Chapter 10

Morning came, but it didn't bring relief. The air felt wrong, dense, and stagnant as if it was holding something in. Dust had settled into everything, into the cracks of the playground, into my skin, into the back of my throat. My nose ran constantly, irritated by the filth that had seeped into this place, into me. I wiped at it absently, my gaze drifting toward the grass. It was too green, too neat, too fake.

Ma once told me that real grass sparkled in the dark, that morning dew turned spiderwebs into tiny nets of diamonds. I remembered the way she said it, her voice warm, laced with quiet fascination.

That thought led me somewhere else, to a different memory. It had been raining. Not hard, just a steady drizzle, the kind that wrapped the world in a thin, persistent mist. I had left my bike outside, and when I went to get it, a spider had spun its web across the frame. I froze.

The sight of it—the way it just sat there—made my heart pound. I couldn't bring myself to touch it. I couldn't even get near it. Instead, I ran inside, breathless, searching for help.

The school security guard was an old man, his rectangular glasses perched precariously on his nose. He didn't seem surprised when I told him, just sighed, like this was some inevitable part of his job. When he walked back with me, his movements were careful, too careful, like he didn't want to do this any more than I did.

I expected him to handle it easily, but when he reached out, I noticed his hesitation. His hands trembled. His breath hitched. Then, his glasses fogged over.

I watched as he wiped them with his shirt, but when he pulled them back on, his eyes were different—glassy, distant. And then, to my absolute confusion, tears started rolling down his face.

I didn't understand it at the time. I thought he was crying because I was crying. But now, now I get it. Fear does things to people. It breaks them down in ways they don't expect. It makes them vulnerable in ways they didn't see coming. And sometimes, even if you think you're the only one afraid, you're not.

"We've made progress. Ten inches so far."

The woman sat at the control panel, her brown eyes catching the flickering lights of the sterile room. One hand hovered over a button, fingers light and deliberate, like she was considering a move in an unfinished game of chess. "He still has no idea what's happening to him."

The dim light cast sharp lines across the glass panes, reflecting the faintest trace of a smile curling at the edges of her mouth.

"Should we double it? Or triple it?" she mused, tilting her head ever so slightly. "I'd certainly prefer to have a little more fun."

Beside her, the man in the porcelain mask turned. His expression was unreadable beneath the featureless white surface, but his voice, low, measured, and absolute, cut through the stillness like a blade.

"Go on."

A soft click echoed as she pressed the button.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, the hum of machinery stirred beneath their feet. A sound so faint it barely existed at all—just a whisper of movement.

Until it wasn't.

The glass panes, once solid and unmoving, seemed to ripple, distorting the view of the ground below.

The light in the projection dimmed. The artificial grass shifted.

The walls, unchanging and unshaken, began pressing inward.

The man in the porcelain mask didn't move. He simply watched, his posture rigid and still, a silent figure at the edge of something inevitable.

The woman in red leaned back, satisfied. The game had just started.

At first, I only felt it.

A deep, rhythmic thrum, low and steady, like a heartbeat too large for a body. It wasn't just sound. It was movement.

The walls, those massive, immovable things that had loomed over me since the beginning, were closer.

I swallowed hard, something cold curling in my stomach.

This wasn't just confinement. This was a trap. A slow, deliberate, merciless trap.

The realization landed like a hammer to the chest. This place had never been static. It had always been shifting, changing, breathing. And now, now it was closing in.

Why?

Why me?

I was eight years old. I was nobody. What the hell had I done to deserve this?

Panic surged through me, hot and restless. My instincts screamed two options—fight back or run. But neither seemed like they would get me anywhere.

Maybe if I ignored it, pretended not to notice, it would stop.

Maybe if I confronted it, I could figure out how to make it stop.

Or maybe, just maybe, it didn't matter what I did.

Maybe it had already decided.

I scrambled back, movements jerky, breath coming in shallow bursts. My hands found the rough texture of the bench, fingers tightening around the edge like it could anchor me. But nothing could.

Not here. Not anymore.

Then, like clockwork,

The speakers crackled to life.

"Lunch time."

The words dripped into the silence like oil into water, warping everything around them.

A metallic hiss followed, and the same plate of moldy bread and jam slid out from the mouth of the slide.

The walls didn't stop moving.

I grabbed the plate, and shoved the food into my mouth, barely tasting it, barely feeling the stale bread scrape against the raw blister on my tongue. Every swallow burned.

The walls crept closer. Jack hadn't moved. He never moved. But now—

Now, he wasn't far.

Two feet away.

That's all that was left between us.

Two feet.

And shrinking.