Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sulla
“Forty-eight hour endurance and stress test. You’ll be separated from your partners. Sleep deprivation. Physical stress. Psychological pressure. This tests individual resilience. Anyone who taps out fails.”
Separated. For two days.
I glance at Reid. Her face is carefully neutral. Professional. But something flickers in her eyes. Concern? Reluctance?
“Equipment and personal items will be confiscated,” Mac continues. “You’ll be placed in isolation. Different locations. No communication. Medical monitoring throughout. Vitals tracked. Staff on rotation outside. Questions?”
“Contestants, you have thirty minutes. Use the facilities. Eat something. Then report to the staging area.”
The group disperses. Reid and I jog to tent four in silence.
Inside, we pack the minimum. Water bottle. Emergency beacon. Everything else stays.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yes. You?”
“Yes.”
Neither of us is okay. We’ve spent three weeks together. Sharing a tent, working in sync. Building something we haven’t named yet.
And now we’ll be separated for forty-eight hours. No contact. Nothing.
“It’s just two days,” she says. Not to me. To herself.
“We’ve both done harder things,” I agree.
“Yeah.”
But she doesn’t sound convinced.
She finishes packing. Stands there looking at nothing. Processing.
I don’t have anything better to offer. Neither does she.
Mac’s voice over the PA, “All contestants to staging area. Now.”
We walk there together. Last few minutes. At the staging area, production separates us immediately. Different vehicles. Different directions.
Reid gets in her transport. Our gazes meet through the window. Brief. Intense.
Then she’s gone.
They take me to a concrete bunker. Underground. Small. Maybe eight feet by ten. Stone walls. Stone floor. Single dim bulb. No windows. One door. Locked.
The interrogator carries himself like military. Former, probably. The stillness. The economy of movement. The way he takes up exactly the space he needs and no more.
“Sulla. You’ll remain here for forty-eight hours. We’ll conduct stress tests periodically. Endure them. You’ll be released at the end of the period. Medical monitoring throughout. Tap out anytime by pressing the emergency button. Understood?”
“Yes.”
He leaves. Door locks. I’m alone.
The bunker is cold. Damp. Dark except for the single bulb.
Controlled environment. Structured stress. An exercise, not punishment.
Not even close to the ergastulum. Nothing compared to six weeks in absolute darkness, rats and starvation, torture, or the doubt that I’d ever be released.
I sit against the wall. Close my eyes. Choose to wait.
At what I think is about hour six. They come for the first stress test.
Stress position. Arms extended. Holding weight. Not allowed to lower arms. Thirty minutes.
I notice the camera mounted in the upper corner before anything else.
Red light blinking. They’re watching everything.
A medic sits visible through the open shutter that reveals a small window in the door — present, monitoring, ready.
Production isn’t leaving anyone alone in here without a safety net.
The knowledge doesn’t make it easier. Just contextualizes it.
My shoulders burn after five minutes. My old injury flares—old pain combined with fresh. The familiar ache of joints that were purposely dislocated and never healed quite right. I could end this. Just open my mouth and tell them I quit. Then walk out.
I don’t.
I focus on breathing. On being somewhere else. On not being here.
The ergastulum taught me how to leave my body when necessary. How to endure pain by separating from it. How to survive by not being present.
I use that now.
Thirty minutes pass. They allow me to lower my arms, then leave me alone.
My shoulders scream. But it’s manageable.
About hour twelve, I settle onto the concrete floor to sleep.
They blast music. Loud. Ugly. Designed to prevent sleep.
I don’t sleep. Just lie here and wait. Think of Reid. Wonder if she’s okay.
About hour eighteen? Interrogation.
Same interrogator. Asks questions. Probing. Personal.
“Why are you here? What are you running from? What did you do that you’re trying to forget?”
I don’t answer. Just stare at him.
He tries different tactics. Friendly. Aggressive. Manipulative.
I’ve seen all of this before. In Rome, interrogation was an art form. This is amateur compared to what I witnessed… and what I did.
He gives up after forty minutes.
Halfway, maybe. Hard to track time in here.
No food since this started. Controlled fast. Water only. Minimal.
The hunger is nothing. I’ve gone weeks on a piece of moldy bread and rank water.
The cold is nothing. I’ve endured worse.
The isolation is nothing. I’ve lived most of my life alone.
But.
I miss Reid.
That’s new.
Missing someone. Wanting someone here. Not for survival. Not for strategy. Just for presence.
I want to hear her breathing in the dark across the tent. Want to see her face in dim light. Want to know she’s okay.
In Rome, that would get me killed.
But I’m not in Rome.
Second day. Another stress position.
Standing. Arms overhead. Can’t lower them. Can’t sit. One hour.
My legs shake after twenty minutes. Shoulders on fire after thirty. Every muscle screaming after forty.
But I don’t tap out.
