17. The Bait
Lijun sat in her wheelchair, staring out the narrow window. It had become a habit since she woke from the coma last week, though there was nothing worth watching—just the same dull corridor, the officers passing by and envying their freedom.

In here, she was nothing but caged, her mind constantly sifting through fragments of memories she couldn’t piece together.

The door creaked open. Lijun heard the familiar footsteps, but she didn’t bother turning. Her eyes remained fixed on the glass.

“How long do I have to stay here?” she asked, voice soft, but edged with frustration.

“You’ll have surgery in a few days,” came the cold, detached reply. Rochelle.

Lijun’s lips twitched into a bitter smile. “I hate knives.”

Rochelle let out a short, mocking laugh. “Funny, considering you were Scupper. You used to love your blades.”

Lijun didn't react right away. Her eyes drifted down to her hand, nails scratching at her skin. Each scrape dug deeper, the sting more satisfying than the hollow bore
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