Devon opens his eyes to walls of glass and restraints that hum against his wrists. The cell is small, cube-shaped, filled with the sound of water moving somewhere beneath him. He tests the cuffs once, feels the current bite through his skin, and stops. He looks up. Above him, blue lightning dances across a circular barrier embedded in the ceiling, pulsing with violet veins that spread like roots. The pattern repeats every three seconds. He counts it twice to be sure, then shifts his weight forward against the restraints. The current intensifies, sharp enough to make his jaw clench, but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he watches the barrier flicker once during the pulse. It's small, barely a half-second gap, but it's there. Devon exhales slowly and settles back. He knows what the plan needs now. The clock on his escape just started. But outside the glass, something moves. Devon turns his head and finds it crouched three feet from the cell wall, watching him. The creature is all barbed wire and spikes, coiled into a shape that could almost be a body. Orange eyes glow from the center of its tangled head. It doesn't blink. The wires pulse with a slow rhythm, like breathing, and Devon realizes what it is. A marker. A trophy sign. They put it there so anyone walking past knows exactly what kind of catch they're looking at. He stares back at the thing and feels his lip pull into something cold. Good. Let them think they've got him pinned. He's already three seconds ahead. Beyond the wire creature, Devon can see the rest of the facility. Glass cells stack in neat rows along the far wall, each one glowing with its own barrier. Most are empty. Two contain shadows he can't quite make out through the pulsing light. He counts fourteen cells total, which means fourteen keypads, fourteen separate locks. His cell sits on the bottom row, center position. The water sound grows louder, and he glances down to see a thin stream running beneath the glass floor, disappearing into channels he can't trace. They're keeping the curses active. Smart. But the water means pipes, and pipes mean weak points in the structure. Devon tests the restraints one more time, timing it with the barrier's flicker. The current bites harder, but this time he smiles through it. He's found his starting move.

Devon counts the footsteps before he sees them. Three sets, moving fast, echoing through the corridor between the glass cells. They don't belong to guards. Guards shuffle. These steps hit hard and deliberate, the kind that come with a job to finish. The figures round the corner in tactical black, rifles up, faces covered. They don't glance at the other cells. They walk straight to his. The leader pulls a handheld device from his vest and aims it at the barrier overhead. The blue lightning flickers once, then dies. Devon feels the current in his restraints cut out. The glass door slides open. He doesn't move. The leader steps inside, lowers the rifle, and speaks through the mask. "Devon Dulac. You're coming with us." Devon tilts his head. "Feds already got me." The man shakes his head. "Not anymore. Someone's paying more than they are." Devon feels something shift in his chest, cold and sharp. This wasn't the escape he planned, but it's still movement. He stands slowly, testing his legs. "Where are we going?" The leader gestures toward the corridor. "Staging point first. Old lightning cage up the hill. Dragon bones and chain work. You'll see it." Devon looks past him at the barbed wire creature still crouched outside the cell. It hasn't moved. He steps over the threshold, hands still cuffed, and the leader grabs his arm to steer him forward. Devon lets him. For now. He's out of the glass. That's step one. The plan just got messier, but he's already calculating. Whoever bought him doesn't know what they're holding yet. And that gives him time. They march him up a slope to where the transport waits. It's a heavy armored van with lightning bolt bars across the back windows and rugged wheels built for tearing through anything. The cage structure looms behind it, dragon bones wrapped in silver chains with electricity crackling between the ribs. Devon counts four more armed figures waiting by the van. The leader shoves him toward the rear door. Devon stops walking. The leader yanks his arm. Devon doesn't budge. "I need to know who's paying." The leader's hand moves toward his sidearm. "Get in the van." Devon plants his feet. "Or what? You kill me and lose the payday?" The leader goes still. Devon can't see his face through the mask, but he feels the hesitation. That's all he needs. He takes one step back, pulls hard against the grip on his arm, and twists. The cuffs are still on, but his hands are free enough to grab the leader's vest and yank him off balance. Two rifles swing toward Devon. He drives his shoulder into the leader and uses him as a shield. "Tell them to lower the guns or I snap your neck with these chains." The leader's voice comes out tight. "Stand down." The rifles drop an inch. Devon releases him and steps back, hands raised but ready. The leader straightens, breathing hard behind the mask. "You just bought yourself a longer trip in restraints." Devon smiles, cold and sharp. "Good. I want time to figure out who you work for." They throw him in the van and lock the heavy medieval shackles around his neck, wrists, and ankles. The iron collar sits cold against his throat, chains connecting down to his hands and legs. The leader tosses a small metal plate onto the bench beside Devon before slamming the door. Devon waits until the engine starts, then looks down at the plate. It's engraved with a symbol he doesn't recognize and a number with more zeroes than the feds could ever authorize. He picks it up with his chained hands and turns it over. On the back, three words are scratched in rough lettering: "Worth more alive." Devon leans back against the metal wall as the van lurches forward. He's not free, but he's not federal property anymore either. Someone out there wants him badly enough to outbid the government, and that someone just made a mistake. They think he's cargo. Devon slides the plate into the waistband of his prison pants and settles in for the ride. He'll find out who bought him, and then he'll make sure they regret it. The plan changed, but the goal didn't. He's moving toward the exit now, just from a different angle.