XX. Emris

The hallways haven't changed. Same lifeless gray walls. Same metal grates underfoot that clang too loud with each step. My boots are heavier than I remember. Not literally. Just the weight of what's coming. I focus on walking straight, with my spine locked and, chin up. Like I'm not afraid.

Two agents flank me, one on each side. Neither speaks. I can hear their breathing though—steady, mechanical. It sounds like they're wearing masks, but they aren't. Just good at pretending they don't feel anything.

I keep my eyes forward. We're supposed to be going to Dragunov. That's what I was told. A conversation. A debrief. Some clever verbal fencing and then maybe a cell, maybe worse. But a talk first. That's how this goes. That's how it always goes.

So when we pass the right turn to Dragunov's office and keep walking straight, I feel it in my chest before my mind catches up. Like my lungs flinch.

"You're going the wrong way," I say.

Neither of them answers.

"I said," I repeat, louder now, turning my head sharply, "you're going the wrong way."

Still nothing.

We reach the elevator.

No.

My steps slow. My boots drag against the floor. A cold coil twists in my gut.

"No. No, you don't get to skip the monologue," I say, forcing a laugh. It sounds thin, cracked. "Dragunov's got a whole speech planned, I know he does. He loves hearing himself talk. You can't rob him of that."

The agent on my left grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. He yanks me forward. I twist to pull away, but he's stronger than he looks.

The elevator doors slide open. My heart pounds. Steel walls. Steel floor. Familiar in the worst way. My knees almost give out.

"You sons of bitches," I whisper.

They shove me inside.

As soon as the doors close, I move. The walls are close, but that works for me. I jam my elbow into the left agent's throat, feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage. He stumbles back. I grab the back of his head and slam it into the wall. Once. Twice. The third time, there's blood. Fourth time, there's bone. The fifth? He stops moving.

The other one roars and charges. I spin around, blood spattering my face, and throw a kick to his knee. It bends, but he doesn't fall. He grabs my collar and slams me into the wall so hard my vision goes white.

For a moment, all I hear is the buzzing of the elevator lights. My limbs are jelly. I'm gasping.

Then pain. Sharp, searing pain in my wrist.

I scream.

He's holding something—a small metal device, just under my skin. The power dampener. It pulses, once. Like a static shock straight into my nerves. Then I feel it:

Nothing.

My connection to light, sound, distortion—gone. Like a limb amputated in an instant.

I collapse to my knees. Sweat trickles down my back. My fingers twitch, searching for power that isn't there.

"Bastard," I hiss.

He doesn't respond. Just leans against the opposite wall, breathing hard, blood from the other agent staining his boots.

I curl into myself, forehead against the floor of the elevator, and pretend I'm anywhere else. In the sky. With Sam. High above it all.

The elevator dings.

Karpov is waiting.

The elevator doors open, and there he is. Karpov. Waiting for me, as if this is some sick reunion. That grin of his is like a blade to my gut. The bastard knows exactly how much this moment is eating at me. "Back where you belong, little zmeya," he sneers, using the nickname that always makes my skin crawl.

I can feel my lips curling into a smile, but it's not real. It's a mask, a thin veneer over the disgust, the rage. "Right," I mutter through gritted teeth, the sarcasm thick in my voice. "And I was just thinking about how much I missed you, Karpov."

It doesn't hit the mark. He doesn't even flinch. Of course he doesn't. He's used to it—used to me, used to breaking people. And right now, I don't have the luxury of fighting back. Not physically, not mentally. I'm drained. Powerless. The dampener is still buzzing in my veins, cutting off my connection to everything. To myself.

The agents are rough with me, grabbing my arms, pulling me out of the elevator. The familiar coldness of the compound surrounds me, sterile, clinical. The white walls are too bright, the smell too sharp, too antiseptic. It's suffocating. My breathing feels ragged, but I can't do anything about it. The world tilts around me as they drag me down the hall, toward the torture room. The sounds of footsteps echo off the walls, but it's the silence after that's worse. The silence that I know is coming.

Karpov is still grinning, too pleased with himself. "You're nothing but a little pawn, zmeya. Did you really think you could just walk away from this?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He never does. He just steps aside as they push me into the room.

The chair. The fucking chair.

