Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Sulla
Days eleven through fifteen feel like they passed in a blur. More challenges. More endurance.
We are still seven teams.
Day sixteen. The challenge is psychological endurance.
Mac leads us to a concrete structure built into the hillside.
Bunker entrance, steel door, darkness visible beyond.
“Enclosed space test,” he announces. “You’ll enter the bunker alone.
Thirty minutes in complete darkness. No light, no communication, no exit until time expires.
Anyone who taps out fails You can stop it at any time.
You want out, you say the word. We pull you. ”
I look at the entrance. Small. Dark. Confined.
My chest tightens involuntarily. Memories trying to surface. The ergastulum. Darkness. Stone walls pressing close. Water dripping endlessly. I push them down. This is different. This is thirty minutes, not four weeks. This is a challenge, not a punishment.
Reid notices. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure? If confined spaces are a problem—”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out hard and tight. “I’ve survived worse than thirty minutes in the dark.”
She studies my face, then nods. Doesn’t push. I’m grateful for that.
Contestants go in one at a time. Aiden enters first, emerges thirty minutes later looking shaken but intact. Jacks goes next, comes out calm—meditation training probably helped.
Trevor is third.
I watch him approach the entrance. He’s nervous already, hands shaking slightly, his breathing faster than it should be.
Trevor struggles with anxiety. I’ve noticed it over the past two weeks.
The way he checks and rechecks his gear.
The way he talks too much when stressed.
The way he positions himself near exits.
This is going to be hard for him.
He enters the bunker. The steel door closes behind him with a heavy clang.
We wait outside where production has set up monitors showing night vision footage from inside. Four cameras in the upper corners of the bunker, infrared illumination casting everything in eerie green-gray.
On screen, Trevor presses himself against the far wall. Already breathing too fast.
Time passes. Four minutes. Five.
Then he gets up, feels his way to the door and pounds frantically.
“LET ME OUT!” Trevor’s voice is high and panicked. “LET ME OUT! I CAN’T—I CAN’T brEATHE!”
On the monitors, we can see him losing control. Hands clawing at the metal door. Chest heaving. Eyes wild even in the grainy night vision.
Mac moves toward the door but pauses, looking at his watch. “Five minutes, thirty-eight seconds. Clock is stopped.” He looks at the medic. “Panic attack.”
“I CAN’T brEATHE! PLEASE! LET ME OUT!”
“Wait,” I say.
Mac looks at me. “He’s having a panic attack. We pull him.”
“Give me five minutes with him first.”
“Sulla—”
“If I can’t stabilize him in five minutes, you pull him immediately. But let me try.”
Mac studies me, then, “Five minutes. Clock stopped at five thirty-eight.” He looks at the medic, who nods.
Then back to me. “If he restarts, it’s the full thirty minutes from zero.
No credit for time served. And if he deteriorates, I’m pulling him immediately regardless of your five minutes. Clear?”
“Clear.”
He opens the door. Light spills into the bunker.
Trevor is sitting pressed against the far wall, hyperventilating. Eyes wild. Hands clawing at the concrete like he’s trying to dig through it. Completely removed from reality.
I enter the bunker. Door closes behind me most of the way—Mac leaves it cracked for light and safety.
Trevor doesn’t even see me. He’s somewhere else. Trapped in whatever his mind is showing him.
I’ve been there. I know that place. The place where reality cracks and past trauma becomes present terror and there’s no way out except through.
I kneel beside him. Not touching. Just present.
“Trevor.” My voice is calm. Quiet. The same voice I use with spooked horses at the sanctuary. “Trevor. Look at me.”
He doesn’t respond. Still gasping. Chest heaving. Fingers scrabbling at stone.
“Trevor. This is Sulla. You’re in Scotland. You’re safe. I’m going to help you.”
Still nothing. His breathing is too fast. He’s going to pass out soon if this continues.
I remember Flavius teaching me this. Sitting in his therapy room at the sanctuary, skeptical and resistant. “Grounding techniques,” he’d said. “For when the past feels more real than the present.”
I’d thought it was pointless. Therapeutic nonsense that couldn’t possibly work for someone like me.
But right now, watching Trevor drown in panic, I don’t have anything else.
“Trevor. I’m going to count with you. Five things you can see. Can you do that with me?”
He shakes his head frantically. “I can’t—can’t see—everything’s—”
“Start with my face. Look at my face. That’s one thing.”
His eyes find mine. Unfocused. Terrified. But there.
“Good. That’s one. My face. What else can you see?”
“I—I can’t—”
“You can. Look around. Tell me one more thing.”
