Chapter Nineteen: The Five-Day Trial

The first day, they stripped him of his name.

The second, they stripped him of his sight.

The third, they stripped him of his sanity.

By the fourth day, Zeke could barely tell if he was awake or dreaming. The walls of his cell were the same slate gray, unyielding. The single light overhead flickered inconsistently, but the real torture wasn't the isolation. It was the way the shadows moved when they weren't supposed to.

He had been in interrogations before.

He knew how this worked.

But the DNHA didn't play by normal rules.

They didn't demand answers with brute force—not at first. They used time. They let it drip through his skull like leaking water, pooling inside him, drowning him in something he couldn't quite name.

The first time they asked about Tara, they acted as if they were giving him a choice.

"She's not one of you," the Ordie official had murmured, smooth as a blade. "We know that much."

Zeke didn't answer.

He had learned early on that silence was a better weapon than a lie.

The official leaned back, expression unreadable. "She has power, doesn't she?"

Zeke barely moved, barely breathed.

He thought of Talulah.

The way she would visit his dreams, leaving behind puzzle pieces of things yet to come.

Tara is necessary, Talulah had told him once. She will bring peace or war.

But now, with the weight of DNHA chains biting into his skin, Zeke wasn't sure which path Tara would take.

And that was what frightened him most.

The interrogator exhaled, disappointed. "Fine. We have other ways of making you talk."

⸻

Zeke's head lolled forward, his breath uneven as blood dripped sluggishly from his split lip. He was tired—beyond tired—his body worn down to nothing but raw nerve endings and a skull full of fractured thoughts. The room smelled of sweat, metal, and something acrid.

He had lost track of time days ago.

The DNHA interrogation chamber was windowless, sterile, and designed for breaking people down. The chair beneath him was slick with his own sweat, the dampers in the room ensuring he was completely powerless. Talulah felt so far away, though he had tried reaching for her in his mind countless times. Nothing but silence.

That was the worst part.

That, and the fact that his captors weren't asking the usual questions anymore.

Tara Stele.

That was all they cared about now.

A different Ordie official sat across from him today. A woman this time—short-cropped hair, eyes as flat and lifeless as the fluorescent lights overhead. She was patient, tapping a pen against the table in slow, rhythmic beats.

"Let's start again," she said, her voice calm, almost bored. "What do you know about the girl?"

Zeke exhaled heavily through his nose, rolling his split lip between his teeth. He had been here long enough to know how this game worked.

They let you answer first. If they didn't like what you gave them, they took something away.

Food. Water. A few layers of skin.

So far, he still had all his fingers. That meant they weren't desperate yet.

He smirked at her, ignoring the sharp sting in his cheek. "You mean Ballad? Lottie? Talulah? Gonna have to be a little more specific, lady."

The woman didn't react. "Tara Stele."

Zeke stretched as much as his restraints allowed. "Don't know her."

The woman sighed, like he was a child throwing a tantrum. Then she gestured over her shoulder.

The guards standing behind him shifted, and suddenly, white-hot pain exploded across Zeke's ribs.

The baton struck hard—one, two, three times.

Zeke clenched his teeth, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

They were getting sloppier. Less patient. That meant they were running out of time.

Good.

The woman tapped her pen again, waiting for him to compose himself. "You're strong," she admitted. "Most people talk by now."

Zeke let out a slow breath through his nose. "Lucky for me, I'm not most people."

She studied him, lips pursed. Then she leaned forward, voice dropping just slightly. "Your crew is in deep. You know that, don't you?"

Zeke remained silent.

The woman tilted her head. "Do you think Ballad will survive when we come for her next?"

Something inside Zeke went very, very still.

The woman smiled faintly, reading his expression with ease.

"Or maybe you're more worried about Talulah."

His stomach twisted.

She knew.

Zeke forced himself to breathe evenly, not to react.

The woman leaned back, watching him carefully. "Tell me what you know about Tara Stele, and we don't have to find out how strong Talulah's vocal cords really are."

Fuck.

His pulse roared in his ears.

He didn't know Tara. Not really.

But Talulah did.

And Talulah had said Tara was necessary.

So Zeke did what he did best.

He smirked at the woman, letting blood stain his teeth. "Go to hell."

The woman didn't react. She simply stood up, smoothed her uniform, and left the room.

The guards followed, and the door sealed shut behind them.

Zeke exhaled shakily. His ribs ached, but he didn't regret it.

He had survived another round.

But how much longer could he keep this up?

His throat was dry, his limbs too weak.

They would be back soon. They always came back.

And if they started going after the crew—Talulah—

His fingers curled into fists.

He had to hold out.

For her.

For whatever the hell she saw in Tara.

For the crew.

⸻

Day Five of Interrogation

Zeke had lost all sense of time.

The lights never dimmed. The pain never stopped.

Food and water came in inconsistent intervals—just enough to keep him from slipping into unconsciousness, never enough to grant him strength.

They had given up on the guards. They had moved on to psychological torture.

Hallucinations.

Whispers in the dark.

A slow, steady erasure of his own mind.

And then—

He felt it.

Before the door even opened, a pressure filled the room.

His skin crawled.

His vision blurred at the edges.

The metal walls groaned under the weight of an unseen force.

A dark, slow thrum pulsed through Zeke's veins, his body instinctively reacting to something it could not fight.

And then, he turned the corner.

President Bailon.

Zeke's body locked up.

The room seemed to dim around him, as if Bailon's presence had swallowed every flickering light.

He wasn't tall. He wasn't particularly strong-looking.

But he was wrong.

Zeke had met plenty of Fluorescents before. They radiated warmth, a sort of ethereal, comforting glow.

Bailon's glow was manufactured.

It was forced.

A fluorescent light, humming, too perfect—like something trying too hard to be human.

Bailon stopped just before him, hands folded behind his back. His expression was neutral, but the air around him felt like drowning.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Tell me what you know..."

His voice was calm. Smooth.

Then his head tilted, just slightly, and his next words slithered through the air like venom.

"Or everyone you even slightly care about will die."

The room grew unbearably heavy.

Zeke's heart slammed against his ribs.

His breath turned shallow.

For the first time in five days—

Fear truly took hold.