The one they always strap you into. The one that's seen more blood than I care to think about. It's waiting for me, just like it always does. The cold metal, the straps that feel like they're made to cut into your skin, to hold you in place for whatever hell they have planned.

One of the agents shoves me roughly into the chair, and I bite back a scream. The pain in my ribs flares again, a constant reminder of my time with the Avengers. I try to gather my thoughts, to focus on something other than the cold, the pressure, the realization that I'm going to be here for who knows how long.

They strip me down to my bra and shorts—no dignity, no care. Just another way to break me, to remind me that I'm nothing but a tool. The leather straps dig into my wrists as they bind me to the chair, and my chest tightens. I keep my eyes on the floor, refusing to meet their gazes. The silence in the room is suffocating, crushing me under its weight. They don't even look at me when they leave.

And then, they're gone.

The door clicks shut behind them, and I'm alone.

The silence is unbearable. My head throbs from the impact in the elevator, the pain in my skull pulsing like a second heartbeat. I try to breathe through it, but it's hard. Harder than it's ever been. My mouth is dry, my throat sore, and I feel like I'm suffocating, trapped in this chair with no escape.

I need to focus. I need to think.

Sam. Tony. I can't let myself forget them. I need them now more than ever. I think about the last time I saw Tony, his cocky grin and sarcastic quips. Sam—his wings cutting through the air, his steady presence when everything around me was falling apart.

But they're not here. They're not going to save me. Maybe its better if I do forget them.

Time stretches out.

The seconds feel like hours.

The lights above me buzz, a low hum that makes my ears ring. I can't keep track of how long I've been here. Minutes? Hours? The pain in my head is unbearable, the dizziness overwhelming. My body is shaking, and I can't seem to control it. My mind keeps drifting, memories flashing, things that I know aren't real—places I've been, faces I've seen.

But it's all a blur now.

I close my eyes for just a moment. Just a moment.

When I open them again, I realize I've fallen asleep. My head lolls forward, and I jerk awake, the straps holding me too tightly to move. But I can't fight it. I can't fight this exhaustion, the cold that's settled into my bones, the ache that never seems to go away. I want to scream, to break out of this, but my voice is hoarse, my throat too tight.

And then I hear it. Footsteps.

Karpov is going to be back soon.

I take a deep breath, pushing against the weight of the silence, trying to pull myself together, trying to hold on to the one thing that keeps me from losing it completely: survival.

I'll survive this; I always survive. I have to.

DAY ONE

The door creaks open, and I know who's standing there before I even see him. Karpov. That smug bastard. I hear his footsteps, deliberate, calm, like this is some kind of reunion, not a fucking interrogation. I hate him. I hate the way he moves, the way he speaks—like he owns everything around him, like I'm nothing but a bug on a windshield to him.

His voice slides into the air, oily and smooth. "Well, well, little zmeya. How are we feeling today?"

I don't answer. I just stare at him through the haze in my vision. My body aches, bruises from the chair digging into my skin, muscles stiff and strained. My head throbs, a constant hammering, and my mouth is dry. Still, I drag myself upright in the chair, refusing to let him see how much damage they've already done. I hold onto the fragments of my pride like they're the last things that matter.

He steps closer, eyes gleaming. "I have a few questions for you. About your little friends. The Avengers."

I hate the way he says it, like it's some kind of joke, like I'm just playing a part in his little theater. "Steve?" I answer, voice hoarse but defiant. "Still uptight. Thinks the world's gonna fall apart without him." I can't stop myself. It's the only thing I can control right now—my words.

His face flickers with something like amusement, and then his hand strikes faster than I can react. My cheek burns with the slap, the force of it sending my head snapping to the side. The sting lingers, my skin hot and buzzing. "You're funny, little zmeya," he sneers, pulling my hair roughly, yanking my head back until I'm staring up at him. "But I don't think you're in a position to make jokes."

I grit my teeth. I'm not going to beg. I'm not going to show him weakness. I refuse to. Not now. Not ever.

But then, without warning, his fingers slide down my arm, tracing the outline of my skin like he's savoring the anticipation. He's toying with me, and it's fucking maddening. He digs his nails into my forearm, leaving a trail of fire behind, and I feel the sharp sting of metal as he cuts me. It's a quick movement, efficient, and the blood wells up in a dark pool at the cut.

It's not deep. It's not meant to scar. Just enough to remind me that I'm still under his control.

