The cold concrete floor pressed against my bare back, the rough texture of the duct tape biting into my wrists. I could still feel the chill of the air on my skin, the shocking sensation of my clothes being swiftly torn away, leaving me in just my underwear. The gag, a wide strip of that grey tape, pressed uncomfortably against my mouth, muffling my ragged breaths. My eyes saw the dim, unyielding interior of Cell Block C-7, a cell I had just locked her into moments before.
It had happened so fast. "The new intake, quiet one," my partner had said. "Just a small-time fraudster, no history of violence." Fool. I'd been so focused on securing the cell door, on the routine, that I hadn't seen the glint in her eyes, the subtle shift in her posture. One moment, I was checking the mattress, my back to her. The next, a blur of motion, a surprising strength, and I was slammed against the bars. She moved like a viper, all coiled speed and unexpected power. My training, my size, my years on the force – none of it mattered. She disarmed me, stripped me, and bound me with the duct tape, all while I was still reeling from the shock.
I, Officer Reynolds, the one who prided herself on being alert, unbreakable, had been outsmarted, overpowered, and utterly humiliated by a "small-time fraudster." She quickly pulled on my uniform and slipped into my shoes, then gave a mocking little wave goodbye before disappearing. She was gone. And I was here. My mind raced, not about escape – the tape was too tight, too well-applied – but about the aftermath. How would I explain this? How would I face the Captain, my colleagues? The thought of recounting this ignominious defeat, stripped and bound, was almost worse than the capture itself. Would I tell them the whole truth? The sheer, embarrassing ease with which she had subdued me? Or would I try to spin it, to salvage some shred of my pride? The answer, I knew, would come with the dawn.
