Alya
I guess even if Hule and I had our ups and downs, I knew I still needed him. He was a real jerk most of the time, but he was the only one. Because if the others tried, Hule would teach them a lesson. Getting used to him being my shadow since kids made this whole new atmosphere like getting caught in a spider's cobweb thick enough, you could not feel your limbs. I was on my own now. Honestly, I always had been even when I tried to pretend otherwise. I clung to scraps of connection with the other guards, exchanging words when I could, if I wasn't being tortured with training or left to rot in my cell.
But those moments were hollow. Loneliness had a way of sinking into your bones, becoming part of the rhythm of your days. Weeks would pass like smoke through the bars, intangible and silent, but I held on. Somewhere in me, I always knew I'd get out. That belief, burned into me since I was twelve, kept me from unraveling because it was a routine. My routine I was familiar with.
So when I say I'm trying not to panic while staring into the eyes of a maniac, I mean I'm hanging on by threads, each second scraping at me. My heartbeat isn't just loud. It's riotous, like a warning bell tolling through my chest. I try to convince myself this was an error in the system, that I'll be punished like always for some imagined failure, that I would get isolated in my cell at the end of the day.
But no. This time is different. Siege isn't coming. And James Carrizo sensed that too.
So I bluffed. Because as time passes in a blur, getting sunken into his eyes which is unsettlingly turning brighter every second it slowly turns into a picture of a crazed man. Even if he was to try to draw this image he's attempting to imitate, there was not enough paint to cover the feral look in his eyes. If I was to survive another day, I had to convince myself Siege was coming or make myself look less weak. Meaning I had to learn a new routine. A warning would have been helpful, but life was structured with no warnings.
"Are you hungry?" the maniac suggested, turning his back to me as he strides to the seat at the end of the table, the moment shattering.
No, I wasn't hungry. I was desperate. My eyes flicker to the fish staring at me with glassy eyes, lifeless and accusing. The skin, half-charred and half-raw, peeled slightly at the edges, released a sour, metallic scent that made my stomach clench. The knife beside it glinted under the low amber light, all clean lines and cold intent. It looked almost expectant.
I could try.
People bare their true selves when danger brushes against their skin—not with words, but with instinct. The way their eyes sharpen or shatter. The twitch of a hand. The coil of a body preparing to run or strike. Fear strips away the mask. And fear never lies. The thought unfurled through me, slow and hot, igniting something deep in my limbs.
"I'm allergic to fish," I replied, my hand reaching the knife without hesitation, the handle cool and smooth beneath my fingers, grounding me in a decision I already made.
My heart didn't race. My breath didn't shake. Everything narrowed to him. The stretch of his side. The vulnerable side just beneath his ribs. In one swift movement, I lunged, blade angled sideways and precise towards that soft target. The blade, as predicted met resistance, its edge sinking in with a sickening slip that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room. The sound was visceral, wet and sharp, a sound that tasted of iron and fear, too loud for the quiet that had swallowed us. The air seemed to hold its breath before he moved.