I flinch but don't scream. I won't give him that satisfaction.

"That's a good start, isn't it?" Karpov says casually, like he's talking about the weather. "Now, about Tony. How much do you really know about him?"

I spit, a glob of saliva hitting the floor. "He's smarter than you," I mutter, the words laced with venom. It's all I can muster right now—defiance, even in the face of this.

The slap comes again, hard and fast, but this time I'm ready. I brace myself, and even though it rattles me, I refuse to let him see how much it hurts. My lip splits, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the sting of my cheek. I swallow it down.

But the pain is growing, slowly, methodically. Karpov has all the time in the world. He's not going anywhere, and he knows that.

"Now, let's see how well you handle a little pain," he says, voice dropping into something darker. He pulls out a heated instrument, and I know exactly what it is—just a quick burn, just enough to keep me in line. He drags it across my side, a searing line of agony that makes me bite down so hard on my lip I taste copper. I don't scream. I don't let him see it.

But I can feel my control slipping. I can feel my fire dimming, that little spark I've been holding onto sputtering out in the face of this.

"You still think you're in control?" Karpov asks, his voice dripping with mockery.

I don't respond, but I feel it in my bones. The fire is still there, still fighting to survive.

But it's fading.

I hate him for doing this to me, for breaking me down like this. The pain, the humiliation, the constant threat of more—it's too much, but I can't show him that. I can't give him the satisfaction.

Karpov leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. "You're not a hero, little zmeya. You're just a tool. And when you're no longer useful, we'll throw you away."

His words hang in the air like a cold promise, and I feel the weight of them sinking into my chest. I don't want to believe it, but I can't stop it.

I hold on to the memory of Sam's face—his steady eyes, his quiet confidence. And Tony, always with the jokes, always with the damn tech. I'll hold onto them. I have to.

But deep down, I know.

This is just the beginning.

And I don't know how much more I can take.

It goes on like that for hours, Karpov questions me and when I respond he hits me or burns me, even when I don't say anything he'll cut me or pull at my hair. I can barely even hear out of my left ear anymore from the smacks; it's just ringing.

He steps back for a moment to look at me, admiring his handiwork, then he speaks up, "I hope you don't think this is over, little zmeya. Dragunov has given me an ample amount of time to break you."

I muster up the strength to lift my head up and meet his eyes, I smile, even though I know my mouth is full of blood and dripping into my lap. Finally, I answer, "I wouldn't expect any less," and with that, he leaves.

DAY TWO

The door creaks open, and my heart stutters in my chest, already dreading what comes next. Karpov strides in, that same smug grin plastered across his face. I can see the glint of something dangerous in his eyes, something that makes my stomach twist with apprehension. He's not here for a friendly chat, and we both know it.

"Good morning, little zmeya," he says, his voice mockingly bright. "I hope you've had a nice rest."

I don't even look at him. My head feels heavy, my eyes sore from lack of sleep, and the dull ache in my face reminds me of the endless pain. My mouth is dry—thick, with a metallic tang from the blood that's dried on my lip. My skin feels cold under the damp air, but there's something else in the room, something sterile, almost clinical. The smell of antiseptic, the kind that burns your nose and lingers in your throat, mixes with the faint odor of sweat and blood. It makes everything worse. It makes everything feel so wrong, so unbearably real.

I blink, trying to keep my eyes focused, trying to push past the haze. I can hear Sam's voice in my head—soft but firm. "You're tougher than this. Don't let him win." But the sound of it is so far away, buried under the weight of what's happening.

"What's it going to be today?" I ask, my voice hoarse, the defiance still there, but thin and brittle. My throat feels like it's lined with broken glass. "More cuts? More burns?" I lift my chin, trying to mask the tremor in my hands. "Or are you finally going to make it quick?"

Karpov chuckles, low and cruel. "You're such a fighter, little zmeya. I admire that. But you're about to learn something new today. You see..." He waves a hand, and one of his guards brings in a large water tank, clear and cold. The glass reflects the harsh, fluorescent lights overhead, and the water inside ripples like something alive. "You think you can defy me? Let's see how long that lasts when your lungs start begging for air."

I freeze, my blood going cold. I know what this is. I know exactly what he's planning, and I know that I'm not going to get away from it.

