I couldn't breathe when her question slipped into my ears. It echoed through my skull again and again, digging for the answer I didn't want to give. What was I supposed to say? Should I stay calm? Should I panic?
My throat tightened as I tried to steady myself, remembering how I felt each time I stood beside a human body on an operating table, their bare chest rising and falling under the dim surgical light. I would breathe slowly, lock in, press the scalpel between my fingers with a steady grip.
But those patients never woke up swinging. They never opened their eyes to kill me.
Here… every word I spoke could decide whether I walked away alive or became her toy again. Even silence felt dangerous. She was too clever, too calculating, too practiced in peeling apart lies from truth. If I hesitated too long, she would read everything from my eyes alone.
My lungs burned, refusing to pull air.