His eyes dart frantically. “The… the wall.”
“Yes. The wall. That’s two. Three more things. Take your time.”
His breathing is still too fast but he’s trying. Focusing on my voice. On the task.
“The… door. Light. From the door.”
“Good. That’s three. Two more.”
“Your… your hands.” He’s looking at my hands, flat and open on my knees as I kneel on the floor. Non-threatening. “And the… the floor.”
“Excellent. Five things you can see. You did it. Now four things you can touch. Start with the ground beneath you.”
Trevor’s hand presses flat against the concrete floor. “Ground.”
“Good. What else?”
“The wall. Behind me.”
“Yes. Two more.”
He touches his own chest. “My shirt.” Then reaches out tentatively, touches my arm. “Your arm.”
“Four things you can touch. You’re doing well. Now three things you can hear.”
His breathing is starting to slow. Still fast, but not hyperventilating anymore. He’s following the exercise. Using it as an anchor.
“Your voice,” he says. Quieter now.
“Good. What else?”
“My… my breathing.”
“Yes. One more.”
He listens. “Someone outside. Talking.”
“Three things you can hear. Now two things you can smell.”
This one is harder. He struggles. “I don’t… I can’t…”
“That’s okay. Sometimes smell is tough. What about… the concrete. Dust. Can you smell that?”
He inhales carefully. “Yes. Dust.”
“One more.”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Your own sweat,” I suggest. “Or the air. Damp air.”
“Damp air,” he agrees.
“Good. Now one thing you can taste.”
He runs his tongue over his lips. “Fear,” he says quietly.
I understand that answer. “Yes. But also your own mouth. That’s real. That’s present.”
He nods slowly.
We sit here for a moment. His breathing has normalized. Not calm, but functional. Present.
“Where are you?” I ask quietly.
“Scotland. In… in the bunker.”
“Who am I?”
“Sulla. You’re… you’re on the show with me.”
“What year is it?”
He gives me the correct answer.
“Are you safe?”
He looks around. Really looks, this time. Seeing reality instead of whatever his panic showed him. “Yes.”
I stand. Offer him my hand. He takes it, lets me pull him up.
“Come on. Let’s get you outside.”
We walk to the door together. Mac opens it fully. Trevor steps out into sunlight, blinking. Still shaky but grounded.
I follow him out.
Mac checks his watch. “Four minutes, forty-two seconds of intervention. Trevor, your clock was stopped at five minutes, thirty-eight seconds. You have a choice. You can tap out now—no penalty, medical necessity. Or you can restart the full thirty minutes and complete the challenge.”
Trevor looks at the bunker entrance. Takes a shaky breath. “I want to finish.”
“You sure?” Mac asks.
“Yeah. I know what to do now. The grounding thing. I can do this.”
Mac nods. “Alright. Full thirty minutes. Starting when the door closes.”
Trevor walks back to the entrance. Pauses. Looks back at me. “Thank you.”
I nod.
He enters the bunker alone. The door closes.
We watch on the monitors. Trevor sits against the wall, breathing carefully. I can see him doing the exercise—eyes moving, grounding himself. Five things. Four things. Three.
The thirty minutes pass slowly. But Trevor stays calm. Uses the technique when his breathing starts to quicken. Rides out the panic without drowning in it.
When Mac opens the door, Trevor walks out exhausted but intact. Completed.
The other contestants are watching the monitors. They saw everything. Saw me talk Trevor through the panic attack. Saw me be patient. Gentle. Kind.
I can see the confusion on some faces. Sulla doesn’t do kind. Sulla does controlled and competent and occasionally scary. Not gentle.
Reid is watching me. Her expression is unreadable, but something in her eyes has changed. Like she’s seeing me differently. Like maybe I’m not who she thought I was.
Sienna leans toward Reid, says something quietly. Reid nods but doesn’t look away from me.
Mac gestures me toward the bunker. “Your turn, Sulla.”
Right. I still have to complete the challenge.
I enter alone. The door closes behind me with that same heavy clang. Darkness absolute.
I wait for my eyes to adjust but there’s no light to adjust to. Complete sensory deprivation except for sound and touch.
Then I notice them. Faint red pinpricks in each upper corner. Infrared lights from the night vision cameras. I’m being watched. Recorded. Even in the darkness, I’m not alone.
That should be comforting. Instead, it makes me feel exposed.
The memories surface immediately. Can’t push them down anymore without the distraction of helping Trevor.
Darkness. Stone walls. Water dripping somewhere in the distance. The smell of damp and rot and fear.