They don't even give me a chance to protest before they force me to my feet, pulling me toward the tank. My legs feel like jelly, like they're made of nothing more than raw muscle and aching bone, but they don't care. I fight against their grip, but it's useless. There are two of them, and I'm already exhausted from the day before.

Karpov leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. "Let's start with something simple, hm?" His tone is too friendly, too casual. "Who do you think will come for you? Who will come to save you?"

I don't answer. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Still playing it silent?" he asks with a grin. "Fine. Let's see how long that lasts."

The first time they shove me into the tank, the water is shockingly cold, biting into my skin as it pours over my face and fills my mouth. I can't breathe. I gasp, panic shooting through my chest like a jagged bolt of lightning. My body thrashes, desperate for air, desperate to break free, but they hold me down, pressing my head under the surface until the world blurs around me and everything starts to go black at the edges. My lungs burn. My chest constricts. My heart hammers against my ribs like it wants to escape.

Just as I think I'm going to suffocate, they pull me up, and I suck in air, coughing and choking. I gasp, my throat raw, and my chest heaves with the violent, desperate need for oxygen. The cold air is a shock, but it's nothing compared to the burning need for air that I felt just moments before.

"Answer me, little zmeya," Karpov's voice floats to me, cruel and mocking. "Who will come for you?"

I spit water at him, the act small but satisfying. It's a pathetic attempt at defiance, but I can't help it. I need to do something.

They push me back under.

This time, I don't even have the strength to fight. My body is too tired, too worn from yesterday's torture. I just flail, feeling like I'm sinking into nothingness as my body convulses with the need for air. The world turns into a blur of water and panic, and all I can do is hold on to the memory of flying, of freedom, of something—anything—that's not this.

I'm pulled up again, but the air in my lungs isn't enough. The desperate gulping breath that I take feels like it isn't even enough to fill the emptiness inside me.

Karpov's smile is too wide, too pleased. He leans in close again, breathing hot against my skin, and the cold terror seeps in. "No answers yet? You're stronger than I thought, little zmeya. You can last a little longer."

"Fuck you," I manage to rasp, my voice barely audible but laced with defiance. I know it's weak. I know it's pointless, but it's all I have left.

They shove me under again.

I can't breathe. I can't think. The water burns in my lungs, in my chest, and my vision goes blurry, edges fading as I struggle to stay conscious.

My mind spirals, slipping in and out of reality, memories and hallucinations blending. I'm flying. I'm with Sam as he soars through the air, laughing, feeling the wind in my hair. Tony's jokes fill my ears, his voice warm and teasing, even as I struggle to focus. But then—nothing. Just black.

And then the water, again.

The third time they pull me up, I don't even care anymore. I don't even want to fight. My body is so heavy, like it belongs to someone else, like it's made of stone. The pain, the exhaustion, the helplessness—it all crashes down on me like a tidal wave.

"I won't talk," I rasp, but even I don't believe it.

Karpov doesn't care. He's grinning, like he's enjoying the show, like it's all just a game to him. "We'll see," he says, voice dripping with amusement. "We'll see how long your resolve lasts, little zmeya."

I know this is just the beginning. The worst is yet to come.

And I'm already starting to break.

They shove me under fifteen more times before I pass out. Karpov and his guards leave me on the floor, soaked and unconscious.

DAY THREE

No voices today.

No Karpov with his smug smile. No taunts. No questions. No snide remarks about the Avengers or Sam or Tony or my so-called betrayal. Just silence. Cold, deliberate silence that hangs thick in the air like a noose waiting to tighten.

I blink slowly, lashes heavy with dried sweat and grime. My vision is blurring again, my head pounding with a dull, echoing throb that's been building since yesterday's drowning games. My lungs still feel raw from the water. My ribs creak every time I breathe. But I'm alive. Somehow. Still here. Mostly, it was because of Black Lotus enhancements that help me heal quicker than a normal person would.

The door hisses open, and I brace myself.

Two guards walk in—silent, methodical. I've stopped trying to remember their faces. They're just masks, just shadows moving through my peripheral vision. Tools, like scalpels. They don't speak to me. Don't even glance my way. One of them holds a tray. I see wires. Metal. Padded disks.

Electrodes.

My heart skips a beat. I know what this is. I've seen it used before. They've used it on me plenty of times. Back when pain was training and obedience was loyalty.

