For a second, Sarge thought she'd cry; her eyes welled up, wet and honest. But she only smiled wider, lips parting as if to say thank you or please or more.
He'd never felt smaller. Or, somehow, more seen.
Sarge pulled back from the doorway, heat running up his neck. He stood there, shaking, and listened to the aftershocks: the quiet sounds of three men soothing a girl they'd just broken, the soft whimpers as she was cuddled and cleaned, the easy laughter that followed pain. It was all wrong, and yet perfect in its own monstrous way.
He walked away then, boots thumping the scarred linoleum, mind already at work building a story a lie, maybe, or maybe just the truth in a different shape.
Sarge retreated, footsteps quiet. He made one last sweep of the perimeter, checking for threats. When he finally lay down in his own empty room, he dreamed of Felicity's voice not screaming, this time, but singing, clear and bright, an echo of something lost.
