Zubair sat on the bed because standing didn't change anything and he might as well be mildly comfortable while he waited for his death.
The cell was exactly what it had been when he arrived. Stone walls. Narrow windows cut too small and too high to be useful. A door he hadn't tested because he already knew it wouldn't open. The space wasn't cruel. It wasn't comfortable either. It existed to keep him contained without requiring attention.
That alone told him what kind of place this was.
They didn't expect him to break.
They expected him to wait until they were ready to pay attention to him again.
He rested his forearms on his thighs and let his hands hang loose, his fingers relaxed. He'd learned early that tension wasted energy. This wasn't a moment for wasted energy.
The heat came back first.
Not a surge. Not an invasion.
A steady presence beneath his ribs, low and patient, like coals that hadn't gone out even when the fire above them had been buried.
