ROWAN
The trains are what tell me we’re still in the industrial district, even though they moved us again sometime before dawn. They never stop. Even when the building falls quiet, and Lila stops pacing long enough for the air between us to feel thick and unmoving, there is always that distant metallic drag somewhere beyond the walls. Steel grinding against steel. A low, hollow echo that seeps through the concrete and remains beneath every other sound.
The guards are more careful with me now, like they’re afraid of damaging something they’ve been told to protect.
The room they’ve put us in is bare, nothing in it meant for comfort. Two narrow cots with thin gray blankets that feel rough against my palms. A metal table bolted directly to the concrete floor. I don’t see any cameras, which probably means they’re hidden somewhere in the walls. A reinforced window sits high near the ceiling, framed in thick steel. Even if we stacked the cots, we wouldn’t reach it, and the opening is so narrow it offers nothing but the illusion of escape.
The steel door seals with a quiet hiss when it closes, and the sound doesn’t echo the way it should. It just disappears into the walls, and the room seems to draw tighter around us.
Lila hasn’t stopped moving since we were locked inside. She paces from one wall to the other, her boots brushing over the floor, pivoting sharply at the corner of the table before retracing the same path. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest, her fingers digging into the sleeves of her coat.
“This place isn’t permanent,” she mutters, her voice low but full of restless energy. “You can feel it. They’re just holding us here.”
I sit on the edge of the cot for a moment, pressing my palms into the thin mattress before pushing myself up again. When I stand too quickly, the room tips slightly before righting itself, just enough to remind me my body isn’t quite cooperating lately.
Lila notices.
“You okay?” she asks, stopping mid-step.
“I’m fine.” I try to sound convincing even though the words fall short of the truth. “Just… adjusting.”
Her eyes drop briefly toward my stomach before she looks away again.
The nausea isn’t sudden or violent. It builds slowly beneath my ribs, a quiet pressure that rises and fades if I breathe through it carefully enough. Today, the air tastes faintly metallic. I swallow against it and focus on the trains in the distance, on the steady vibration of something beyond these walls that keeps moving whether we’re trapped here or not.
The hinges of the door groan softly before a woman steps inside, carrying a plastic tray balanced against her hip. She isn’t dressedlike the men. No tactical boots or dark uniform. Just jeans and a sweater worn thin at the cuffs, her hair pulled back in a loose knot that looks assembled without care. She smells faintly of stale coffee and detergent.
“Eat,” one of the guards tells us from the doorway behind her.
She nods once in agreement and slips in. The door seals shut behind her. Crossing the small space, she sets the tray down on the metal table with bread wrapped in plastic, a sealed container of soup, and two bottles of water.
For a moment, the three of us stand there in silence. She glances up, her eyes moving from my face to Lila and then back again. The look isn’t long enough to draw attention, but it’s long enough for me to see the fatigue there.
“You should eat,” she murmurs.
Lila moves a little closer as I push myself up from the cot. I take a moment to center myself before crossing the room. The woman slides one of the water bottles slightly closer to me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
The woman pauses briefly. She nods once, then turns toward the door. Before knocking, she tilts her head slightly, listening.
“What’s your name?” Lila asks suddenly.
The woman freezes for a moment before answering.
“Maria.”
Her voice is almost reflexive, as if she hasn’t spoken her name aloud here before.
“They’re not paying you enough for this,” Lila mutters.
Maria’s lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t respond. She knocks twice, waits, and leaves as soon as the door opens.
When it seals again, Lila exhales sharply.
“She’s not like the others,” Lila says, dragging her hands down her face. “Did you see that? The way she pushed the water closer to you.”
“I noticed.”
