Page 27 of Freedom’s Inferno

He looked wounded. “There’s no such thing as a decision made freely. Nothing is free. Freedom from punishment is impossible. Strip away the laws, the prisons, the fines… We would punish ourselves anyway. The only freedom is in death, when you’re confined to nothing.”

My voice was steady, low. “Choice is real. You choose every fucking day.”

His jaw tightened at that, his eyes darting away, like I’d struck a nerve.

I turned from him and headed in the direction of the slider, deciding the conversation was over. We both knew what the following day would bring: scouring paperwork, following the numbers, and hoping Costa found Jesus and patience. I was a floating head, but I’d prefer the other way around. I’d rather be a brainless body than become nothing but my thoughts.

“We aren’t safe here anymore,” Charlie called out.

I froze in the doorway, my hand gripping the frame, but I didn’t turn around. “I know.”

That was all I said before I walked away. The message was clear. The rest would have to sleep until morning.

Chapter 12

Lana

Two days had passed since the night of the gala, though it felt more like two weeks. The house was quiet except for the steady tick of the grandfather clock, a sound that had started to feel like a countdown. Things between Charlie and me had settled into a strange rhythm, awkward but civil. We spoke when we had to, moved around each other like uneasy roommates, and tried not to let the silence between us turn into something tense. We were both running on fumes, the kind of exhaustion no amount of caffeine could fix. The dining table was buried in papers, empty mugs, and half-eaten takeout cartons. Our monument to insomnia and bad coffee.

Neither of us had been sleeping well. I’d hear him pacing the halls at night, floorboards creaking under his weight. One night I came down for a glass of water when I couldn’t get my own mind to settle and I found him stooped over piles of documents, tired eyes trying to make sense of numbers that simply didn’t.

Then, came the other things… The ones I told myself were coincidences. The same black sedan parked across the street two nights in a row, and the motion sensor light flicking on in the backyard when the wind wasn’t blowing. I had the feeling I was being watched every time I stood too close to a window. Paranoia had a way of eating through the edges of sanity, and I was starting to think I could taste it.

Charlie showed signs of obsessive compulsion, checking the locks repeatedly despite having just done it. We were both dissolving into madness, confined to these walls and so many numbers bleeding together.

Charlie sat across from me, his sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who’d been carrying too much for too long. His pen scratched across one of the printouts, his handwriting a tight, impatient scrawl.

“Fuck it,” he said, rubbing at the scar on his wrist. “We might as well just step outside and get our execution over with. We’re not solving a puzzle, Lana. We’re just rearranging the deck chairs before the ship goes under.”

I sighed, massaging my temples. “How did you get like this? Tell me the exact moment in your development that turned you into such an insufferable bastard.”

“Honestly?” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “September 11th, 2001.”

“You’re talking about 9/11?” I asked, voice flat.

“Yeah. I was eleven years old and I spent the school day watching people jump from a burning building to their deaths on live television. I sat in that classroom until four o’clock, watching the parking lot empty out car by car, because my father was three bourbons deep by noon. My teacher’s scream when the first tower fell—I’ll never forget it.” He blinked several times, as if trying to clear an image. “I was already fucked up before then, but I think that was the pivotal moment you’re talking about.”

He smiled, tight, like everything he shared could have been a joke. It wasn’t.

Heavy silence hung in the air for several moments, before he added “Bet you were one of the lucky ones whose parents picked you up.”

I sucked on the inside of my cheek. My non-answer told him everything he wanted to know.

He chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair, and something about it irked me.

Why should I feel guilty for having parents who loved and supported me?

No wonder he didn’t have any friends. Listening to him talk was like watching someone drown and refuse the lifeboat out of principle. Everything that came out of his mouth dripped with fatalism. Charles Sterling: professional cynic, martyr of his own making.

I set my pen down, staring at him across the disaster that was our temporary work space. “You know, it’s no mystery why you don’t have people lining up to be your friend.”

His eyes flicked up, brow furrowing.

“You’ve got this victim complex,” I continued, heat rising in my voice. “You look down on anyone who’s ever had a good day, like happiness is some kind of moral failure. You act like suffering’s a badge of honor, and everyone else is just playing pretend.”

For a long second, he didn’t say anything. The grandfather clock ticked behind us, steady as judgment. Then he said, “Where are your parents now, Lana?”

The question caught me off guard, and I couldn’t tell if he genuinely wanted to know or if he was playing at something.