hot line of pain that tore a hiss from her throat, but she shoved herself up before her body could collapse. Knees under her. Shaky, but upright.

Brock’s gaze tracked the stagger, the rasp of her breath, the tremor in her arms. Then his eyes lifted to hers. No nod. No word. Just a silent measure of how close she’d come to hitting the mat.

Brock closed the space again, hands catching her wrists before she could reset her guard. His grip clamped firm, pulling her arms down just enough to open her chest.

“Push back,” he said, voice flat. “Show me what’s in you.”

Her pulse kicked. For a split second she froze—half-expecting the drag into something worse—but his hold stayed steady, waiting. She planted her boots and shoved, tendons standing out in her forearms. He resisted easily at first, the strength in his shoulders unmoving, then gave ground by degrees, forcing her to work for every inch.

Her arms shook, breath catching in ragged bursts, ribs flaring with every strain. Still she drove forward, jaw locked, dragging his weight with hers.

He gave a sudden jolt against her—testing. Her stance buckled, feet skidding, but she dug down and caught herself before she hit the mat.

Brock’s eyes tracked the fight in her face, the refusal to fold. After a long moment he let go, and her arms snapped back to guard, trembling but still up.

Brock didn’t step back far. He lifted one hand, palm open, and gave the barest flick toward her face—fast enough to sting if she didn’t move.

She jerked her head aside, arms tightening in reflex. The slap cut air where her cheek had been.

Another came quick, opposite side. She blocked with a forearm this time, bones colliding with a muted crack. Her breath hitched but her guard held.

The third came lower, an abrupt jab toward her ribs. Her elbow snapped down, catching his wrist before it landed.

For the first time, his mouth twitched—something just shy of approval—but he said nothing.

He reset, circling once more, eyes on her stance.

Brock shifted back, his stance loosening, eyes locked on her. Then he began to move—small feints at first, shoulder dips, steps angling in and out. Harper tracked him, boots adjusting, arms high. Her breath rasped, quick but steady.

Then the rhythm changed. His body cut faster, sharper turns, hands flicking like a strike might follow. Every twitch pressed closer, testing how she braced, how her weight shifted. She kept up—until his fist jerked higher than the rest, quick, deliberate, a movement too close to the blows she’d already taken.

Her guard shattered. Arms snapped up too wide, body curling back a step. A sharp breath tore through her teeth, louder than she meant. The slip was small, but it showed—fear cracking through muscle memory.

Brock stilled. He didn’t follow through. Just stood there, gaze on her, watching the tremor in her hands, the tension coiled tight in her shoulders. Silence stretched, heavy. Then his chin dipped once, as if a box had been checked.

Brock didn’t comment. He only reset, circling again, and the drill shifted. What followed blurred into a steady rhythm of pushes and checks—his hands driving her off balance, his weight testing her guard, his voice cutting in only to bark a correction or reset a stance. Time bled out under the hum of the lights and the thud of boots against mats.

Her body faltered but never quit. Every shove rattled her ribs, every sweep scraped her knees raw, but she forced herself back up. He paced her endurance with cruel precision—never striking outright, never easing, just grinding her limits until her arms shook and her breath came ragged. Panic hit in waves, especially when his fists rose too quick, too close, dredging up memories that clawed her under—but each time he waited, steady, watching until she clawed herself back to center.

An hour, maybe more. Her skin burned, sweat slicking her hairline, muscles trembling under the dull ache of bruises that hadn’t yet healed. By the time he finally stepped back, she was swaying on her feet, fists still raised only because he hadn’t told her to drop them.

Brock’s eyes held her a long moment, unreadable. Then his voice cut through.

“Stand still.”

Her boots rooted to the mat, chest heaving.

“Hands behind your head.”

The order was quiet, but absolute. She laced her fingers behind her skull, elbows lifting until her ribs screamed with the stretch.

“Face the wall.”

She turned, boots whispering against the mat, until all she saw was blank expanse. The silence thickened. His presence filled it—the shift of his weight, the measured cadence of breath, the subtle scrape of boots on padded floor. No strike came, but the waiting pressed heavier than a blow.

“Don’t move.”

Her arms shook from the strain, lungs clawing for air, but she forced herself still. Her pulse slowed by degrees, the pounding in her ears thinning just enough to register him closing the distance—each step deliberate until heat radiated across her spine.

“That’s all for today.”

She didn’t lower her arms. Didn’t risk breaking posture.

He lingered, gaze tracking the line of her back, the tension in her shoulders, the tremor edging her elbows. Whether it was obedience or sheer defiance, she held until his next word.

“Turn around.”

She pivoted slow, arms still locked overhead.

“Hands down.”

Her arms dropped stiff and aching to her sides.

Brock crossed to the wall and picked up a bottle set on the counter there. Plastic crinkled in his grip as he twisted the cap. When he came back, she was still standing guard-high, swaying, sweat streaking her temples.

He held the bottle out. “Drink.”

Her arms trembled as she lowered them, fingers unsteady when they closed around the plastic. The water hit her tongue cold, sharp, and she nearly choked on the first swallow. It didn’t matter. She drained half before her body let her stop, breath ragged.

Brock watched without a word, then took the bottle back and screwed the cap on again. He didn’t offer anything else—not praise, not comfort, just the command that followed.

“Come on.”

The walk back down was quieter than the climb up—her legs heavy, steps uneven, his grip the only thing keeping her from pitching sideways. The hum of the overheads bled into the silence until the basement swallowed them again.

At her cell, he pulled the door open, nudged her inside, and let go.

“You’ll hold for now,” he said from the threshold. His eyes tracked her once—sweat, bruises, the way she folded back to the wall—before he shut the door.

She pressed her palm to the concrete, steadying the tremor in her arms. The hum of the lights filled the silence like it meant to stay.

The lock clicked, solid, final.