A week had crawled by.
The days were copies of each other.
I was used to it—used to the loop of captivity and helplessness.
They trained us for it as kids, taught us how to survive rooms like this so if it ever happened again, we wouldn't break.
It didn't matter that the cell reeked.
It didn't matter that it was the size of a grave.
I spent all my time on the floor, chained to the wall, forced to listen to the grind of a broken vent chewing the silence for hours.
I had no sense of day or night. It was always dark here—
like an abandoned trash bin that had learned how to rot.
Mold. Stale death.
A few days ago, when they dragged me through this wing, I found out where that stench came from.
The Red Ward's admin had said it before: sometimes it took days to get rid of the bodies.
Prisoners who hadn't seen a shower in years, dying in a few tight square meters—spoiling like food no one threw out.
They went stiff where they sat, like chalky statues furred with mold.
Hauling them out took days.
So the smell clung harder.
More cruel.
More than once, I hurt my own nose just to stop smelling anything at all.
I refused to breathe that horror in.
Sometimes the doctor came.
Sometimes Patrick did—the bastard admin.
They'd tried almost every kind of torture on me: ripped nails, electric shocks, the kind of beating that made everything ring.
More than once, I almost lost a limb.
But according to the doctor, "He didn't want to end it too soon."
I lay on my back, staring at the damp, cracked ceiling.
If only I could find a thread tucked in those splits.
The Tailor had his own private code. He only used his own threads.
If only he'd send one.
If only he'd send a message—we're coming.
I knew he couldn't. Even if he tried.
A smile tugged the corner of my mouth—dry, useless.
It burned. Maybe it split. Maybe it was just cracked. Maybe it bled—I couldn't tell anymore.
I dragged my tongue across my lips. Two days without water made the thirst feral.
Metal scraped—hinges whining—and the silence snapped.
The door groaned open with a slow, grating sound.
"I see you're getting some rest."
I let the same smile stay. Warmth slid through the cracks of my lips—blood.
Maybe I could tolerate the doctor.
But him? Never.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sunbathing."
He liked the bite in my voice.
Laughed.
The sound bounced off the walls.
With the door open, a blade of light cut into the cell.
I half-opened my eyes and looked at the strip of gold spreading across the floor.
God, I missed the light.
"You want me to bronze you?" he teased.
"I can rub in some sunscreen so you don't burn."
My jaw clenched until my teeth ached.
Killing this man would be possible—even with my hands chained.
But that wasn't the plan.
Not yet.
His footsteps came closer.
I turned my head, slow, toward the door.
My gaze snagged on the doctor.
He leaned against the frame, red-eyed and drained, watching me like I was something he didn't want to fix—but couldn't throw away.
The admin smirked as he yanked my arm, jerking me upright like dead weight.
Pain snapped down my spine; I heard the crackle-pop of my back.
My hands were bound by a chain bolted to the wall.
The weight of it had chewed my wrists raw and purple.
I set my palm on my knee to ease the pull.
I rasped, voice rough and mocking.
"What is it—torture o'clock?"
At the same time, I locked a dead stare on the doctor.
His pressed shirt carried a clean, expensive scent.
At least he wore cologne.
Maybe, if I was lucky, it would cling to the room after he left and blunt the rot for a while.
He snorted and shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown dress pants.
The admin leaned in, grinning—eyes too close, breath sour—and I had no choice but to stare into those ugly eyes.
His hand clamped down on my shoulder; my face pinched with the pain.
"You want the bag," he said, "or the stun gun?"
I looked straight into his filthy gaze.
My teeth met.
Yesterday surged back—
Strapped to a metal chair.
Plastic dragged over my head.
Water pouring.
Breath scraping.
The hiss of the bag in my mouth.
My chest pumping too fast.
A heart gone feral.
Oxygen peeling away.
My brain swelling—
—And then: air.
Breath.
Life.
—Then again: plastic, water, drowning.
"The bag, please."