Chapter Fifteen
"captured"

❣︎

An involuntary scream leaves my mouth as I rush down, landing on a surface with a thud.

The scream cracks halfway through and leaves me another coughing fit. I gasp for air, but it makes everything worse, and before I know it, it takes another ten minutes to stop it.

Tears are running down my cheeks by the time that happens. My throat feels even worse as it did before—one sentence is already a lot, let alone a loud scream.

Aris and Thomas clearly didn't fall down with me.

I attempt to look up, but it's pitch black. Even if my eyes would get used to the dark, no way I'd manage to reach the ceiling and climb back through whatever hole that was.

I hear the soft creaking of their footsteps above me. "Clap twice if you're okay." Aris calls.

Clap. Clap. How am I going to get up without properly communicating? Aris and Thomas can ask whatever they want but I will only be able to answer yes or no questions. But it won't take long for them—Aris—to find the book, right?

"Stay where you are," Aris continues. "We'll get to you soon."

I squint my eyes through the darkness, sniffing. It doesn't smell like anything rotten here. Besides, Cranks aren't smart enough to place a trapdoor. Not one that opens when you pull a fake book.

Unless it already existed before this, but I still believe Cranks wouldn't end up here.

Slowly, I step further into the room, my hands in front of me in case I bump into something. Sorry, Aris. This is too suspicious to leave alone and I can work better without Thomas's constant pressure.

The room isn't extremely big, because I soon hit the wall. It's made of wood, hard but thin. The texture feels flat—this was here before the Flare took over. Perhaps people built it while the Sun Flares happened, but either way, they had good material. Material that's impossible to find at the moment. 

My eyes begin making out shapes. Some sort of chair. A table full of things I don't recognize in the dark. Is that a lamp against the ceiling? Probably.

If people are or were here, there must be some sort of bed.

And it's not here, so there are other rooms.

A door seems to obvious and too much work to build. Another trapdoor is too much, too. The planks forming the walls could be it. If one of them is loose, it might be the entrance. Below the desk or chair is also a possibility, but too easy.

I take a moment to pause, letting my hand glide along the wooden wall once again. It's smooth. Every plank fits too perfectly, too precisely, for this to be a rushed construction. Whoever built this didn't just want shelter—they wanted to stay hidden. I tap the wood lightly, listening for difference. If there's another room, one of these planks might give it away.

The third tap produces a hollow sound. I kneel down immediately, pressing my ear to the wall. There's a faint echo. Air travels beyond this point. A room.

I run my fingers along the edges of the plank, searching for anything that would give me entrance to it. And then, there it is—a slight indentation near the bottom.

It's not a handle. It's not even obvious. But it's enough for me to wedge my fingers in and pull. The plank shifts. My arms strain as I work it loose, but eventually, it comes free, revealing a narrow opening just big enough for me to squeeze through.

Gally is not overweight at all, but too broad to fit in here. Aris described Newt as slim. Newt would fit through.

But Newt isn't the one who built this. I'm one hundred percent sure of that.

I duck into the opening, holding my breath as I step into the next room.

This one smells different—musty, like old paper that has been wet for a long time. My hands move along the surfaces around me, feeling for clues. A table, smaller than the last one. A stack of papers. A chair, overturned. Whoever was here left in a hurry.

My fingers brush something cold and metallic. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. A knife.

I put it back down. I have enough weapons with me and as long as the people in here are no danger to me, I'll leave them with something to defend theirselves with.

No one is here either. Food. There must be food, even if it's just a little bit. If it's moldy, that means no one has been here for a long time. If it's not, there's people. Whether they're scavenging right now or hiding from me doesn't matter.

Where would one hide the last bits of food? Probably in the floor. Of this room or the other one? It would be this one if they wanted to hide it very well. It would be the other one if the leftover food is for emergencies only.

It will take hours to find it without a clue.

Sighing lightly, I shuffle back to the first room. Aris and Thomas are moving nervously above me, their voices quiet.

I wipe at my sweaty face. My throat still burns, raw and sore from the scream, but I try to focus. There's no food, no sign of anyone still living here, and no clear exit. Maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe this place really is just forgotten.

But the feeling in my gut disagrees. Something about this place isn't adding up. It's too... too perfect.

Perfect to keep people out.

Or in.

I crouch near the plank I'd loosened, running my fingers along its edges one last time. Maybe I missed something—a marking, a clue. But before I can think further, there's a faint creak behind me.

I freeze, my breath catching in my chest.

No one else is supposed to be here.

Slowly, I turn my head, forcing myself to hear through the silence. My fingers curl, ready to reach for my knife—

A sharp pain explodes in the back of my head, and my vision blurs instantly. The clang of whatever hit me echoes through the room.

I stumble forward, my knees hitting the ground hard, but I can't even feel the impact. My hands clutch at the air as if trying to catch onto something, anything, but the world spins out of focus.

And then it's black.

❣︎

"Who are you?"

I feel the cold metal against my throat before my eyes even open.

"Hm?" Someone's breaths against my face, heavy and fast. A cold sweat runs down my spine along with a shiver. When I try to move my hands to inspect my surroundings, I notice they're tied together behind the chair I'm on.

