They moved her at dawn.
Mila felt the shift in the air before she heard the footsteps—cooler, fresher, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and wet pavement. The mechanical sound from earlier had stopped hours ago, replaced by voices in the hallway outside her room. Low and tense, arguing about timing and routes and whether the boss wanted her cleaned up first.
She kept her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and even, her body slack against the restraints.
Let them think she was still out. Let them think the concussion had done more damage than it had.
The door opened and two sets of footsteps this time, heavier than before.
"She awake?" The first voice was unfamiliar—older, rougher, with an accent that placed him somewhere south of the city.
"Don't know. Hasn't moved in hours." That was the younger guard, the one who'd checked on her before. Nervous. Uncertain.
"Boss wants her presentable. Get her up."
