I sit there for a long time, staring at the closed door, the bottle in my hands. Eventually, I drink it, and then I walk back to the small bedroom and lie on top of the sheets, fully clothed, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.
I wait for the nightmare, but it doesn't come. Only the memory of the drive, the silence, the way he didn't touch me even though he could have.
I don't know what that means.
I sleep anyway.
I wake up with the taste of chalk and bad breath in my mouth, not sure for a second where I am. The bed is too clean, the room too silent. For a few moments, I'm back in the holding cells, and the body memory is worse than the dream. My legs are tangled in the sheets and the skin at the base of my neck burns from the phantom pressure of the old collar.
I force myself upright. The clock says 7:42. The light behind the blinds is grey and cold. I scan the room for exits, weapons, cameras, but there's nothing except the door I came through and the sealed window. The dresser is still closed. I haven't been locked in.
I don't know if that's part of the game.
When I crack the door and peer into the apartment, the first thing I see is the living room—same as last night. Every surface is clean, every object placed with intent. The couch looks untouched. The table is clear, except for a folded newspaper anda pen, aligned perfectly with the edge. There's nothing to trip over, nothing that could be used as a weapon. Even the kitchen knives are in a drawer, out of sight.
I don't see him. I don't hear him, either. The silence is a different kind of threat. Most men in this world want you to know where they are at all times. The uncertainty is the weapon here.
I hover at the threshold, waiting for the next instruction, but none comes. After a while, my body makes the decision for me and slides along the wall toward the couch, as if on autopilot. I sit, legs close together, hands folded, eyes on the floor.
The longer I wait, the more the urge builds to do something—anything—to preempt the punishment I know is coming. It's always worse when they let you imagine it.
A noise from the hallway. Not footsteps. Something softer, like cloth on skin. I tense, shoulders to my ears, eyes unfocused but locked straight ahead. My breathing goes shallow, measured to avoid making a sound.
He emerges from his room dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. No shoes, no weapon, nothing in his hands. For a second, our eyes meet, but he looks away, as if the sight of me is an inconvenience. He heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs water.
He drinks half of it, wipes his mouth, and turns to face me. I don't move. I don't even blink.
He gestures toward the kitchen with his chin. "There's food if you want it."
I nod, not sure if he means now or if it's a future offer. I don't get up.
He frowns, like I'm a puzzle piece that doesn't fit. "You can eat."
I stand and move toward the kitchen. The fridge is full but organized. Eggs, pre-cooked chicken, rows of identical containers. There's a bowl of apples on the counter, each with the sticker still on. I reach for the least bruised one and wait to be told no.
He just watches. After a moment, he turns away and starts stretching, arms above his head, shoulders rolling. The shirt rides up to reveal a stretch of his stomach, marked with old scars, the kind you get from knives and maybe worse.
I take a bite of the apple, careful not to let juice drip. I finish it in four bites, core and all, and drop the stem into the trash. He doesn't say anything, so I return to the couch and sit, this time with my back to the armrest so I can see the whole room.
He kneels on the rug and begins a series of pushups. Slow, controlled, barely making a sound. He does fifty before switching to another set, then a third. When he's done, he's not even winded. He stands, rolls his neck, and looks at me again.
"You're older than the others," he says. It's not a question, so I don't answer.
He sits in the chair across from me, elbows on knees, hands together. "How long were you in Acquisition?"
I swallow, unsure what to say.
"Fifteen years," I say. My voice sounds thin, like it's been left out in the rain.
He nods. "Impressive. You did well to survive."
I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult, so I stay silent.
"Tonight," he says, "you sleep here again."
I nod.
He leans back and looks at the ceiling. "You don't have to wait for commands. If you want something, take it."