A voice in the darkness, “You’re nothing. No one. Just a body we use until we’re done with you.”
Domina. Cold. Clinical. Describing exactly what I was to them.
Rats on my skin. Scratching. Biting. The cold seeping into bones after days of standing in flooded cells.
The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the emptiness after. The knowledge that I meant nothing. That I could die down there and no one would care.
My breathing quickens. Heart rate spikes. Panic crawls up my throat.
No. Not now. Not here.
I force myself to use Flavius’s technique. The one I just taught Trevor. The one I’ve always thought was pointless.
Five things I can see. The faint red glow of camera lights. One. Two. Three. Four. And… my own hand in front of my face, even though I can’t actually see it, I know it’s there. Five.
Four things I can touch. The wall behind me. Cold. Rough. The floor beneath me. Solid. My own knees, pulled to my chest. My shirt, bunched in my fists.
Three things I can hear. My breathing. My heartbeat. The faint sound of wind outside, muffled through concrete.
Two things I can smell. Concrete dust. My own sweat.
One thing I can taste. Copper. Blood. I’ve bitten my cheek without realizing.
I breathe. Count again. And again. Using the technique as an anchor to the present.
This is Scotland. Not Rome. I know the time limit. I know the door will open and the sun will shine in and I’ll breathe fresh air in a matter of minutes.
I am not that person anymore. Not the boy who broke into shards in the darkness. Not the slave who learned to be empty.
I am… trying to be different. Trying to be someone who helps instead of hurts. Someone who holds instead of breaks.
The thirty minutes pass. Slowly. Painfully. But they pass.
When the door opens, I walk out into sunlight. Intact. Cold air hits my face. Sharp, clean. Scottish wind off the loch, carrying peat and water instead of rot and rats.
I am here. Now. My feet are on gravel, not stone.
Later, production pulls me in for a confessional interview. The camera is on. Michelle gestures for me to sit.
“Sulla. That was remarkable. What you did with Trevor. Where did you learn that?”
I consider lying. Consider deflecting. But what’s the point?
“A friend at the sanctuary taught me. Flavius. He does therapeutic touch. Body work. He’s been trying to teach me grounding techniques for trauma.”
“For your own trauma?”
“Yes.”
“And you used it to help Trevor. Someone else’s crisis.”
“Yes.”
“How did that feel?”
“Surprising.”
“Surprising how?”
“I thought it was pointless. The grounding technique. I thought it couldn’t possibly work for someone like me. But it did. Trevor needed it. I could help. That was…” I search for words. “New.”
“What made you think it wouldn’t work?”
“Because kindness usually ends badly. In my experience.”
“But it didn’t this time.”
“No. This time it worked. Trevor completed the challenge. And I used the same technique myself. It helped me too.”
Michelle leans forward slightly. “What happened in the bunker? For you?”
I’m not ready to answer that. Not on camera. Not to anyone.
“Old memories,” I say finally. “Nothing that matters now.”
She knows I’m deflecting but doesn’t push. “One more question. Do you think what you did today—helping Trevor—changes anything? About how you see yourself?”
I consider this carefully.
“It’s good to know I can help,” I say finally.
“Instead of just… surviving, right?”
“Exactly. It’s not the same thing.”
“No. It’s not.”
She accepts that. The interview ends. I walk toward my tent in the fading light.
Reid is sitting outside our tent. Waiting in one of the camp chairs near the entrance.
I sit beside her. Don’t speak. Just sit.
“That was incredible,” she says quietly. “What you did with Trevor.”
“Flavius taught me the technique.”
“But you used it. You could have let Mac pull him out. You chose to help.”
“He needed help.”
“And you gave it. Patiently. Kindly.” She pauses. “Where did you learn that? That voice you used with him. So calm. So certain.”
I think about the sanctuary. About working with traumatized horses. About learning that calm presence can soothe where force only breaks.
“Practice,” I say finally. “Learning that sometimes the best thing you can do is just… be there. Be steady. Let someone use your stability when they have none.”
“That’s not what I expected from you.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Not that.”
We sit in silence. The sun is setting. Cold creeping back in with darkness.
“I used the same technique on myself,” I admit. “In the bunker. I needed it too.”
She turns to look at me. “You have panic attacks?”
“Sometimes. From old things. Things I survived that left marks even if they’re not visible.”
“I understand that.”
I believe her. She carries her own invisible scars. Whatever broke her trust in systems and people.
She reaches over. Takes my hand.
I look down at our joined hands in the near-dark. Don’t speak.
Neither does she.
That’s enough.