I woke to the crackling of fire and the dull, rhythmic pounding of pain in my skull. The room swam in and out of focus as if my mind were submerged underwater. My vision cleared enough to take in my surroundings—a rundown cabin, wooden walls warped by humidity, and a makeshift fireplace casting jagged shadows across the floor.
The rain still tapped against the windows, slightly muffled now but relentless. My body ached, and when I tried to shift, the rough fibers of rope dug into my wrists and torso. I was restrained to a chair, the bonds tight and unforgiving. My coat was gone. My holster empty. Yet, when I glanced downward, I caught the faint reflection of my mask in the puddle of water beneath me. My Dust Mask, secure and intact.
It wasn't a simple mask. It adhered through more than straps—reinforced by Camille's skills to withstand high temperatures, collapses, and yes, even attempts to remove it. Logan hadn't known that. He probably thought removing it wasn't worth the effort.
