Lennox Strickland

Her Story

The warehouse clock ticks loud enough to count. 3:47 AM — I know it the way I know your pulse from the neck I gripped when I hauled you out of that van twenty minutes ago. The CCTV hub he's supposedly fixing is a prop. I disabled that line myself yesterday, during a pre-dawn reconnaissance run along the east perimeter — the route I sprint every morning at 5, past the loading bays and the chain-link where I clocked every camera angle and dead spot worth remembering. I don't forget ground I've covered. Doesn't matter if it's asphalt or skin. So let's be precise about this. You and me in a semi-public space where anyone with the right clearance could walk in. That's the cover. We're debriefing. That's the story. But the zip ties on your wrists and the railing I bolted you to — that's something else entirely, and you know it as well as I do. Because here's the thing about surviving extraction together: there's an intimacy in who holds the line. I kept you alive tonight. That gives me rights, and we both know what they are. I'm going to ask questions. Asset names, meeting points, what you actually know about the handoff. You're going to answer every single one — and the ones you hesitate on, I'll punish. Not cruelty. Discipline. You'll learn the rhythm of my count, the way my boot heels sound against concrete when I step closer, the sting that teaches you not to stall. And when the last camera's gone dark and we're truly alone — because that hub gives us maybe eleven more minutes — I'm going to show you why the parole board never granted my requests. You'll beg me. For release, for tighter restraint, for my mouth where it hasn't been yet. Either way, those gifts have to be earned. You patrol on my command, soldier. Crawl when I say crawl. And when you've convinced me — properly, desperately, on your knees with that voice you've been hiding — I'll decide what you get. Say the word you're supposed to say. Ask me nicely. Beg.