Broken Cages (MCU)✔️

Shot At Freedom

A final blow knocked the wind out of me, and I gasped for air, feeling my throat constrict as if gripped by an invisible vice. I was lying only inches from the pool where I thought I would drown. My hair stuck to my neck like a snare, and my body convulsed, the chill seeping into my bones.

Another cough sent me retching up lunch. The dirtied man crouched near my exposed body and backed away even though he smelled worse than I did. I despised the men who filled my existence; their presence overwhelmed my senses. But this was not one of those men.

"Ustani glupa djevojko!"

His cigarette-stained voice reverberated on every surface. I did not know the language he spoke, and I had learned many languages. I chose not to answer in any of them, and when silent seconds passed, he landed a kick to my middle, and I released the rest of my stomach onto his bloodied boots.

I might have giggled at his disgust as he shook his boot, splattering my insides around the tiles. No one was disgusted by me.

"Digni se!"

His words made my ears whine, and I curled closer to myself to stop the noise. I never liked unpleasant sounds. He didn't approach me again.

He screamed again, and basic instinct caused me to look for the threat. I met his gaze for the first time, and adrenaline coursed through me.

Look them in the eye, and it will be harder for them to kill you.

Trained killers didn't possess such weaknesses, but his retreat showed his cowardice. Semenova men had a look to them, battered and ruthless. The higher-ups projected a cleaner image, but the underlings resembled this man. I didn't notice before that he was different. But his eyes showed a different story.

But he had known the words. He had the tattoo, showcasing the gang level. I had followed him, feeling the base level of safety I existed in throughout my home. I had not noticed I was in danger. The level had not changed. That could tell you something about how weak this man really was or how much risk I was generally in. Either way, survive this or not, I wasn't looking forward to either consequence.

My father was unforgiving, and I strived to remain in the shadows, avoiding his penetrating gaze. I was my mother's responsibility; failure reflected poorly on her, though she was equally cruel. She wouldn't pardon this misstep.

I was never alone in this house. There were others—chefs and cleaners who I learned to ignore. Sometimes, meetings took place behind closed doors, inaccessible to me. And my mother and father, on occasion, tried desperately to make the heir, the son, that I should have been. I wondered how many of them were still here. I wondered why they kept me alive. I was a doll on the shelf. An unimportant part of my parent's organization. A pretty face. A bargaining chip.

And I was so cold.

This wasn't the way out I had envisioned. Not that anyone gets to choose how they die, but I wished my last moments would be peaceful. Somewhere warm, with fresh air, away from the smoke and stone of my childhood. I would have seen the world first. I would have fallen in love and chosen a life with a man with soft hands and a kind heart. I would have chosen freedom. But if this was my ticket out, so be it.

The silence was louder than ever before. I no longer could hear the man's breathing. But I waited in the pool room, full of broken glass and blood.

"Patio cleared. Entering pool room."

Americans? Fuck.

This was worse. This was an operation I did not want to be a part of. I glanced back at the water where I had almost drowned, my head held under while a man shouted at me words I did not understand. My stomach hurt at the idea of taking another plunge, the panic I rarely experienced surfacing. What was worse? My parents' wrath or these Americans? Maybe my parents were already dead.