“We will,” I say, my eyes lingering on the screen for a beat before shifting to the map, where pins cluster like dark bruises across the places.
And when we do, we’ll have the conversation we should have had a long time ago.
I catchmy reflection in the glass — warped, fading into the blur of the room behind me. The lines of my face bleed into the dark, red veins threading through the whites of my eyes. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to tame it back into place, but it’s a losing battle.
Behind the glass, he stirs — a slow, clumsy twitch of limbs as the sedative begins to wear off. I exhale, then tilt my head to the side until a sharp crack cuts through the silence.
It took us a while to get him. No time for subtlety this round—no luring, no waiting. Jason hated every second of it. He’s always been the one with the patience, the plans, the chessboard mind.
But me? I’ve changed. Somewhere between the missions and Estella’s way of doing things, I stopped needing control all the time. Acting on impulse used to feel reckless. Now it feels…efficient. Maybe even necessary.
A groan breaks through the fog of my thoughts.
“What the fuck?” he mutters, trying to sit up, but dizziness wins, and he collapses back down, clutching his head.
“I wouldn’t rush it if I were you,” I say evenly.
His eyes snap to mine, still glazed, still lost, but gradually the realization of what is happening to him starts to wash over his mind and body.
“Scott Gordon,” I say, and he freezes. Every muscle in his body stills, breath cutting off like a broken chain.
I’ve done this a hundred times, but it never stops feeling like the first. People in this line hide behind names; some wear a dozen. When you pull the real one out, they look like they might faint and puke at the same time. It’s always a small, ugly reveal.
A crooked smile tugs at my mouth. Exhaustion coils through me, every muscle a taut wire ready to snap. I lick my cracked lips, the dryness tasting sharp and metallic, as if my own blood lingers there.
“What the fuck do you want?” Scott hisses, panic threading his voice. I can feel the momentum of it—a snowball of fear building, rolling faster with every second. Adrenaline pisses hot through his veins, and yet he hasn’t registered the cold of the room, or the fact that we’ve put him somewhere that makes escape an idea, not an option.
This part of the base sits underground, a basement that used to be nothing but damp concrete, spider-hung corners, and a darkness that hugged the walls like rot. Jason and Lucia never cared for it at first, since it was too bleak, too raw.
But when you start dragging people out of whatever comfortable lives they thought they had, you need a place designed for the job.
So I made one.
I scrubbed, wired, and built, forcing light into the corners where darkness had once ruled. At the center stands a glass cage, thick and bulletproof. It opens with a key—one only my team and I possess. Outside, a real key must be inserted into the lock, giving complete control to anyone holding it. Inside, a small, coin-like magnetic turn mechanism lies hidden, mine alone to command, since nobody knows I have the key.
A single lamp hangs from the ceiling, bright and naked, casting harsh clarity over every surface. The square cage issuffocating by design: no corners to disappear into, no shadows to manipulate, no escape from the gaze of the light. Isolation is the weapon here, hopelessness its only language.
Getting the truth out of people is never pretty. After trying softer methods and watching cunning men fold while others dug in their heels, I decided on something simpler. The cage isn’t theatrical—it’s practical. It leaves them with one thing they can’t bargain away: time alone with their conscience.
Torture is messy, and people in this line are trained to take pain. But nothing breaks them like the mind does. Isolation, time, the steady erosion of certainty—those are the real weapons. Days and weeks in this glass box chew through the toughest people until they crack.
“Jesus Christ, what is this!” Scott screams, palm slapping the glass so hard the sound ricochets through the space. He tries to stand, pressing against the wall, fingers splayed flat, eyes wide with a kind of animal panic. “You fucking sadist!”
He stomps like a child, his fury quick and ridiculous, then launches a boot at the glass with everything he has. For a moment, the impact hangs in the air before Scott groans, pulling back quickly as if he’s afraid the wall might strike him in return.
“Keep trying,” I say, my voice unemotional. “It won’t work. If you want out, it’s best for you to cooperate.”
He laughs, the sound hollow, devoid of humor. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” he spits.
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
His shoulders collapse before the fight drains out of him. He drags himself back until his spine hits the wall, then slides down slowly. “I won’t tell you shit,” he says, forcing the words out even as the performance slips away. He buries his face in his hands and mutters the same broken syllables over and over, his body jerking in a rhythm that looks like crying without making a sound.
I let my eyes fall shut for a moment, just long enough for a different world to surface. A hotel room blooms behind my eyelids—clean sheets pulled tight, a steaming bath waiting, a glass of good whiskey sweating on the nightstand. I hold that image like a talisman, letting its warmth spill through the cracks in my mind while, on the other side of the glass, Scott thrashes in his rising panic.
I give him the moment. Let him flail. Let the hopelessness thicken in the air, settling heavy on his lungs. Let the isolation wrap its hands around him, slow and inevitable.
It always works.
