Chapter Ten
I come back to myself mid-movement.
My head dips, then snaps upright, a sharp flare of pain tearing through my neck and shoulder.
I catalog the variables automatically: cold, hunger, injury, prolonged restraint.
My arms are numb. Pins and needles burn where the cuffs bite into my wrists. If circulation doesn’t improve, nerve damage becomes a real risk.
My assessment stays clinical.
What doesn’t is the memory of the bathroom—of asking, then waiting until permission was finally granted.
They supervised. Never removed the hood or unchained my ankles. I had to feel my way through the process, while someone stood so close I could hear them breathe.
My skin crawls. I can’t remember the last time I felt clean. The stale, sweat-stained fabric sits wrong, seams rubbing the same spots no matter how many times they reposition me. The airflow keeps finding me, sliding over my chest in uneven bursts of cold I can’t block or angle away from.
I regulate the only way I can—by counting my breaths.
In for four.
Out for six.
Again and again.
I lose time for a moment. Not sleep exactly, just a blank drift where my thoughts stop organizing. When they snap back into place, the room no longer feels empty.
My muscles tense, every nerve firing before I can bring them back under control.
The cuffs change in stages. Ankles first. Then wrists.
They don’t care if I recognize the sequence. They know they hold all the power.
“Stand.”
My legs shake violently, muscles stiff from cold and disuse. I make it halfway upright before the world tilts, the hood turning the room into a pitching void.
Hands close around my elbows. Pressure spikes on a nerve along the inside of my arm, hard and exact enough to flip my stomach. My knees lock on reflex.
“Careful,” a man snaps.
I can’t tell if I’ve heard his voice before. I’m losing the ability to track who comes when and why.
My teeth clack together. I nod. Nodding doesn’t require speech.
They guide me forward, and I count steps without thinking. At twelve, my shoulder twinges. I restart, but lose the thread at seven. Or was it nine?
The floor texture changes under my bare feet, smooth giving way to rough, and the air cools before warming again.
I’m lowered into another chair, this one wider and more solid.
My wrists are locked in front of me, low and close to my body. Ankles next. The position holds me upright without effort.
My shoulders relax for a split second before the cuffs tighten, metal biting into the soft inside of my wrist.
I gasp, unable to stop the harsh inhale from slipping free.
Pressure sparks at the base of my thumb, so sharp it’s nauseating.
“Don’t pull,” the man says, voice calm. Almost bored.
“I didn’t—” My breath catches as the pain spikes, then recedes just enough I can speak again. “I understand.”
Another voice whispers something I can’t make out. This one sounds…impatient. Or maybe frustrated?
“Non-compliance will result in correction to maintain your safety.”
Safety.
That’s the framework. Everything is my fault. The pain exists because I failed to control myself quickly enough.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
I hesitate.
A hand settles at my elbow. It’s not pain yet. More like a warning. They aren’t teaching me the rules so much as the consequences of breaking them.
“Non-compliance,” I say carefully, “will result in correction to maintain my safety.”
The pressure eases.
“Acceptable.”
My body’s response is immediate. Relief sharp enough to make my eyes water.
I crush it.
Hands adjust my posture, pushing my shoulders back. Each inhale drags across my broken ribs. I try to trap the hiss before they hear it, but fail.
Pressure lands higher this time, along the side of my neck, close enough to my pulse point that my vision sparks and I cry out.
“Control your reactions,” the man says. This time, his voice is almost gentle. “You’re safe.”
I know he’s lying, but somewhere deep down, I want to believe him.
When the pain finally fades, my whole body is shaking.
They wait.
That’s the worst part—knowing they’re watching to see how long it takes me to pull myself back together. And waiting to see if, eventually, I…can’t.
I manage it. Eventually. I always do.
“State the rules.” Another male voice I can’t place. I don’t think it’s familiar, but I can’t be sure.
“I’m not to move unless instructed. I don’t speak without direction. I ask for water. I ask for the bathroom.”
“And?”
For a fraction of a second, my mind blanks. My heart stutters, a hard, panicked beat that throws off my breathing. Then the missing piece snaps into place.
“Non-compliance results in correction.”
“Acceptable.”
Hands withdraw with no apology or explanation, and they leave me alone again.
Every nerve feels abraded, like my skin has been turned inside out.
I curl forward as much as the restraints allow and press my fingers together, hard, until I can feel my pulse. This will count against me. I know it. But I do it anyway.
They’re calibrating.
They’re learning how much they can do to me before I can no longer recover.