The guards don't hesitate. One yanks my head back and press the electrodes to my temples. The pads are soft but the metal beneath is unforgiving. Cold. Final. The second guard tightens the leather straps across my arms and chest until I can't even flinch. I can't even scream properly, not without it catching in my throat like broken glass.

The buzzing starts low. A hum that prickles just beneath my skin, like angry wasps crawling inside my skull.

Then it hits.

The first jolt isn't strong—it's almost a warning. My body stiffens involuntarily, my teeth clack together with the force of it, and for a moment, all I see is white. A flash. Like lightning behind my eyelids. I smell something sharp—burnt ozone, maybe. Or maybe it's just my brain frying in real time.

I try to hold on to something. A thought. A name.

Sam.

His laugh, warm and low. The way he called out to me before I left. The way his brow furrowed when he looked at me like he wanted to say something but didn't. I cling to that. I cling hard.

The second jolt slams into me like a truck.

My whole body bows against the restraints. Muscles lock, spasm. I hear myself scream, but it feels distant. Like it belongs to someone else. My eyes roll back for a second, and when I come to, there's blood on my lip. I must've bitten it.

The third shock turns the world sideways.

I hear things now—footsteps that aren't there. Wanda's voice whispering something sharp and foreign in my ear, like the edge of her magic curling around my senses. I jerk violently in the chair. My pulse is racing. Sweat drips down my spine in thin rivulets.

By the tenth jolt, my body's no longer mine.

I'm seizing. Trembling. Convulsing so hard I feel the leather bite into my wrists, into my ribs. My mouth fills with copper—my tongue split from biting down too hard. My fingers twitch like broken marionettes. My vision pulses with each surge, and the buzzing in my skull has become a scream.

And then I hear him.

"You're not one of us," Tony says. His voice is distorted, cruel.

It's not real. It's not real. It's the current rewiring my thoughts, tearing through my synapses like a wildfire. But I can't stop the tears that sting my eyes. I can't stop the way my chest caves in at those words, even if I know they're fake.

Because some part of me believes it.

By the time the shocks stop, I'm not sure how long it's been. An hour? Two? Ten?

I'm slumped in the chair, twitching. My limbs are jelly. My head lolls to the side, temple bleeding from a split beneath the electrode. My mouth is open, slack. I think I'm talking, but I don't know what I'm saying. Just broken words. Half-names. Maybe prayers.

"Sam..."

"Don't... no..."

"Tin.....Stark"

"Shouldn't....be"

"Stripes.....lots of stripes......stars"

The guards unstrap me. I think I feel my body sag forward, but I don't register the impact. I don't feel anything but the buzz in my skull. My heart is still racing. My ears ring. There's blood drying from my nosebleed, and the stink of sweat and scorched flesh clings to my skin like shame.

I don't remember passing out.

Only that when I do, I'm dreaming of the sky.

Of freedom. Or maybe of death.

DAY FOUR

It starts in the dark.

No footsteps. No warnings. No voices.

Just the dark and that low, whining buzz that creeps into my skull like a parasite.

I blink slowly, eyelids raw and crusted. I think I've slept. I must have, but time doesn't exist anymore. Only the pain does. The chair. The straps. My own heartbeat thudding in my ears like a war drum. And the ache of my body and mind.

Then the sound sharpens. Higher now—an unbearable frequency that slices through thought and lodges behind my eyes. It's only for me. I can tell. They've tuned it just right, just enough to dig beneath my skin and rattle my bones.

I grit my teeth, but it only makes the vibration worse. It reverberates through my jaw, down my spine, into the hollow of my chest where everything already hurts.

I try not to scream. I do.

But by minute ten—hour one—whatever the hell this is—I'm begging for silence in my own head.

I thrash in the restraints until my wrists split open again, the scabs torn fresh. I feel blood, sticky and warm, pooling beneath the metal cuffs. My fingernails snap against the edges as I claw for release that will never come.

And then—the voices start.

Tony's voice.

"You really thought you could be one of us?"

I flinch.

"You don't belong with the Avengers, Emris. You never did."

It's not real. I know that. I know that.

But it sounds real.

Every inflection, every smug little undertone—it's Tony. Perfectly replicated. Perfectly weaponized.

Then Sam.

"You're not a hero. You're just another trained killer in a pretty suit."

