Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
My door swings open with a high-pitched whine. It bounces against the stone, echoing ominously.
A guard fills the doorway, his silhouette lit by the bright lights in the hall.
I wonder if they rehearse this nonsense.
“Ready to talk?” he asks. He’s younger than I expected an interrogator to be, but the scent of anticipation that lays upon his skin is all the indication I need to know that he derives pleasure from watching another suffer. I assume that’s why he was chosen—or volunteered—for this particular role.
Go fuck yourself, I think fiercely. But I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, saying nothing. I’ve learned quickly that any response only encourages him to become more creative with his interrogation techniques.
“The silent treatment again? That’s fine. We’ve got all the time in the world.” The slot slams shut, and his footsteps retreat.
I close my eyes, allowing myself to slump back onto the floor.
Thank the gods.
It seems I’ve been spared more torture—for today, at least.
A soft sound from the adjoining cell makes me freeze. It’s barely audible, just a faint whisper that seems to be coming from near the floor. But in the oppressive silence of the facility, it might as well have been a shout.
I’m not alone.
“Silence doesn’t work, you know.” The voice comes again, barely more than a breath. Male, rough with exhaustion and resignation. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”
I drop to my hands and knees, searching the base of the wall between our cells.
There, near the corner where shadows are deepest, I find it.
A hole no bigger than my fist, carved carefully through the stone.
The edges are jagged, as if they’ve fortuitously crumbled rather than been carved out purposefully.
I press my face close to the opening but don’t respond. Is this a trap? Or is my new neighbor as innocent in this mess as I am?
“Come on, I know you’re there.” His tone is mocking, but there’s a desperate edge to his words. “What’s the worst that could happen? They torture you? Beat the shit out of you? Pretty sure that’s already on today’s schedule.”
Still, I remain silent, letting this wolf fill the silence.
“Let me guess,” the voice continues. “You’re weighing your options.
You’re wondering if I’m friend or foe, and trying to decide if talking to me is worth the risk.
” A pause, and when he speaks again, there’s something raw in his voice.
“News flash, I’m neither. I’m a fucking dead man walking.
So might as well talk to me before I die. ”
That last admission catches me off guard. I can smell his pain through the hole, the blood and infection bitter in my nostrils.
This is either the most sophisticated trap I’ve ever encountered, or this man is genuinely a prisoner.
Despite myself, I find myself responding. “You talk a lot for a dead man walking.”
A laugh, harsh and bitter. “A she-wolf then? Well, isn’t this a treat.”
“Want to die faster? Keep it up.”
He chuckles. “Death starts to lose its sting when it keeps standing you up.”
I shuffle closer. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to know that they don’t kill you quickly. And apparently, I’m very hard to kill. What about you? Fresh meat, by the sound of it.”
I bristle at the casual way he assesses me. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“Smart. Trust no one, suspect everyone. That’s survival 101 in this place.” He sighs. “So what shall we talk about then? The weather? How are you finding the food down here? I myself had a three-course meal made by a private chef last night.”
Despite myself I smile. “You’re a dick, you know that?”
“Ouch. That stings.” I hear him shuffle before he speaks again. “Let me guess. You’re the strong, silent type. Probably think talking to strangers is beneath you.”
“I think talking to potential spies is stupid.”
“You think I’m a spy?” He laughs again, and this time it’s genuinely amused.
“Right, because these sheep are definitely smart enough to think of planting someone in the cell next to yours to trick you. That’s some next-level psychological warfare right there, and I can assure you, they aren’t that smart. ”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Fair point. Though if I were a spy, I’d probably be better at this whole ‘gaining your trust’ thing. I’d be all sympathetic and wounded, asking about your feelings and shit.”
Despite the situation, I almost smile. “Instead of being an ass?”
“Exactly. I’m way too honest to be undercover. Three years of having nothing but my own thoughts for company tends to strip away the social niceties.”
“Three years?”
“Give or take. Hard to keep track when you never see the sun.” His voice softens slightly. “Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear. Hope’s a dangerous thing down here.”
We fall into silence after that. I find myself staring at the hole in the wall, trying to process what he’s told me. Three years. If it’s true, if people really are kept here that long, then my pack might never find me. I might die in this place, just another disappeared prisoner.