I think about Reid. About whether she’s enduring her version of this. About whether she’s okay.
That gets me through.
The hour ends. I collapse into a ball on the floor. They leave me alone.
I lie on the cold stone. Breathing hard. Everything hurts.
But I’m functional.
Close to the end now.
Different interrogator this time. Older. More experienced.
“Sulla. You’re doing well. Better than most. Why?”
I don’t answer.
“What did you survive that makes this easy?”
I look at him. “This isn’t easy. It’s just manageable.”
“Because you’ve done harder?”
“Yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
He nods. Respects that. Leaves me alone.
The door opens.
“Time’s up. You passed. Medical evaluation, then six hours rest before next challenge.”
I stand. Legs unsteady. Shoulders burning. Exhausted but intact.
Outside, daylight is blinding. I squint. Adjust.
Other contestants are emerging from their locations. Trevor looks wrecked. Aiden is limping. Jacks seems calm—meditation training probably helped.
And Reid.
She’s across the clearing. Talking to a medic. Looks exhausted. Wrung out. Pale.
Our eyes meet. She sees me. Her face softens.
We don’t approach each other. Medical protocols. Need evaluation first.
But we’re both here. Both intact. Neither tapped out.
That’s enough.
Medical clears me. Minor dehydration. Muscle strain. Nothing serious.
They give us food. Real food. Not MREs. An actual hot meal.
I eat mechanically. Fuel. Nothing more.
Reid is at a different table. Eating alone. Still pale. Still looking exhausted and not fully present.
Something broke in her during those forty-eight hours. I can see it in her posture. The way she’s holding herself too carefully, like she might come apart if she moves wrong.
After food, they release us to quarters. I go to our tent. Reid arrives five minutes later.
Inside, she drops her pack. Sits on her cot and stares at nothing.
“You okay?” I ask.
“No. But I will be.” Honest. Raw.
“What can I do?”
“Just… stay.”
So I do. Sit on my cot. Four feet away. I just stay present.
She lies down. Still dressed. Still in boots. Just collapses onto the sleeping bag.
I kneel near her and unlace her boots, pull them off carefully, and set them beside her cot.
I don’t know why I did that. It wasn’t a decision.
“I hate interrogation,” she says quietly. “Reminds me of the inquiry. The questions. The accusations. The lies.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “They asked me about Ramirez. Not by name. Just, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever failed to prevent. And I couldn’t—” She stops. Swallows. “I couldn’t separate it. Couldn’t stay detached. Just sat there and felt it all over again.”
“I understand.”
She closes her eyes. “I know you do.”
That’s new. She didn’t used to believe that.
“Sleep,” I say. “I’ll watch.”
“You need rest too.”
“I’m fine. Sleep.”
She’s too exhausted to argue. Falls asleep within minutes. Deep, heavy sleep. The kind that comes after breaking.
She’s hurting and all I can do is sit here. Be present when she wakes. It’s not enough.
But I’d give up the competition right now to make sure she’s okay. A month ago that thought would have made no sense to me.
Hours pass. She sleeps. I watch.
Finally she stirs. Eyes open. Sees me still sitting here.
“You didn’t sleep,” she says.
“Someone needed to watch.”
“Sulla…”
She sits up. Looks at me. Her expression changes. Softens. Opens.
She stands. Crosses to me.
Sits on my cot. Right beside me. Close.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For staying. For watching.”
“You would have done the same.”
We’re inches apart. Her shoulder touching mine. Her face turned toward me. Close enough to kiss.
The air between us is charged. Electric. Everything we’re not saying pressing down.
She reaches up. Touches my face. Gentle. Her thumb traces my cheekbone.
“I missed you,” she whispers. “For two days. I missed you. That’s not supposed to happen.”
“I know.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
She leans in. I lean in. Faces inches apart. Breath mingling.
“If I kiss you, I won’t want to stop,” she says.
“I know.”
“The cameras—”
“I don’t care.”
She closes the distance. Almost kissing—
“RISE AND SHINE!” Mac’s voice over the PA. Loud. Immediate. “NEXT CHALLENGE IN THIRTY MINUTES! ALL CONTESTANTS TO FORMATION!”
We break apart. Breathing hard.
“Fucking hell,” Reid says.
I laugh. Can’t help it. The timing. The interruption. Everything.
She laughs too. Brief. Exhausted. Real.
“We have terrible timing,” she says.
“The worst.”
We sit here. Still close. Still wanting. But the moment is broken.
“After this is over,” she says. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“When there are no cameras.”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She stands. Pulls herself together. Military composure sliding back into place.
“We should get ready.”
“Yes.”
We’re still looking at each other. Still carrying the weight of almost.
Finally she turns. Prepares for the next challenge.
I do the same.
Outside, people are talking, getting into formation. The competition continues.
But she said, “after this is over” like she meant it.
I’m holding on to that.