The basement felt tighter today, if that was even possible. Shadows pooled in the corners, swallowing the weak light, and the air was thick with dust, sweat, and the taste of fear.
When Lorian spoke, the words cut through the heavy silence like a blade.
"You have three days," he said, voice flat, knife hanging loosely at his side. "If no one decides by then… no one leaves. You all die here."
Clara immediately whimpered, curling into herself, pressing her face into her knees. Her soft cries bounced off the walls, each one twisting tighter around my chest.
Jacob exhaled sharply, fists clenching at his sides, jaw tight. Kael muttered under his breath, eyes darting nervously around the room. Even the silence afterward was suffocating.
I hugged my knees, jaw set, eyes burning. Rage and fear mingled in a way that made my stomach twist. How can he treat us like this? Like we're nothing?
And then, somewhere in the back of my mind, a dangerous thought slithered forward: What if I stayed? What if I was the one to stay, and everyone else went free?
I didn't voice it, didn't even dare think it out loud. But the idea clung to me like fire in my chest, forcing me to plan, to calculate, to consider the impossible. Maybe this was the moment the story could shift. Maybe this was my only chance.
I turned away from him, letting my anger build, letting it fuel me against the fear that threatened to swallow me. I pressed my face to my knees and closed my eyes, trying to block out the cries, the whispers, the sound of everyone else's despair. Sleep came slowly, grudgingly, as if the basement itself refused to release me.
The next day stretched long and gray.
I didn't speak to anyone. I didn't look at him. Not once.
Clara whimpered softly whenever my eyes happened to fall on her, her hands fidgeting at her knees. Jacob's glances were sharp, questioning, almost pleading. Kael's whispers trailed like ghosts between the walls, trying to make sense of me. I ignored them all.
Even Lorian seemed to notice. He shifted in his corner periodically, silent, his knife glinting faintly, but he didn't approach. His gaze flicked to me now and then, sharp and calculating, but I didn't meet it. My silence was a weapon, my glare a shield.
Hours dragged, the air thick and hot in the dim basement light. Every sound—drips of water, a distant scuff, the shallow breathing of the others—amplified the tension, making it almost unbearable.
When night came, I didn't stay awake. I let the exhaustion pull me under.
But sleep didn't erase the gnawing thoughts.
By the next night, I still hadn't spoken to anyone. I ignored everyone completely, keeping my gaze averted and my body tight and rigid with silent defiance.
I waited, silent, until he moved closer, shadows stretching over him. My chest tightened as he stopped just far enough away to loom in the corner of my vision.
Finally, the words came out, rough and low:"Why…" I started softly, my voice shaking slightly, "do this?"
He said nothing. Just waited, gaze steady.
I swallowed hard, forcing the next part out."Is it power? Or control? Or do you just want to see who breaks first?"
His head tilted slightly, but his face didn't move. "Does it matter?"
My chest tightened even more. The words escaped before I could stop them:"It does to me. 'Cause I'm the one whose f**king life's on the line."
The silence afterward was cold and sharp, like ice spreading through the room.
He didn't answer. He didn't move. He just stared for a long time—too long—before finally turning back into his dark corner where the dim light couldn't reach his face.
I sat there, breathing hard, heart hammering, eyes locked on the shadows he'd disappeared into. And then, with one last glare at the empty corner, I shut my mouth. I didn't speak again. Not that night, not the next day. My defiance became my refuge, my silent rebellion.
The basement felt colder than before. But I didn't care. I wouldn't let him see me break.