Chapter 2 Elliot
Chapter Two: Elliot
He speaks and the low rumble in his voice jolts me out of my haze. “I’m Jace. You’re mine now.”
After his introduction, the car is silent except for the faint sound of the engine.
I sit in the back because that's how they always want you: visible, compliant, easy to reach.
Hands in my lap, spine pressed into the seat.
The window is tinted to black, so the world outside is just blurs and neon smears, city lights streaking in a horizontal band as we move.
Jace doesn't look at me in the mirror. He doesn't even check.
He drives with both hands on the wheel, never deviating, gaze fixed forward.
The route is unfamiliar, but I map every turn in my head, every landmark, every numbered street sign or broken lamp.
It's a habit from before, one that never leaves you no matter how hard they try to scrape it out.
He takes a left, then a right, then two more rights.
I count the time between each turn, syncing it to my pulse.
My pulse is fast. Too fast, but not enough to betray me outwardly, except for the shaking in my hands that I try to hide by squeezing them into fists.
My nails cut into my palms, and I hope he doesn't notice.
They don’t like when we damage ourselves.
No, that’s their job.
How will this guy hurt me?
He doesn't say a word until we stop. The car slides up to the curb in front of a nondescript building—grey stone, six floors, iron security grate over the entry. The kind of place you could disappear in and never be found, if someone even cared enough to look.
The doors lock and unlock with a soft click. I expect an order, a gesture, but he just waits.
"Out," he says. The voice is neutral, not unkind but not kind. There is nothing inside it. If voices had color, his would be the color of black.
I fumble with the latch and step out. The city is cold tonight, colder than I expect, the wind biting through the thin cotton of my shirt. My feet are bare, still damp from the holding bath, and the concrete burns at first. I keep my eyes down.
He circles to the curb, coming to my side.
I tense, expecting the grab, but he doesn't touch me.
Instead, he presses the key fob and triggers the trunk, then moves to retrieve a duffel bag.
He shoulders it, the motion so smooth it's clear he's done this hundreds of times.
The bag isn't heavy for him, but it would be for me.
"Follow," he says, and starts up the steps without looking back.
I do. My right knee twinges, a sharp little flash from where I went down on the stairs last week. I limp, not enough to slow him, but enough that he'd notice if he was watching. Maybe he is, maybe he's already assessed the weakness and filed it for later.
The entry is silent, except for the sound of the security grate when it snaps shut behind us. The lobby is empty, just a row of mailboxes and a dying potted plant on the floor. There's an elevator, but he doesn't use it. He climbs the stairs, and I match his pace as best I can.
Up three flights, then down a corridor lined with stained carpet and fluorescent lighting that flickers every few seconds.
The apartment door is painted the same dead grey as the rest of the building, but the number plate is clean, the metal polished.
He unlocks the door, steps aside, and waits for me to go in first.
I do.
Inside, the air is cold and dry. The place is bigger than I expect, open plan, kitchen merging into a living space with nothing to separate them except a butcher-block counter.
There's barely any furniture: one couch, a table with two chairs, a sideboard with nothing on it but a single glass.
No pictures, no mess, nothing that says a person lives here.
He steps in behind me and closes the door, then locks it. The sound is sharp, and I flinch. I don't know what to do, so I stand in the entry, arms at my sides.
He sets the duffel on the counter, unzips it, and takes out a big plastic bag. Inside of which is a bottle of water, two meal bars, and a folded shirt. He puts all of this on the counter and then steps back.
"Eat," he says.
I don't move. The last time someone told me to eat, it was a test, and when I reached for the food, I lost two teeth. I wait.
He sees me hesitate, and something like confusion flickers across his face before smoothing out.
"It's not poisoned," he says. He doesn't say it as a reassurance. It's just information, the same way you'd say the sky is blue.
I move closer, still wary. I reach for the bottle, twist the cap, and take a slow sip. Then a bigger one. The water is ice cold, it hurts going down, but it's clean. The meal bars are protein, the flavorless kind, but my stomach tightens at the sight of them.
