They didn't let me help him.
I stood off to the side, arms crossed so tightly over my chest I could feel the bite of my claws through my uniform sleeves. My wolf was howling just under the surface, pacing with bared teeth, but there was nothing I could do. Not without consequences.
Nine stood still, stripped down to a thin, damp gown that clung to his body. One of the workers grabbed his arm roughly, dragging him forward like luggage. His bare feet slipped against the tiled floor, but they didn't pause. When he stumbled, another worker shoved him upright with a palm to the back of his head.
"Hurry it up," one muttered, annoyed.
They forced him under the cold spray of a high-pressure hose, the kind usually reserved for cleaning blood off the floor. No warning. Just water slamming into his skin hard enough to bruise. He jerked, chest heaving, and pressed his eyes shut.
"Keep still!" someone barked, striking him across the shoulder with the butt of the hose.
"Stop it," I snapped, stepping forward, but a firm hand shoved me back.
"Handler or not, this doesn't concern you," a guard growled. "Back off."
Nine didn't cry out. He never did. But his knees buckled under the force of the spray, and they still didn't ease up. Another worker came in with a rag and started scrubbing at him, hard and careless, like he was trying to remove a stain from a wall. Nine flinched and shook, teeth clenched, the faintest whimper escaping him as the cloth scraped over already-sensitive skin.
Nyx surged forward in my chest. They're hurting him. Let me out—
"I can't," I whispered back, eyes burning. "They'll kill him if I move."
They didn't towel him off. Just left him dripping and shivering as they shoved him forward toward the transport ramp.
That's when I saw the crate.
Too small. Rusted at the corners. Bare metal bars with a grated bottom that would scrape at skin and bone with every movement. There was no room to lie down—barely enough to fold into himself.
"You can't be serious," I said, trying to keep my voice level.
A soldier shrugged. "Fits regulation. He's cargo, not a guest."
My hands curled into fists. "He's not cargo. He's—"
"Property," the man cut in, with a little smirk.
My wolf went feral at the word. I could feel her snarling, wild and bloodthirsty, but there was nothing I could do. Not here. Not now.
Nine didn't resist when they grabbed him again. One worker yanked him by the back of the gown, another grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back. He staggered once, caught himself, but not fast enough—someone shoved him hard between the shoulder blades and he went sprawling to the floor, knees hitting with a sickening thud.
I flinched.
They didn't wait. Two hands under his arms, they hauled him up like a sack of meat and dragged him toward the crate.
Nine hesitated at the threshold.
One of the guards kicked the back of his knee. "In."
He dropped down into the crate without another sound, curling in on himself automatically to fit. His knees came up to his chest. His back was hunched awkwardly. He looked too pale. Too quiet.
The crate door slammed shut behind him.
"Secured," someone called out.
Another worker stepped up and, with no warning, kicked the side of the crate—hard. The metal rang out and Nine flinched violently inside.
"Just in case you get any ideas," the man muttered with a smirk.
I started forward, fury building like a storm behind my ribs, but a guard blocked my way again.
"Touch him again," I said low and deadly, "and I swear—"
"You'll what?" the man asked flatly. "Throw a tantrum? You're lucky you're even allowed to accompany him."
I looked past him, toward Nine.
His fingers curled tighter around his legs. He was shaking now, his forehead resting against the bars, breath fogging the cold metal.
I'm sorry, I whispered through the bond, I'm so sorry.
Just hold on a little longer, sweetheart. Please.
He didn't look at me. But the faint twitch of his fingers was all I needed. He'd heard me.
The crate was wheeled into the back of the transport vehicle, locked into place alongside others. I saw more hybrids in crates—some motionless, some with dull, haunted eyes. It was a convoy of living bodies packed like freight.
The door slammed shut.
And I stood outside, fists trembling, watching the last sliver of silver hair vanish into the dark.