They came for me in silence.
No barking orders. No shouts. Just the click of the latch and the shifting of boots, two of them this time. The taller one pointed. The other just opened the door wider and waited.
Marik didn't look at me, not right away. But as I stepped through the threshold, his voice slid through the dim air behind me like a snake slithering across stone.
"I guess they want to see if a dog like you heels or bites."
I didn't give him the pleasure of a glance. The door shut behind me, cutting off the rest of the room like it had never existed. The guards didn't shackle me. That was the first red flag. No chains, no cuffs, not even a hand on my shoulder. Just footsteps echoing through too-clean halls, sterile and square. This wasn't the same wing they took me through before. That place had grit in the cracks, rot in the corners.
This one smelled like metal and quiet money.
Every few feet we passed a torchlight bolted to the wall, but the light wasn't fire. It was cold, bluish-white, humming faintly as if it had its own thoughts. We reached a sealed door at the end of the hall. One of the guards tapped a sequence into a brass panel. The door hissed open.
They didn't say a word. They just nudged me inside.
The room was square, too perfect, too still. White walls, a white ceiling, and smooth tile floor that reflected just enough of my boots to remind me how much I didn't belong here. There was no furniture, no chains, no hooks.
Just a single red line, painted across the floor from one wall to the other, bisecting the room. Perfectly straight. Not smeared or scratched. It looked new.
I stepped in. The door sealed shut behind me.
Then a voice, mechanical but not robotic, filtered through a small black speaker embedded in the wall.
"You are to remain on your side of the line."
The voice was male. Calm. Toneless.
"You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not cross until instructed. You are being observed."
Then silence.
No ticking. No whirring of machines. No sound of breathing or shifting guards on the other side of the wall. Just the hum of the lights above, and me, and the line.
I sat down on the floor, legs crossed. My side of the room had no difference from the other, aside from the rule that separated them. I stared at the red mark. No smudge. No paint drip. Just a single, assertive border.
At first, I expected a game. A door would open, a weapon would fall at my feet, someone would attack and test my reflexes. But nothing happened. No door. No opponent. The test, if this was one, was time.
Time was a weapon too. One that carved deeper than blades when used properly.
I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling. There was no obvious camera. No vent. No eye to watch me. But they were watching. That I was sure of. My body grew still, but my mind wandered.
How long had it been?
Five minutes?
An hour?
More?
They weren't testing my strength. They were measuring my thoughts. Waiting for me to fold, to talk to myself, to twitch, to scream.
But I had lived through worse than silence.
Eventually, a new sound broke the stillness. A faint hiss as part of the far wall shifted. A door, flush with the surface, clicked open. From it emerged a man—not armored, not armed. He wore a gray shirt with a tight collar and long sleeves rolled just to the elbow. His pants were pressed. His boots were soft-soled. He walked with a slight limp and carried a clipboard tucked under one arm.
He said nothing at first. He didn't cross the line.
"Stand," he said softly.
I stood.
"Face the wall."
I turned.
"Turn again. Sit. Then stand. Then sit once more."
I obeyed. Each order was simple. Mechanical.
He wrote something on the clipboard.
"Say: 'I am not in control.'"
I didn't.
He looked up. No anger. No threat. Just... awareness.
"Say it," he repeated.
"I don't speak to mirrors," I replied.
He paused. Then marked something else on the page.
"Raise your left hand."
I did.
"Lower it."
I let it fall.
He walked to the edge of the red line and stopped.
"Step over."
I looked down at the paint. No guards had come in. No sirens had blared. But that wasn't the test, was it?
"The voice said not to," I answered.
"I am the handler," he said. "The voice was for containment. I am for release."
He smiled gently, like a teacher nudging a student to the right conclusion.
I didn't move.
He waited.
Then, softly, "What was your mother's name?"
I stared through him.
He looked back down at the clipboard.
"Have you ever cried in front of someone stronger than you?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Because that's the only pain that matters. If you can show weakness in front of something that can crush you, you are either brave, broken, or too stupid to care."
I didn't answer.
"Why do you think they haven't killed you yet?" he asked.
"Because they're not ready to try."
Another mark on the clipboard.
"Step over the line," he said again.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I haven't been told to."
"I just did."
"You're not the one who gave the rule."
He watched me for a long moment. Then turned and walked to the far wall. He pressed something I couldn't see. The ceiling light dimmed slightly. Still no guards. Still no consequences.
I sat down again, closer this time. My foot was half a hand's width from the red line.
"Say it," he said again.
I stared at him, then finally said, "I am not in control."
He looked down and shook his head. Then nodded, as if confirming something for himself. "No, we thought so."
He stepped backward toward the wall. "You won't be told again."
The door opened behind him. He disappeared through it.
I remained alone. The line remained whole.
I stood.
Then I knelt—one knee on each side of the paint. A deliberate split.
"I am not in control," I whispered, just once.
Then louder.
"But I am not out of it either."
I stayed like that, unmoving. Not as obedience. Not as defiance. As calculation.
Eventually, the door opened again. Not the one the handler had used.
Two guards entered. Silent, masked.
I stood before they could order it.
They led me out.
As I passed down the hall, I saw a sealed envelope slide from one man's hand to another. The wax seal was black. No name.
But it was for me.
Back in the cell, the others looked up.
Rellan said nothing.
The stitched boy grinned like he always did.
Marik sat against the far wall with his legs crossed, chewing on something that might've been meat. It didn't matter where he got it.
He looked up as I entered.
"You didn't cross it, did you?" he asked.
I sat in my same corner.
"I stepped on it," I said.
Marik chewed for a moment longer, then swallowed.
"That's why you're still breathing."