Unwrapping one, my hands shake, and force myself to take a bite. The taste is dry and chalky, but I chew and swallow and wait for the burn, the bitter aftertaste of additives or drugs, but there's nothing. Just bland, dense calories.
He watches me eat, not moving, not blinking. The way you'd watch a stray animal to see if it would bolt.
When the bar is gone, I drink the rest of the water, making sure to finish it all. He picks up the empty wrapper, folds it neatly, and tosses it in the bin.
He gestures to the shirt. "Change."
I stare at him, not sure if he wants me to do it here or somewhere else. There's no bathroom in sight.
"Bedroom. Second door." He points down the hall.
I take the shirt and go, steps silent on the floor. The room is small, just a bed and a dresser. The sheets are clean, the bed made with tight corners. There's a window, but the blinds are closed tight. The shirt is soft, some kind of cotton.
I look in the mirror above the dresser. My face is pale, eyes ringed with grey. The bruises on my neck are turning yellow, but the shape of the collar is still there, a shadow in the skin. I pull the shirt up to try hide it.
From the main room, he calls, "When you're done, sit. Couch."
Walking back out, I obey his instructions. I take the farthest cushion, leave space between us. He sits in the chair, leans forward, hands clasped. He doesn't look at me directly. Instead, he stares at the clock.
We sit like that for a long time. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. My mind drifts, detaching from my body, floating up and away. This is how you survive: make yourself small, make yourself invisible, wait for the storm to pass.
Finally, he says, "You sleep here tonight."
I nod.
He gets up, crosses the room, and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and close, then nothing. When he comes back, he's carrying another bottle of water, which he puts on the table in front of me.
He watches me until I pick it up, then nods, satisfied.
"You can shower, if you want. Or sleep." The words are mechanical, but not cruel.
I look at the clock. It's almost midnight.
"Thank you," I say, because that's what you're supposed to say.
He blinks, like he doesn't understand. Then he nods once.
He goes to his room and closes the door behind him.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the closed door, the bottle in my hands. Eventually, I drink it, and then I walk back to the small bedroom and lie on top of the sheets, fully clothed, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.
I wait for the nightmare, but it doesn't come. Only the memory of the drive, the silence, the way he didn't touch me even though he could have.
I don't know what that means.
I sleep anyway.
I wake up with the taste of chalk and bad breath in my mouth, not sure for a second where I am.
The bed is too clean, the room too silent.
For a few moments, I'm back in the holding cells, and the body memory is worse than the dream.
My legs are tangled in the sheets and the skin at the base of my neck burns from the phantom pressure of the old collar.
I force myself upright. The clock says 7:42. The light behind the blinds is grey and cold. I scan the room for exits, weapons, cameras, but there's nothing except the door I came through and the sealed window. The dresser is still closed. I haven't been locked in.
I don't know if that's part of the game.
When I crack the door and peer into the apartment, the first thing I see is the living room—same as last night.
Every surface is clean, every object placed with intent.
The couch looks untouched. The table is clear, except for a folded newspaper and a pen, aligned perfectly with the edge.
There's nothing to trip over, nothing that could be used as a weapon.
Even the kitchen knives are in a drawer, out of sight.
I don't see him. I don't hear him, either. The silence is a different kind of threat. Most men in this world want you to know where they are at all times. The uncertainty is the weapon here.
I hover at the threshold, waiting for the next instruction, but none comes. After a while, my body makes the decision for me and slides along the wall toward the couch, as if on autopilot. I sit, legs close together, hands folded, eyes on the floor.
The longer I wait, the more the urge builds to do something—anything—to preempt the punishment I know is coming. It's always worse when they let you imagine it.
A noise from the hallway. Not footsteps. Something softer, like cloth on skin. I tense, shoulders to my ears, eyes unfocused but locked straight ahead. My breathing goes shallow, measured to avoid making a sound.
He emerges from his room dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. No shoes, no weapon, nothing in his hands. For a second, our eyes meet, but he looks away, as if the sight of me is an inconvenience. He heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs water.
He drinks half of it, wipes his mouth, and turns to face me. I don't move. I don't even blink.
He gestures toward the kitchen with his chin. "There's food if you want it."