I turn away from the chair. I walk to the center of the room. The drain is directly beneath me, stainless steel gleaming in the dim light.
I hold the glass over the drain.
“No.” The word is torn from him. “No, please, don’t?—”
I tilt the glass.
The water falls in a thin stream. The subject watches it the way a man might watch his salvation slipping through his fingers. Each drop that hits the drain produces a small sound. The glass empties slowly, deliberately.
“Please.” He is straining against the restraints now. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—please don’t do this. I’ll tell you anything. I’ll give you more names. Just please?—”
The last of the water disappears down the drain.
I set the empty glass on the floor beside the drain. The placement is deliberate. He will be able to see it for the duration of what comes next.
I walk to the light control panel.
“Another forty-eight hours,” I say. My voice is calm. “That is the consequence of your defiance. Forty-eight hours without light. Without drinking water. Without the sound of another human voice.”
Ivan wants speed. Speed requires obedience. If I allow defiance to stand uncorrected, I lose him permanently—and the intelligence he carries becomes inaccessible. The harshness serves the mission, not spite.
“No.” He is sobbing now, the tears tracking through the grime on his face. “No, please, I can’t—I can’t do this again. I’ll die. I’ll die in the dark.”
“You will not die. You have margin remaining.”
An IV line will maintain his organs. Saline and electrolytes, inserted during his sleep cycles, enough to prevent kidney failure while his mouth and throat remain destroyed. He will believe he is dying. The belief is the point.
“Please.” The word is barely audible. “Please don’t leave me alone again.”
I look at him. The man who spat in my face. The man who summoned the ghost of his Petrenko pride and hurled it at me like a weapon.
My finger rests on the light control.
“Let us see,” I say, “if your pride can quench your thirst.”
I press the control.
The room plunges into absolute darkness.
His scream follows me out of the room, wordless and raw. The door seals behind me.
In the observation room, I settle into my chair and call up the infrared feed. The subject is thrashing in his restraints, his mouth open in a scream I can no longer hear.
I should feel satisfaction. He provided a name before his defiance reasserted itself. Daniil Volkov. Odessa customs. Genuine intelligence that can be verified. The session was productive despite its unconventional ending.
I feel something else. A tightness in my chest that I cannot immediately classify.
He spat in my face. Subjects have done worse. I have been struck, bitten, headbutted, and on one occasion stabbed with a concealed pin that required seven sutures. Physical assault from subjects is routine.
But I keep seeing his eyes in the moment before the spit. The horror. The shame. The fury that was not directed at me but at himself, at his own weakness, at the way his body had accepted the water I offered.
He was not spitting at me. He was spitting at the version of himself that almost broke.
I understand the distinction. I should not care about the distinction.
On the monitor, the subject has stopped thrashing. He hangs in the restraints, chest heaving, tears tracking down his face. His lips are moving again, forming words I cannot hear.
I watch him for nearly an hour before I realize I haven’t touched the keyboard once.
