“As planned?” I echo, a humorless chuckle snapping out of me. I turn fully, nodding to myself as the heat inside me spikes, a scorching anger clawing its way up. “As fucking planned,” I repeat. “You just have to have another awful fucking plan, don’t you?!”
My emotions rip free, wild and uncontained. It feels like ants swarming beneath my skin, scraping over nerves, burrowing through every layer of me. The itch flares, relentless, consuming, until it roars into a wildfire that scorches its way across every inch of my body.
And with it comes the flood—every imprint of his hand, every bruise, every memory—dragged up from the depths and slammed back into me with brutal clarity.
I yank at the loose, stretched collar of my shirt, desperate for air, dragging my fingers across my neck. The veins there bulge, my skin flushing hot as I claw at it, my short nails digging deep just to escape the sensation threatening to consume me whole.
“Let me out of here,” I snarl, slamming my fist into the wall. The impact shudders up my arm, but I barely feel it.
Through my half-opened, rage-blinded eyes, I see Lucia shaking her head. My fist crashes into the wall again, harder this time, and my mind replaces the bulletproof glass with her face. “Let me the fuck out!”
“No!” she screams back, stumbling a few steps away from the cage. “You’re like an addict, Dante, can’t you see that? And all addicts go through withdrawal eventually. The only thing that helps them is surviving it.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, disbelief scraping my throat raw. Another humorless, fractured chuckle escapes me as I shake my head.
“I still have hope,” she insists. “I will help you?—”
“How can you be so fucking stupid?” I cut in, thrusting a shaking hand in her direction. “And how could I be even worse? I’ve spent years working with fucking imbeciles.”
Something snaps—the last thread holding me together. Manic Laughter rips out of me, shaking through my chest. It spirals upward immediately, wild and uncontrollable, rattling my ribs like something feral trying to claw its way out. Tears spring to my eyes, but I swipe at them angrily, smearing salt and sweat across my face until the world blurs.
“You’re angry because you’re in pain,” she says softly. “It’ll pass. Once everything is done, you will be okay, Dante. I promise.”
I won’t be okay. Not now. Not again. Not after Estella found everything out in the worst way imaginable. She spent her entire life in this world, carving her place into it with blood, sweat, and her own twisted form of devotion. And I destroyed all of it with one mistake.
Lucia’s voice trails off the second her phone starts buzzing. She checks the screen, lifts it to her ear, and steps out, climbing the stairs before the door clicks shut behind her.
The moment she’s gone, adrenaline slams into me, stealing the breath straight from my lungs. My bandaged arm throbs, reminding me of the wound I carved open myself, the price I paid for this backup plan. Blood has already soaked through the white cloth, and the sting beneath it whispers that there’s no going back now.
I drag the bandaged arm forward, grit my teeth, and tear the fabric apart in one violent motion. Cold air rushes against the exposed, trembling skin. The poorly stitched wound pulses with each heartbeat, the weak sutures shifting when I move. More blood trickles out, thin trails carving through dried crust.
A small, coin-shaped key glints from within the wound, nestled between torn flesh. The basement light catches on its edge, the reflection sharp enough to urge me forward.
I draw in a slow, steady breath, filling my lungs as much as they’ll allow, then lower my head. My teeth close around the soaked threads, biting down with all the force I have. Iron floods my tongue, and I pull sideways. The quiet rip of the stitches cuts through the stillness—a soft, deliberate tear that somehow feels louder than a scream. Blood rushes free, warm and metallic, sliding over my tongue and dripping down my chin.
I recoil, the world tilting for a single wavering heartbeat. My arm shakes uncontrollably, shock rippling up my spine in jagged waves. Yet the pain feels far away, nothing more than a muted echo beneath the surge pounding through my veins.
My fingers dig into the wound, grabbing the edge of the loose threads. I drag them down, opening the flesh until the key sits free, glimmering like salvation in a pool of red.
Biting my lip to ground myself, I reach in with my other hand and pull the small coin-key out fully. When it rests in my palm, the relief is so powerful it melts into a low, breathless chuckle.
Hold on just a bit longer, Estella.
With shaking hands, I press the key into the coin slot of the cage’s lock. A soft click answers me as the door cracks open.
The basement air slaps against my face, but it tastes sweeter than the suffocating despair that had claimed the cage. Quickly, I tear a long strip from my shirt sleeve. Wrapping it around the open wound, I tie it with my teeth, pulling it tight enough to bite into my skin. Enough pressure to slow the bleeding. Enough to keep moving.
There’s no time for pain. No time for doubt.
A muffled voice floats down from above, followed by the soft click of the door. I slip into the darkest corner near the stairs, pressing my back to the wall, breath held, waiting for her footsteps to descend.
“I let them go. They’re on their way to help you. She couldn’t have gotten far, don’t worry. Call me when you’re done.”
My lips stretch into a slow, satisfied smile as the truth settles in my bones. I knew Estella was capable. I knew she’d tear through whatever trap they built for her. And the fact that she’s out there—free, fighting, relentless—makes me so fucking proud.
Proud… and burning with urgency.
Lucia steps into the basement, tucking her phone into her pocket. She freezes mid-stride when she spots the empty cage. Her head jerks from side to side, eyes scanning frantically, trying to locate what she’s already lost.
