I open the fridge.
It's full. Not overflowing, but restocked from yesterday. Eggs in a carton, bread in a bag, butter in a dish. Containers of something that looks like rice, stacked in a neat row. Apples and bananas in a bowl on the counter, each one perfect, unstickered.
I grab a banana and wander around while I peel it. My anxiety is still buzzing, but now I can think. Look. Truly look around. Explore a little.
The apartment is bigger than I realized.
I map it the way they taught us in the pens, back when I was still new enough to think escape was possible. Entry points, exit points, blind spots, weapons. The front door has three deadbolts and a chain, all engaged. The windows are sealed, the glass thick enough that breaking it would takemore strength than I have. The bathroom has a lock on the inside, the kind you can flip with your thumb.
The bedroom window doesn't open, but the frame looks old. Jace said it was weak enough to break if I needed an exit.
The kitchen has knives. Real ones, not the dull training blades they gave us for food prep. I open the second drawer and find them arranged in a row, handles facing out, edges gleaming. A chef's knife, a paring knife, something with a serrated edge that could do real damage.
He left them here. Accessible. Within reach.
Again.
I pick up the paring knife, test the weight in my palm. The handle is worn smooth, the blade sharp enough to split skin with barely any pressure. I could hide this. Tuck it under the mattress, keep it close while I sleep.
I put it back.
If he wanted to hurt me, he wouldn't need a knife. He wouldn't need anything. I've seen the way he moves, the controlled precision, the stillness that comes from knowing exactly how much damage he can inflict. Men like him don't need weapons. Theyareweapons.
And he left me alone with a drawer full of blades like it didn't matter.
Either he trusts me, or he's testing me, or he doesn't think I'm enough of a threat to worry about.
I don't know which option is worse.
The shower is hot.
Not lukewarm, not rationed, not cut off after three minutes by a timer. I stand under the spray until steam fills the room and my skin turns red, and no one bangs on the door, no one drags me out, no one punishes me for taking too long.
I cry.
Not loud, not dramatic. Just tears leaking out, mixing with the water, disappearing down the drain. I don't know what I'm crying for. The heat, maybe. The privacy. The strange, impossible kindness of being left alone.
Or maybe I'm crying because I keep waiting for the trap and it doesn't come, and that's scarier than any punishment I've ever received.
This isn't real. This can't be real.
But the water is real. The steam is real. The ache in my muscles is real.
I wash my hair with shampoo that smells like nothing, scrub my body with soap that doesn't sting. I stay in until the water starts to cool, then turn it off and stand there, dripping, listening to the silence.
No footsteps. No commands. No one waiting on the other side of the door.
I dry off with a towel that's softer than anything I've touched in years and put on the same oversized shirt from yesterday. It hangs to my thighs, the sleeves past my wrists. It smells like detergent and something else, something faint and warm that I can't identify.
Him. It smells like him.
I don't know why that makes my chest tight.
The knock comes at 12:30.
I'm on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the wall, when the sound cracks through the silence. Three sharp raps, evenly spaced. Official.
My body freezes. Every muscle locks, every nerve fires, everyinstinct screamshide hide hide.
