Opposites.
Chaos.
The screens show bodies reacting—shivering, gasping, curling inward, pressing foreheads to stone like prayer might help.
It will not.
“Food rotation?” I ask.
“Suspended,” the technician answers. “All wings.”
“Water?”
“Every forty-eight hours.”
I nod once.
Isolation is not enough anymore.
They tasted hope.
That cannot be allowed.
“Activate auditory exposure,” I continue.
A guard glances up sharply. “Sir… are you certain?”
I turn then.
Slowly.
He pales.
The sound system hums to life.
At first, it is nothing but white noise—static crawling through the walls, impossible to pinpoint. Then it changes.
Breathing.
Low. Ragged.
Then a scream.
Short.
Cut off abruptly.
The screens capture the reaction instantly.
Men stiffen. Heads lift. Eyes widen in the dark.
They don’t know whose scream it is.
That’s the point.
“Cycle it,” I say. “Different wings. Different times. No pattern.”
The technician swallows hard but obeys.