“So,” he says after a few minutes, and his voice is gentler now, “what’s your crime against the state? Besides having terrible conversational skills, I mean.”
“None of your business.”
“Fair enough. We’re all entitled to our secrets.” A pause. “But just so you know, whatever they want from you, it’s better to make them work for it. The moment you give them everything, you become expendable.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen a lot of people disappear over the years. The ones who cooperated went silent first. I can only guess what happened to them.”
The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. How many prisoners has he listened to? How many has he heard screaming, pleading, and then… nothing?
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why are you still here? If cooperation means death, why haven’t they killed you?”
“Because I’m special.” His voice is bitter now. “I have something they need, but I’ve never been cooperative enough to give it to them completely. It’s a delicate balance.”
“What kind of something?”
“The kind that keeps me breathing, even when I don’t particularly want to be.”
There’s so much pain in those words that I feel something crack in my chest. This man—whoever he is—has been tortured for years, kept alive for some purpose he clearly despises, forced to endure isolation that would have broken most people.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.
“Don’t be. I made my choices. Now I live with the consequences.” He’s quiet for a moment. “What about you? Got anything they want badly enough to keep you alive?”
I consider how much to reveal. “Maybe.”
“Then you might be here for a while. Best get comfortable.”
Hours pass. We don’t speak, but I find myself listening for the sound of his breathing, taking comfort in the proof that someone else is enduring this hell alongside me.
When the guards finally come, it isn’t for me.
The metal door next to mine clangs open with a sound like a gunshot. I hear the scrape of boots on stone, then a familiar voice. It’s the interrogator.
“Morning, smart-ass. Ready to tell us what we want to know?”
My neighbor seems to be ready for a fight. “Is this about my dress for the ball? Cause I really feel that taffeta and lace would be perfect.”
“Still think you’re funny.” A meaty thwack is followed by a grunt of pain.
“Did you learn that technique at asshole school, or are you self-taught?” the wolf asks.
Another impact, harder this time. I find myself pressing against the wall that separates us.
“Keep running that mouth, dog. See where it gets you.”
“Same place it’s gotten me for three years. At least I’m entertaining myself.”
The interrogation continues for what feels like hours. Every time they hit him, every time they demand answers, he has some smart remark ready. His voice gets rougher, more strained, but the attitude never wavers. His defiance never breaks.
By the time they finally leave, I’m equal parts impressed and horrified.
The guards shut the door to the corridor of cells and silence returns.
I wait, counting my heartbeats until I’m sure we’re alone again. Then I crawl back to the hole.
“Still alive over there?”
A pained chuckle. “Unfortunately for them, yes. Though I think they’re getting tired of my pretty face.”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Survive this. How are you not broken?”
There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more serious than before.
“Who says I’m not broken?” He shifts, and I hear the clink of chains.
“You think surviving this makes me strong? I talk to myself for hours at a time. I have conversations with dead people.” Another pause.
“Hell, I’m not even sure you’re real right now.
Could just be another voice I’ve invented to keep myself company. ”
The raw admission catches me off guard. “I’m real,” I say firmly.
“That’s exactly what a hallucination would say.”
“I can prove it,” I challenge, though I’m not sure how.
He calls me on my offer. “How? By telling me something I couldn’t possibly know?” A bitter laugh. “Problem is, my imagination’s gotten pretty good over the years.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Because the alternative is giving them what they want. And what they want…” His voice hardens. “What they want would hurt a lot of innocent people.”
“So you endure.”
“So I endure,” he agrees.
Damn. That hit somewhere deep. Respect, grudging but real, stirs in my chest.
“What about you? You planning to endure, or are you going to give up the first time they make you bleed?”
I glance down at my hands which I can barely make out in the dark. “They’ve already made me bleed.”
“Hey, console yourself. You’ve got my company for a little while.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’m not that bad. I’m practically the prison’s den mother at this point. Shall I give you the tour? It involves cookies—sorry, I mean torture. Definitely torture.”
Despite everything, I find myself almost smiling. “What do you call this place?”
“Prison. Why, what would you call it?”
“Hell?”
“Also works.”
We fall into a more comfortable silence after that.
“Are you still trying to escape?” I ask after a while.
His reply takes a long time to come. “Every day.”
I close my eyes. “Me too.”