That one hits me harder than the current did yesterday. My breath catches and turns jagged, lungs scraping like they're full of glass. I twist and scream, spit every curse I can remember, but the sound just echoes back at me, tangled in that screeching frequency that won't let me think.

I try to retreat—pull my thoughts inward, reach for something safe. Anything.

Sam's laugh.

The sound of his wings slicing through clouds.

Tony's smirk when he handed my cup of tea every day.

Sam holding my hand as Tony put in an IV.

Warm. Steady. Real.

But they're not here.

Only the voices are.

Wanda joins in next, whispering like a ghost against my skin.

"You're poison, Emris. Everything you touch dies."

I shake my head. Violently. Desperately.

It's not true. It's not true.

But the more I hear them, the more I start to doubt.

The light flickers. My vision stutters. My body jerks without meaning to—little spasms that leave me trembling. I taste copper. Realize it's blood. I've bitten my tongue again.

I don't know when I started crying, but the tears are hot trails down my cheeks, vanishing into my tangled hair and the collar of my bra. I try to suck in a breath, but all I get is static and guilt.

The noise never stops.

There's no crescendo, no rhythm, just constant torment, echoing louder than my heartbeat.

I scream. Not words. Not language. Just raw, primal sound—shredded and hoarse, a wounded animal's last defense. I start banging my head backward onto the chair.

It doesn't help.

The voices keep coming.

"You'll never be one of us."

"You were always a monster."

"Black Lotus is where you belong."

I curl into myself as much as the straps will allow, pulling knees toward my chest, tensing every muscle like that will protect me from the sound, from the memories, from the truth they're forcing down my throat.

I lose time.

Don't know how long I've been here. Don't know if I've passed out or blacked out or just given up.

I think I whisper someone's name.

Maybe Tony or Sam.

Maybe my own.

Fuck, maybe even Steve.

I don't know anymore.

My mouth is dry. My lips cracked. My body is soaked in sweat and blood and whatever is left of me.

The sound finally cuts out.

But the silence is worse.

Because I can still hear them.

And I don't know if they were ever really fake to begin with.

The lights explode on without warning.

A white-hot glare sears through my eyelids, burning away the fragile comfort of the darkness I'd crawled into. My body convulses in the chair, flinching on instinct. But nothing moves. Not really.

I can't lift my head.

My neck trembles with the effort. My muscles have forgotten how to hold me upright. Everything is limp. Boneless. Wrecked.

The restraints don't even feel necessary anymore.

My wrists are torn open—skin torn up around the metal cuffs, raw and slick. Dried blood crusts around the edges, itching like fire ants. My lips are split and crusted, each shallow breath dragging across the desert that is my throat. The taste of copper won't leave me. I think it's part of me now.

Then—the footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Echoing like gunshots in the sterile quiet.

I know that rhythm.

The click of polished shoes, deliberate and calm, like the floor should be grateful it gets to be walked on.

Mikhail Dragunov.

The monster behind the monsters. The one who trained us to kill, to smile while doing it. Who carved loyalty into our bones with scalpels and shame.

I don't want to look at him. But I know I will have to.

My head sways forward. I'm sinking again. My vision blurs, shapes melting and reforming in slow, cruel waves.

Then fingers—cold and unforgiving—grip my chin and wrench it up.

My body jerks from the pressure, every tendon screaming in protest, but I can't fight it. Can't fight him. Not now.

His face comes into view. Clean. Composed. That damn suit barely wrinkled, not a hair out of place.

He stares at me like I'm a broken toy.

No satisfaction. No rage.

Just... disappointment.

It hits harder than any blow could.

"Have you learned your lesson, little zmeya?" he says, voice low, silken, with that Russian edge that used to mean praise.

My mouth opens, then closes again.

I want to say no. I want to spit in his face, to snarl something about how the Avengers will come for me. How I'm stronger than he thinks. How he doesn't get to win.

But all that fire is buried under the weight of four days in hell.

I can't feel my legs. My arms are trembling so hard the restraints are vibrating. My head's pounding in pulses that match the phantom voice of Tony still echoing somewhere in the cracks of my mind.

So I lie.

Not because I believe it.

But because I have to.

Because survival means choosing submission, even if just for now.

I close my eyes.

Breathe shallowly through broken lips.

And whisper, hoarse and nearly inaudible, "Yes."