The medical team stormed into the cell, preceded by hovering droids and supply carriers. The containment field was deactivated for the procedure.
Blinding white light flooded the room.
Hands reached in.
Sensors were placed on Illaoï's chest, her temples, her throat.
Her breathing was shallow, erratic.
Injections followed swiftly—sedatives, stimulants, ionic recharges.
Her pulse gradually stabilized.
One by one, the alarms fell silent.
The Sith scientist who had been studying her journal burst in, trailed by two assistants.
He said nothing.
Just watched.
And began taking notes immediately.
Scourge stood apart. Upright. Silent.
His eyes never left her.
A nurse returned carrying a tray of instruments and a large basin of water to clean the blood off the floor.
Scourge turned—saw it—
And realized the mistake a second too late.
— "No."
But it was already happening.
The water rose.
It lifted from the basin like a living thing, surging toward the woman's motionless body.
Illaoï's eyes snapped open.
Thirst. Pain. Exhaustion.
All filled in at once.
She absorbed the liquid like parched earth soaking in rain.
Her eyes blazed with renewed light.
Her muscles tensed.
One of the guards entered the room.
She recognized his voice.
Him.
A hideous memory.
Laughter. Screams. Suffering.
He was one of those responsible for the worst atrocities during her capture.
Her hands clenched.
She raised her arms.
Water swirled around her.
Two whips shot out from behind her—liquid serpents, sharp and swift.
The guard didn't even have time to scream.
His body shriveled in seconds—withered, drained of every last drop.
Panic erupted.
The remaining soldiers opened fire.
The whips lashed out, deflecting shots, knocking weapons away, stunning and disabling.
No one could get near her.
Illaoï stood. Trembling still, but upright.
She ran for the exit—
Only to slam into a wall.
Scourge.
He caught her mid-motion and forced her down, pinning her to the floor with effortless strength.
She struggled, writhing beneath him, but his grip held.
— "Enough."
The scientist approached, calm, syringe in hand.
— "She needs to sleep."
Without ceremony, he injected her.
Illaoï screamed—once. Loud and piercing.
Then slipped into unconsciousness.
Silence returned.
The decision was unanimous: she would be placed in a medically induced coma.
She would be transferred in a Kolto tank until arrival at the central facility.
Scourge approved with a single nod.
He watched them carry the stretcher down the corridor.
And remained alone with the corpse.
He stepped forward. Leaned down.
The body was shriveled, pale—like something long-dead, dried out by a thousand years of sun.
Hollow eye sockets.
Cracked skin.
And Scourge didn't look away.
She could have killed all of them.
He knew that.
And yet... she chose only one.
He narrowed his eyes.
A bastard—by even his own Sith standards.
A choice.
A judgment.
A silent execution.
He straightened slowly.
And acknowledged, finally,
That this woman… chose.