Sophie leans in, elbows on the table. “I heard he trained you. What kind of training was it?”
I don’t respond.
Asher grins. “Was it combat? Or something more… personal?”
The implication is foul. Revulsion crawls through me as I understand exactly what he means. John never touched me like that, but he still fed me to monsters. That line barely matters in a place like this.
None of them look away. That is when I know they aren’t asking to learn. They are asking to see how much I will tolerate.
That’s when I make my decision.
I push my chair back slowly, careful not to give them the satisfaction of panic. The scrape of wood against tile echoes too loud in the room.
Sophie arches an eyebrow, amused. “Where are you going?”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say flatly, even as my pulse roars in my ears.
Knox’s chair creaks. “We’ll take you.”
I turn and run.
Chair legs shriek behind me. Someone shouts my name, but no one follows. Their footsteps don’t pound behind me. All I hear behind me is the sound of quiet laughter.
They aren’t chasing me. They’re enjoying the show.
I sprint into the hallway, legs already shaking. My shoes slip slightly on the tile, but adrenaline keeps me moving. I turn the first corner blindly, no destination in mind—just escape. Every door I pass is closed, identical, unmarked.
Somewhere behind me, echoing through unseen speakers, “Goodbye Horses” is still playing. It follows me through the halls.
I run harder.
The hall stretches long and sterile. I turn again and find another corridor. I don’t know where I'm going, I only know that I can’t stop.
Then I see the door. It is heavier than the others, framed in metal. I grab the handle and yank. It opens with a groan. The door swings inward, and I freeze.
And it is covered in blood.
The smell hits me first. Then the details follow. A severed leg on the floor. A hand near the dresser. The sheets soaked through, red, wet and clinging tothe mattress like glue. A girl’s head—mouth open, eyes wide, rests crooked on the pillow like some fucked-up display.
Then a girl half-naked, bruised, bleeding, stumbles forward from the far side of the room. Her wrists are shredded, skin hanging in strips where restraints have torn her open. Her body is shaking, chest heaving. She barely looks at me before crashing into my shoulder and shoving past.
I stumble back, hit the wall, barely keeping upright as she runs. I want to go after her. I can’t move. I stand there, breathing hard, bile rising in my throat, vision swimming. I can’t look away from the bed. From the head. From the way her mouth is still open like she died mid-scream.
I recover and follow, half from instinct, half from the sick realization that if she knows the way out, I have to stay close. Her footsteps pound against the tile. Blood drips behind her. She nearly slips twice but doesn’t stop. The hallway opens ahead.
And there it is. An exit door. A real one. Metal bar across the center. Narrow window near the top. Freedom.
She sees it and lets out a ragged sound, something between a sob and a gasp and sprints faster. I chase her, breath ripping out of my lungs, chest aching. I'm only a few feet behind. I can see her hand reaching for the bar. She pushes it.
A mechanical click echoes above us.
I don’t understand the sound until I look up. A mounted shotgun drops from the ceiling. It snaps into position directly above her head.
It fires.
Her head comes apart in a violent bloom of meat and bone. The force flings her backward. Blood sheets across the walls and ceiling, spattering the lights. Wet heat slaps my face. Grit hits my cheek. A chunk of skull skips across the tile and spins to a stop near my foot.
Her body hits the floor hard. One leg jerks, then another, then nothing. Blood pours out fast, pooling under her.
