The door didn’t open. Not yet.
But I heard the lock turn.
The air shifted.
I inhaled.
Held it.
Let the war start with breath. They didn’t rush. That was the first thing I noticed. No one rushed in this place. Everything was done slow. Calculated. Like they were trying to teach me what helplessness looked like when it wore confidence.
The door opened with the same calm it always did. Just a click of the lock, a gentle push, the metal swinging wide like it had nothing to fear.
The man who entered wasn’t one I recognized. Not from before. Not from the others. He was clean-cut. Suit crisp. Black-on-black. Like he thought the sharpness of his appearance made him more civilized. Like the shine on his shoes made him less monstrous.
But I knew better. I’d learned that kind of polish before. I’d kissed it. Served it. Let it use my mouth until I forgot my own name. And still I knew Wolfe was something else. This man didn’t hold power. He wore it like it could be washed off.
He didn’t speak at first. Just set a black case down on the table beside the chair. Flipped the latches open. One by one. The clicks echoed too loud in the cement room. Sharp. Precise.
I kept my eyes on him. He didn’t look at me. Not yet.
Inside the case was a camera. Not a handheld. A mounted one. High-end. Professional. With a wireless feed and a red light that blinked slow and steady like a heartbeat.
He lifted it carefully. Set it on a tripod. Turned it toward me. That’s when he looked up. And smiled.
It was a practiced smile. The kind people give to news anchors and politicians. Empty. Meant to distract.
“We’ll be live in five,” he said.
Live.
The word hit harder than his stare.
I clenched my jaw. Didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to mind. He adjusted the lens. Zoomed in. Tilted the frame. He took his time. My chest rose and fell slowly.
I could feel every bruise stretch with each inhale. Every cut throb beneath the bandages they wrapped too tightly. My wrists were already bleeding again. I could feel the drip tracing down the side of my palm.
He stepped back. Nodded once.
“You’re going to be the proof.”
I said nothing.
“That the Lawlors bleed like anyone else.”
The screen mounted behind him flickered to life.
A feed.
Live.
The Lawlor building. Wide shot. Pulled from street level. A cameraman’s vantage. Cars passing. People walking. A normal day. Then the timer appeared in the top left corner.
Red.
Counting down from fifteen seconds.
I stared.
