Page 70 of The Masked King

It’s a form of torture. The kind terrorists use on the enemy when they have them in captivity. Silence. Constant noise. Conversations with Brian. My thoughts are so muddled, I swear I heard Enzo’s voice last time I was conscious.

If I’m going to get out of here, I need to stay lucid, and that means refusing to eat.

The seal on the bottle of water they left on the nightstand is intact. I break it open and drink sparingly, saving the rest for later. Then I sit up, wait for the room to settle, and slide my legs over the side of the bed.

I’m wearing a Nyx outfit. Black latex tights and a black corset, and it disturbs me more that someone is dressing me up like a fucking doll while I’m unconscious.

But I post it right at the forefront of my mind, right behind my blurry eyes: THEY NEED ME.

If they didn’t, they’d have killed me when they killed Michael Douglas, and I’d be in pieces right now, stuffed inside a trash liner and dumped at the bottom of a lake somewhere where my rotting bones will be discovered someday. Because these people thrive on their twisted perversions. They want to be recognized for being more fucked-up than the next guy, like it’s a competition to see who can sink the lowest to the loudest applause.

When I feel steady enough to stand up, I go to the bathroom, ditch the clothes, and shower, wrapping a towel around myself when I’m done.

It helps to wash away some of the fuzziness.

The lights are still on in the apartment, and I realize I haven’t been alert enough to even check out my location. I go to the window and peer outside as the spotlights cut out and blackout shutters roll across the windows plunging me back into darkness.

“What the fuck…” I’m still hoarse, but glimpses of my voice are starting to break through.

They didn’t want me to see outside the building, which must mean that we’re still in the city, and I’ll recognize where I am.

I’ll take that as a positive.

As long as I’m in the city, there’s a remote possibility that DI Goss will find me.

Or Brian will.

I feel my way along the windows, trying to find a button or a mechanism that will roll the blackout shutters back, but they feel solid as if they’re built into the window frames. Frustration builds inside my chest until I hear a sound on the opposite side of the room, from somewhere near the door.

I spin around, momentarily losing my balance. “Hello? Who’s there?”

I put up with the dark in the club because it was part of the game, it added to the guests’ experience, encouraged them to reveal their inner perversions without accountability. But I’m so fucking done with it now.

“Switch the lights on, you fucking cowards.” I tiptoe across the room, my pulse racing. “All this blackout shit doesn’t cut it anymore. I’ve seen your faces. I know who the fuck you are.”

My heart stutters when the door opens, not enough to let in any light—the corridor must be in darkness too—but enough for me to see a figure leaving the room.

I charge at the door like a bull being teased by a red cape, a hoarse guttural roar escaping my lips, and I reach it a beat too late.

“No!” I pound the door with my fists. “Come back!”

I press my ear against the wood, but I can’t hear anything. They’re gone. But I saw enough to know that it wasn’t snake-guy. The figure was short, petite, clad all in black but it was a woman, not one of snake-guy’s goons.

I sink to the floor with my back against the door and wait for her to come back. I can no longer smell food, so I think she might’ve retrieved the meal that was delivered while I slept, but I don’t understand why they have to sneak around in the dark. Do I know her? Is that what they’re afraid of? Or are they worried that she might try to help me escape too?

“Maybe you should try treating people with some common fucking respect,” I call out to the microphones wherever they’re hidden. “Then they’d be happy to work for you. You never know, you might even learn what loyalty looks like.”

I’m wasting my breath, but it’s better than letting it fester inside me.

At least I know now for sure that the food is drugged with a hallucinogenic substance. I still feel weak, but I’m not imagining Enzo’s voice, or confused about my surroundings.

I sit on the floor and think about it logically. They generally enter the room while I’m sleeping, which means they know how long the effects of the drug last and have been working around it, dressing me up like a sordid real-life Barbie, and fetching food before I wake. I can’t think about the spotlights and what else they might have done for the benefit of the cameras. That’s one for later. But for now, I should try to stay awake.

Eventually, the woman will be back, and maybe, with a tiny bit of luck, she’ll be on my side. Girl power.

I start counting down from one thousand, but I’m too easily distracted from numbers and find my mind wandering before I reach nine hundred. I move onto song lyrics, singing along to my favorite tunes playing in my head.

Enzo introduced me to ‘Woman in Love’ by Barbra Streisand, and once the song gets stuck in my head, it plays on a loop, while memories of me and Enzo belting it out at the top of our lungs dance behind my eyelids…