The door clanked open again. A different pair of boots this time, lighter, quicker. They brought me back without a word. The walk was the same, but the silence felt heavier now, like the walls had learned what I was.
When the door opened again, the light from inside hit me wrong. Like the air had thickened while I was gone. The room looked unchanged. Stone walls, flickering bulb, the same five bodies. But their eyes had shifted.
I stepped in.
No one said anything at first. That told me everything.
The stitched boy leaned back against the wall with his legs stretched and a lazy grin across his face. Rellan, the silver-corded one, sat where he always did, only now his back was straighter and his eyes followed me a second too long. The blistered woman sat further away from the group than before, hands tucked under her arms. There was another now. A sixth figure I hadn't seen before.
He sat close to the center, one knee up, his elbow resting lazily on it. He looked too clean. His boots still had shine. His shirt was a deep charcoal gray, without holes or blood or crusted sweat. Not new, but well-kept. Cared for. His hair was slicked back, his jaw thin, and his smile was already halfway there when I looked at him.
"You must be the quiet one," he said.
I didn't answer. I walked to the far corner and sat with my back to the wall, same as before.
The new one waited, then chuckled softly, like he was amused by my choice.
"Call me Marik," he said. "I know, I know. Don't care. You're not here to make friends, I'm not here to make threats."
He glanced at the others, then leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"I just like to know who bleeds slow and who bleeds fast. Makes the nights more manageable."
The stitched boy snorted. Rellan didn't move. The woman kept her head down.
"You talk a lot," I said.
Marik's eyes brightened. "There he is."
I didn't say more. He didn't need encouragement.
He shifted his weight slightly, tapping a finger against his boot.
"You're not the first one to come back from that room without shaking. But most who do, don't sit alone twice. Makes you look... untouchable. Or dumb. Could go either way."
"Is that how you survive?" I asked.
Marik tilted his head. "I listen. And I ask questions at the right volume. That's more than survival. That's strategy."
He smiled again. Always smiling.
"Not everyone here is a killer. Some just want to be. That's a difference I think you understand."
The door opened.
Everyone looked.
A guard stepped in and called a name. The woman with blistered skin.
She stood slowly. Her eyes were on the floor until she reached the door. Then, just before stepping out, she turned and looked straight at me.
Not long. Just enough.
Then she was gone.
The door shut again. The bolt turned.
Marik leaned back with a sigh.
"She won't come back," he said. "Too slow. Too emotional. Too scarred."
"Or too smart to stay," I said.
That made the stitched boy laugh. Loud and sudden.
Marik smirked. "Maybe. But I don't think she's the one they're watching. That'd be you, wouldn't it?"
I didn't reply.
Marik glanced at the others again. "They all feel it. Maybe they don't know why. Maybe they don't need to."
I turned my eyes to him fully now. "And what do you think I am?"
Marik paused. Just for a breath.
"Something that doesn't belong here. Which is interesting, considering where we are."
He stood and stretched like a man waking from a nap, then walked toward the far wall and sat back down, humming something tuneless under his breath.
No more words.
Not from him. Not from anyone.
The lights above dimmed. Not darkness, just a shift. Enough to suggest sleep, though no one really did.
I stayed seated in the same spot, legs drawn in, elbows resting on my knees.
Rellan sharpened a piece of metal against the wall. Slow. Repetitive.
The stitched boy whispered to himself in a language I didn't recognize.
I closed my eyes, not to rest, but to listen.
You learn more that way. The ones who talk at night always say more than they mean to.
A scream screeched across the hall.
"I guess I was right about her." Marik said proudly.