I, however, have no damn idea what I’m looking at.
Junction box, sure.
But what now?
Pull a cable, kill the lights, and pray for a miracle? Pray for a miracle, pull a cord, and kill myself? What kind of voltage runs through these? Or is it amps that kill?
Why didn’t I take any useful electives in high school?
It’s all just a blur of wires and panic, nothing like the fantasy of a single red wire to cut that ends the threat.
I slump against the wall.
Of course there’s no magic button or way out. Just me, this tangle of wires, and the choking despair. Thick, almost gag-inducing frustration wells up in my throat.
The warped knife trembles in my grasp. Bent, broken, and useless.
“Damn it.” I suck on my bleeding fingers.
I knew this was a long shot. But I really hoped—prayed—that this discovery would enable me to do something. Kill the lights, disengage the locks, open the windows…
Instead, I’m back at square one, with only bleeding hands to show for my efforts.
Soundlessly, the door swings inward. No electricity needed. No warning snick of the lock.
Just Kirill, his expression flat and unreadable.
No flicker of anger. Only that steady, patient stare, as if he’d scripted this moment from the start.
Like he’s been observing me and waiting for my failure.
Is the junction box a fake? A trap?
His gaze absorbs the scene.
My face, the spider- and wire-filled cavity of the panel, and my ruined hands curled around the knife’s broken hilt.
The evidence of my failure.
His eyes say, “I know exactly what you are. This is all you have left.”
While I know he’s wrong, I can’t find the strength to speak.
With unhurried steps, he walks over and pries the knife from my hand with a firm pressure that doesn’t allow for argument. Then he lifts my hand and studies my torn fingers and that welling blood that slips down my knuckles and stripes my palm, his touch impassive.
Almost clinical.
But I catch a flash of familiarity in his eyes akin to the kind you get from an ER nurse who’s seen worse.
Without a word, he closes the panel, turns, and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I slide down the wall, boneless, refusing the sobs clawing up my chest. Harsh, unrelenting futility pricks at me.
No way out. No hope. Just this room, these walls, and the man with his hand on every lever.
Time crawls. As exhaustion settles in and clears my mind, my breathing slows.
This is fine.