The person in front of me pushes the chair so it stands on two legs only. I strain against the chair, trying to loosen the ropes on my wrists without making noise.

I listen more closely. There's something sharp about the sound of the woman's footsteps. The sound is muffled, but not quite smooth, hinting at the weight of whatever they're wearing—maybe combat boots, or something sturdy. Not a civilian, then.

And the voice. It's rough. Definitely not the same as mine, but it doesn't belong to someone who's just been hiding in a forgotten room.

The faintest outline of her silhouette shifts. I notice her hand briefly brush against her waist. My heart skips, though it's obvious there's a weapon there. Another knife, maybe, or something worse. I can't be sure, but it's there, strapped tightly. Whoever this person is, they're armed and prepared to hurt me.

There's hesitation in the way she stands. I take note of that. It's a crack in their otherwise cold demeanor, a sign that she's not completely sure about me—or perhaps she's struggling with what to do next.

I try to focus on her face, even though I can't see it clearly. And then, I catch a glimpse of something more telling—there's a small, almost unnoticeable twitch in her fingers. It's nothing obvious, but it's there. A nervous tick, or maybe a reflex. She's nervous.

Whoever she is, she's not invincible. And that gives me slight hope.

I'm still working on my physical skills, but I won't deny that I know I'm decently smart. Smart enough to get out of situations like these.

If I would've been able to speak.

"Well?" She barks, pushing the chair further up against the wall. "Who are you? Answer me!"

The metal presses deeper into my throat, ready to form the scar that I already have because of the Shades.

"I can't—" I gulp with all the strength I have. The image of the Shades right in front of my eyes makes speaking even more difficult than it already is.

The coughs start. I'm unable to use my hands to hold or calm myself, and it feels just as horrible as when I entered this place.

"I don't care that you can't, tell me before I kill you!" The blade returns to my throat.

She thinks I mean that I'm not allowed to say my name or something. That I work for someone. That I want to keep myself safe.

The pressure on my throat intensifies. I try to steady my breath, but it's impossible. My throat breaks into another coughing fit. I hear her growl in frustration above me.

"Tell me who you are," she demands again, her voice laced with anger.

Another cough racks my body. Hot tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. Every breath burns, every movement is a struggle. I try to communicate, but the words are trapped, buried in my chest where they can't escape. I can't tell her that I can't speak. She won't understand.

The knife moves slightly, now grazing the skin just under my jaw. I brace myself for the worst.

"Speak," she sneers. Her other hand grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back sharply, forcing me to look up at her. The sudden movement only worsens the pressure on my throat, and I gasp in pain. It's too dark to see her face.

I manage to choke out a weak, almost inaudible attempt at a scream, but it's not enough. My voice breaks apart, shredded by the effort. My entire body trembles at the pain.

"You don't seem worth the effort," she mutters, her tone mocking, but there's something almost uncertain.

She pulls the knife back slightly, but only enough to let me breathe for a moment before she forces it against my side, drawing a thin line of blood. I wince.

I try to sign, but my hands are tied too tightly. I make another desperate attempt to breathe, and the coughs come again. Each one burns, each one twists my insides. The air becomes thick as I try to force the words out.

"I will get answers out of you one way or another."

She thinks that this is a game. Can she even tell that I'm suffocating?

"One last chance." She removes the knife from my side and steps back, the step echoing through the room. I want to think this through, but everything is foggy. I can't think. I'm incapable of doing the only thing I'm good at.

"Who. Are. You?"

"Ad-Addy," I gasp. Shortening my name is the least thing I can do to save myself from coughing again. It tickles, the usual sensation, but I don't allow to let anything else slip.

"Addy," she repeats. "Is that so?"

I nod as heavily as I can, my vision swaying from the hit I took before this.

"And who are you with, Addy?"

What is she possibly going to do with our names? It won't be a big problem to share them, I think. Maybe I can disguise theirs like I did with mine.

"Well?" She asks impatiently.

"T-Tommy and Arro," I choke out, my voice barely there, as if I've been screaming the past hours. This time, another coughing fit does start.

She lifts my chin, squeezing so hard that my cheeks mold together. "Tsk. Addy, Tommy, and... Arro. They'll be fine up there for a little longer. Tell me," she leans closer, "what are you doing here?"

I feel the trickle of warm blood sliding down my neck as she presses the knife deeper into my skin. I can't stop shaking. My body won't listen to me—it's stuck in this horrible, frozen state of panic.

"Speak," she orders, her voice as sharp as the knife pressing into my throat. "Who sent you? Why are you here?"

I try—I swear I try. My lips part, and I force my vocal cords to push out some sound, but nothing happens. My throat tightens until the only thing that can enter is air—just barely. The harder I strain, the more impossible it feels. My chest aches with the effort, and all I can do is rasp uselessly into the air.

Nothing. Not a single word.

"Stop playing games with me!" she yells, slamming the chair back against the wall. My head whips back, and the jolt of pain in my skull sends tears flooding my eyes. I try to shake my head, to make her understand that I can't, but she doesn't care.

"Say something!" she screams.

