In the hall, the emergency klaxons try to kick in. They let out a pathetic, dying groan—skreeeee-unh—before the backup generators scream and fail. Metalgrinds on metal. Somewhere far below, a heavy door slams shut with a boom that vibrates through the foam slab and into my spine.
“Doctor?” I whisper.
My voice is a serrated blade of sound. It’s the first time I’ve spoken in months, and it hurts. It tastes like rust.
No answer. Only the sound of Aris’s frantic, retreating footsteps.Scuff-thud, scuff-thud.He’s running. The man who wanted to watch me burn is fleeing the heat.
I pull against the leather.Creak.The restraints are cold. The sweat on my skin has turned to ice in the sudden absence of the climate control. I can feel every inch of where the hide touches me—the thick strap across my diaphragm that keeps my breaths shallow, the cuffs that keep my wrists splayed like a crucifix.
The peppermint smell—the green mist—is thicker now. It doesn’t need the vents. It’s seeped into the padding. It’s in my hair.
I stare into the blackness until my retinas start to hallucinate. White spots dance in the void. I imagine the blue and red of my hair bleeding into the dark, swirling like ink in water. I can feel the memory of my combat boots, the weight of them on my feet, though I know I’m barefoot and exposed.
Thump.
Something hits the door. Not a hand. Something heavy. Something wet.
It slides down the steel with a long, sickening smear.Sssssss-ulch.
I hold my breath. My heart is a frantic percussionist,drumming against the ribcage Aris tried to hollow out. I wait for the scream, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a new sound.
A metallicclink. Then a scratch.
It’s the sound of something sharp—a blade, or maybe a nail—dragging slowly across the outside of my door. It’s deliberate. It’s a signature.
Skritch… skritch… skritch…
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I am a ghost pinned to a board. The darkness is so thick I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed. I am alone in the tomb, and the thing on the other side of the door is taking its time.
A soft whistle starts.
It’s low. It’s out of tune. It’s a nursery rhyme I don’t recognise, twisted into a minor key that makes my teeth ache. It’s the sound of a predator playing with its food before the first bite.
I pull at the wrist straps again, harder this time. The leather bites into my skin, the salt of my sweat stinging the raw patches, but the bolts in the floor don’t budge. I am still the captive. I am still the “asset.”
The whistling stops.
The silence returns, but it’s different now. It’s expectant. It’s the silence of a theatre right before the curtain rises on a tragedy.
“Is… someone… there?” I croak.
No answer. Just the sound of the peppermint fog settling over me, and the distant, rhythmicdrip… drip… drip…of something leaking in the hallway.
I’m still strapped down. I’m still broken. But for the first time in two hundred and fifteen days, the darkness feels like it’s on my side.
The shadows don’t just sit in the room; they pulse.
My heart is the only clock left, and it’s running too fast, ticking away the seconds in my neck. I pull against the chest strap, the heavy leather pressing into my sternum until the air comes out in jagged, shallow sips. My skin is slick with cold sweat, making the vinyl of the slab feel like a wet tongue against my spine.
The smell of peppermint is no longer a scent; it’s a taste. It’s thick, coating my throat in a medicinal frost that makes my head swim. I can feel the madness Aris tried to drown starting to float to the surface, buoyed by the toxins in the air.
Cling. Cling. Cling.
The sound is rhythmic. It’s coming from the ventilation shaft above. It’s not the wind. It’s something metallic hitting the grate. I tilt my head as far as the neck restraint allows, my eyes straining toward the black square in the ceiling.
A small, rectangular shadow flutters down through the slats. It doesn’t hit the floor with a thud; it whispers as it slides through the air, landing softly on my stomach, right between my pinned hands.
I can’t see it. I can only feel the weight of it—stiff, laminated paper. It’s cold against my bare skin. I fumble with my fingers, the tips barely able to reach the edge of the object. It’s a card.
