I can hear the shuffle of their boots clearly now. Left alone long enough—pissing in a corner, mouth dry, stomach cramping, body stiff from too much concrete and not enough food, your brain starts narrowing in on whatever it can still control.
So I hear them.
Three of them.
Boot Stomper, Foot Shuffler, and Ballerina.
Ballerina barely makes a sound. I only know he’s the one by the door because he clears his throat every fifty-three seconds.
I counted.
Boot Stomper is the biggest. I know that because every time he passes, the strip of light under the door goes darker. Wider. Like he takes up more of it.
Foot Shuffler is interested.
Curious.
Stupid.
He’s popped his head in here twice now, lingering like he expects me to do something entertaining if he stares long enough.
I keep my head down when he does.
Let him think I’m weaker than I am.
Let him think the dark has made me small.
It hasn’t.
It’s made me patient.
I hear the latch shift before the door opens.
Not Arsen. Too light-footed.
A rectangle of weak yellow cuts into the dark and Foot Shuffler fills it, pausing just inside like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort.
I keep my head bowed, shoulders loose, one hand around my middle like I’m trying not to come apart.
It isn’t all performance. My stomach really does hurt. My head really is splitting. But weakness sells best when you let truth do half the work.
He takes a few steps in. I count them by sound.
One.
Two.
Three.
Close enough now that if the bars weren’t between us, I could probably smell him.
“Still alive?” he asks.
His accent is Armenian. Younger than Arsen. Rougher around the edges. The kind of man who mistakes sarcasm for personality.
I let a beat pass, like answering costs me something.
“Disappointed?”