My mind screams at me to yell, to beg, to cry—anything—but there's nothing left.

"Are you deaf? Dumb? Or just stupid?" She laughs coldly, but there's no humor in it.

My throat burns, aching with the effort I'm putting into just making a sound. I cough hard, but it's dry and useless. It gets worse, and I choke, gasping desperately for air. My body struggles against the chair, my wrists raw from the ropes.

Her patience snaps. She pulls the knife away, only to slam it down into the arm of the chair, just inches from my hand. The loud crack of the wood splintering echoes in my ears, and I flinch so hard that the chair nearly tips over.

"You think I'm playing with you?" she spits.

She rips the knife free and drags the edge down my arm. Fire explodes along my skin as the blade cuts through. My entire body jolts with the pain. I try to scream, but the sound dies in my throat. My voice is gone—and I'm so, so afraid that it's for forever.

"Pathetic," she mutters. My chest is heaving, tears streaming down my face as I fight for air.

My lungs feel like they're collapsing. I gasp and choke, but the silence remains. My mind screams louder than ever, begging my body to let me speak. My throat burns so badly that even trying to breathe hurts. My hands twitch behind me, the ropes cutting into my skin as I try to pull free, but it's no use.

"If you're not going to talk, then you're worthless to me."

As she raises the knife again, I shut my eyes, bracing myself for either death or endless torture.

I wait. It feels like hours. I think of Gally and how our boat might return without me on it and that he will have to go through that. Of Thomas and how much I hope he finds Newt after this. Of Aris and hope he doesn't give up.

When she steps back out of nowhere, I slowly open my eyes. She seems to have changed her mind. "If you won't talk, maybe your friends up there will."

No. No, no, no. My heart lurches at her words. If she goes after them—if she hurts them—it'll be my fault. I have to do something. Anything.

But what can I do? My voice is gone, my body trembling and tied to this chair. My mind races for solutions, for a way out of this mess. She hasn't killed me yet, which means she's waiting for something. That hesitation could be my only chance.

"No?" She asks in a fake, sweet tone. "Why not? I barely hurt you, and you didn't even speak. I spared you, let alone them! I'm sure they're smarter."

Aris, maybe. Thomas will fight until either he or she is dead. Gally might've told me Thomas wants to save anyone he can, but with this obsession going on, he's ready to kill.

"I'm not sure if you're clever or stupid," she murmurs. "Or loyal to whatever you're trying to hide."

My fingers dig into the ropes behind me, twisting and straining against the rough material. The sharp sting of it hardly registers compared to the pain in my arm and throat. Slowly, carefully, I feel the slightest movement.

"Stay here, little mute," she says mockingly. Her boots echo as she disappears into the darkness, the faint creak of wood indicating she's opening something—a door, a hidden panel, I don't know. I don't think I'm in the same room as earlier.

My breaths come faster as I pull harder on the ropes. The burn in my wrists grows, but I don't stop. I can't stop. My hands tremble with the effort as I twist them, forcing the ropes to loosen, millimeter by millimeter.

It won't work. She's handy with this. Good with knots, good with the knife—too trained too escape. She knows what she's doing.

Panic won't save me now—logic will. My mind is a haze, but I push through it.

The ropes are tight, expertly tied. I take a deep breath, wincing at the sharp ache in my throat.

I twist my wrists slowly, testing the bindings. I try to catch the knot's position, its type. Based on the tension and the lack of give, it's likely a constrictor knot.

But even the most secure knots have weaknesses.

If I could get something sharp... no, she's keeping the knife and my weapons. My surroundings are dark. I brush my fingers against the back of the chair. Wood. Splinters. Maybe...

I shift slightly, careful not to make a sound. My fingertips graze the edge of the chair's frame. It's rough, uneven—perfect. If I can work the ropes against it, even for a few minutes, it might get damaged enough for me to slip free. But it'll take time.

Time I might not have.

I press the ropes against the rough edge, moving as subtly as I can. It resists at first, but I keep at it, sawing back and forth. Every movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my wrists, but I grit my teeth and keep going.

It's slow, agonizing work. The chair creaks faintly as my heart pounds along.

The fibers begin to fray. Not much, but enough to encourage me.

A snap. The rope weakens enough for me to twist my left wrist free. My heart races as I quickly use it to save my other arm. Everything aches while I stand up, but I don't waste a second. I've been through worse, I keep telling myself.

I search for a weapon. Not hard, considering there's a whole bunch of tools on a table. I don't want to know if the girl planned to use them on me—us.

My hand grips the handle of a knife. Slowly, I step towards the girl. She's out of sight, but I know she's there somewhere in the distance, about to let Aris and Thomas in. If I fight her just as she opens the trapdoor, maybe they can climb inside and help.

Something brushes against my leg as I bend down, walking through the first entrance. I plan to ignore it at first, but then it fully wraps around my ankle. I'm too weak to yelp as I get pulled onto the ground, into an even darker room, the air so tight that I realize it's just a tiny place.

I trash around to fight whoever that was. A hand slams against my mouth—not that it will change my ability of speaking, but it does tell me that maybe I shouldn't resist.

Are they saving me?