Despite myself I smile. “You’re a dick, you know that?”
“Ouch. That stings.” I hear him shuffle before he speaks again. “Let me guess. You’re the strong, silent type. Probably think talking to strangers is beneath you.”
“I think talking to potential spies is stupid.”
“You think I’m a spy?” He laughs again, and this time it’s genuinely amused. “Right, because these sheep are definitely smart enough to think of planting someone in the cell next to yours to trick you. That’s some next-level psychological warfare right there, and I can assure you, they aren’t that smart.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Fair point. Though if I were a spy, I’d probably be better at this whole ‘gaining your trust’ thing. I’d be all sympathetic and wounded, asking about your feelings and shit.”
Despite the situation, I almost smile. “Instead of being an ass?”
“Exactly. I’m way too honest to be undercover. Three yearsof having nothing but my own thoughts for company tends to strip away the social niceties.”
“Three years?”
“Give or take. Hard to keep track when you never see the sun.” His voice softens slightly. “Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear. Hope’s a dangerous thing down here.”
We fall into silence after that. I find myself staring at the hole in the wall, trying to process what he’s told me. Three years. If it’s true, if people really are kept here that long, then my pack might never find me. I might die in this place, just another disappeared prisoner.
“So,” he says after a few minutes, and his voice is gentler now, “what’s your crime against the state? Besides having terrible conversational skills, I mean.”
“None of your business.”
“Fair enough. We’re all entitled to our secrets.” A pause. “But just so you know, whatever they want from you, it’s better to make them work for it. The moment you give them everything, you become expendable.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen a lot of people disappear over the years. The ones who cooperated went silent first. I can only guess what happened to them.”
The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. How many prisoners has he listened to? How many has he heard screaming, pleading, and then… nothing?
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why are you still here? If cooperation means death, why haven’t they killed you?”
“Because I’m special.” His voice is bitter now. “I have something they need, but I’ve never been cooperative enough to give it to them completely. It’s a delicate balance.”
“What kind of something?”
“The kind that keeps me breathing, even when I don’t particularly want to be.”
There’s so much pain in those words that I feel something crack in my chest. This man—whoever he is—has been tortured for years, kept alive for some purpose he clearly despises, forced to endure isolation that would have broken most people.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.
“Don’t be. I made my choices. Now I live with the consequences.” He’s quiet for a moment. “What about you? Got anything they want badly enough to keep you alive?”
I consider how much to reveal. “Maybe.”
“Then you might be here for a while. Best get comfortable.”
Hours pass. We don’t speak, but I find myself listening for the sound of his breathing, taking comfort in the proof that someone else is enduring this hell alongside me.
When the guards finally come, it isn’t for me.
