Hands tighten. Someone hauls me upright, efficient and impersonal. My feet scrape once before I’m lifted properly, carried between them like I weigh nothing.
I quit fighting. Not because I want to. Because it’s over.
My plans unravel in my head, thread by thread. The Favor I dreamt of dissolves, slips through my fingers like sand at the beach. The doors, the ones I was determined to pry open will now stay shut. The truth remains buried, hidden from me forever. All the things I told myself I’d earn evaporate like I never deserved them to begin with. Maybe I didn’t.
Maybe I was arrogant. I thought I could outthink a place built to break people.
The Rot hums around me, satisfied. Smug with triumph.
Fuck you.
I swallow and force my breath steady. I won’t plead. I won’t give them that. I won’t scream or cry. I’m not like the other girls. And I sure as fuck won’t beg.
The lantern swings forward, illuminating a corridor I haven’t seen yet, deeper, narrower, wrong in a way I don’t have language for.
Nausea swirls in me. This isn’t just capture. This is processing.
Whatever comes next will decide what kind of Runt I become.
Because I don’t get a say.
16
VI
They bind me.Not hurried. Not rough. Just deliberate.
My wrists are pulled behind me and secured with something that doesn’t bite but doesn’t loosen either. My ankles follow, enough restraint to keep me upright, but not enough to let me forget where the control is. Hands stay on me as we move, guiding, correcting, reminding.
I don’t fight it. There’s no point now.
That’s when the talking starts.
One of the hands at my shoulder loosens just enough to be deliberate. Another tilts my chin up, not roughly, just enough to make sure I’m facing forward.
“Aren’t you going to bargain? Try to strike a deal?” a voice taunts, casual, almost bored.
Another chuckles. “They always do.”
I keep my mouth shut.
Someone clicks their tongue. “Come on. You ran hard. You earned at least a request.”
A pause. They’re waiting for it. The tears. The promises. The frantic throwing away of dignity.
“Beg,” another voice says, closer now. “Makes this part easier.”
I laugh.
It scrapes out of me rough and ugly, more bark than sound. My throat burns when I speak, but I don’t lower my head.
“Shut your fucking mouths. Pigs.”
For half a second, the space stills.
Then they laugh.
Not cruel. Not sharp. Delighted.
