Over A Barrel

I just pulled off an escape — well, my friends pulled it off, I mostly tried not to die — and now I'm "safe" in some glorified hideout that smells like old takeout and broken promises. Safety. Sure. That's what we're calling it.

Here's the thing nobody tells you about sanctuary: it comes with strings. My tutor is literally casing the room while pretending to quiz me on algebra. My allies' parents are hovering like they've collectively decided I'm their personal liability. And me? I'm sitting here realizing that trading one cage for a slightly more comfortable one is still, in fact, a cage.

Oh, and Big Pharma? Still hunting me. Because of course they are. One wrong twitch and I'm back in some sterile room being treated like a human IV drip.

So here I am — a teenager who can cure disease, surrounded by people who may or may not be selling me out, trying to spot the trap before it snaps shut.

No pressure.