Captive

I woke with a start, the damp chill of the room crawling up my spine like an unwelcome hand. Darkness clung to the edges of my vision, thick and suffocating, like a fog pressing in from all sides. For a moment, I couldn't breathe—my lungs refused to expand, caught in the grip of invisible panic.

My head throbbed—each pulse sharp, jagged, and rhythmic—reminding me that I wasn't where I should be. The pain pulsed in time with my heartbeat, each beat a cruel drum that echoed inside my skull.

I blinked, forcing my eyes to adjust, trying to make sense of the blackness that wrapped around me. The faint sound of my breathing was unnervingly loud, each inhale shallow and ragged, breaking the silence like a whisper shouted in a tomb. Every breath seemed to echo off unseen walls, making the stillness feel heavier.

I strained to listen for anything beyond the hum of the vent, but all I could hear was the faint drip of water somewhere in the corner, a sound that only heightened the eerie quietness surrounding me.

I tried to move, but my limbs felt like they'd been carved from stone, too heavy, too numb to respond. My muscles ached, sharp pangs flaring through my body from lying on the thin mattress beneath me—barely softer than the cold concrete floor.

The texture of the bed was unyielding, and I could feel the roughness against my skin, like it was digging into me. I turned my head slowly, trying to focus.

Jason.

He lay beside me, his body stretched out on the mattress, his face twisted in pain. His features were locked in grim determination, his body stiff and unmoving, as if caught in the grip of something far worse than mere sleep.

I reached out with a trembling hand and touched his arm, expecting warmth, some sign that he was still with me. He was warm, but the comfort I hoped for didn't come. Instead, dread began to seep into me, thick and suffocating.

Where were we?

How had we ended up here?

The thought crept into my mind like a shadow, cold and insistent—Job. His calm voice. The envelope. My mother's trust.

Had it all been a trap?

Panic surged in my chest, rising like a tide, and just as I opened my mouth to call out—

The door creaked open.

I froze.

The masked figure stepped closer, his boots echoing on the cold concrete floor. Each movement was deliberate, measured. The medical kit he carried rattled softly with every step, like a warning. The light above flickered briefly, casting long shadows across the floor, making his figure seem even more imposing. 

"Don't try to move," he said, his voice flat, unemotional, as though it had been forged from stone.

I wanted to scream, to fight, but my body betrayed me. It was like my skin was made of lead, too heavy to lift, and the weight of fear held me in place, paralyzing me. I couldn't make a sound. I couldn't escape.

He knelt beside me, his movements precise and clinical, as if performing a routine. I flinched as his hand touched my side, the sting of antiseptic flaring through my skin. Still, I couldn't pull away. I couldn't speak. All I could do was watch, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

When he finished, he paused, studying me in silence. The mask hid his expression, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—seemed to pierce through me, looking straight into the depths of my soul.

Then, almost to himself, he murmured, "Your mother knew I'd come back for you."

The words hit me like a slap, sending a shiver down my spine, my heart skipping a beat. They were nothing more than an eerie whisper, but they left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Before I could respond, the door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the room like a distant thunderclap. Silence swallowed the space immediately, too loud, too empty.

And I was left there, trapped in that silence, with the lingering echo of his voice ringing in my ears—and a thousand questions I didn't know how to ask.

Jason stirred beside me with a low groan, his eyes fluttering open, dazed and unfocused. The dim light flickering above us, caught on the sweat lining his brow.

His breath came in shallow gasps as he fought to steady himself, his body trembling with exertion. I watched as his hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, before pushing himself to his feet. But even then, he swayed, a man caught between strength and weakness.

The familiar confidence in his movements was gone, replaced with a raw, vulnerable pain. I wanted to reach out, to help, but my own body was betraying me.

"Where the hell are we?" he rasped, his voice hoarse with exhaustion, rough as gravel.

I pushed myself upright, the pain in my side flaring up like a fresh wound. I swallowed, trying to steady my breath. "I don't know," I whispered, watching him scan the room.

He turned to me, his eyes frantic—wide, searching—fear flickering through the pain like a storm barely contained. "Janica... are you okay?" he asked, his voice breaking just slightly, the sound raw and desperate.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The words clung to the back of my throat like ash. I nodded weakly instead, my body trembling from the effort. But even that felt like a lie. I wasn't okay. Neither of us were.

He lingered on my face for a moment longer, as if trying to read beyond what I couldn't say, then turned away with a frustrated grunt. His jaw clenched as he looked around, taking in our prison with growing anger.

The room was bare—cold, concrete walls that seemed to press in on us, a bucket of water in one corner, and a steel door with no handle on our side. Above, a small square vent hummed softly, but otherwise, the room was nothing more than a prison—silent, empty, suffocating. No windows. No cameras. Just four walls and a ceiling that felt like it was closing in on us.

He dragged himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his body fought against the pain. His face twisted in frustration, eyes burning with fury. "Job," he muttered, his voice thick with anger. "That bastard—he drugged us."

His anger was palpable, the fury simmering beneath his every movement. His fists collided with the door, and the sound of metal against bone reverberated through the room. Each blow seemed to shake the very foundation of the space.

I could see his muscles tensing with every strike, the strain written across his face. But he didn't stop—he couldn't. His voice, hoarse and broken, rang out again, louder this time.

"Open this damn thing! You hear me?!"

I flinched at the sound, my heart pounding in my chest. "Jason—"

But he didn't stop. His fists continued to strike the door, his voice growing more desperate, more frantic with every word. "You think this'll hold me?! You think I won't find you?!"

Then it happened.

A soft click. A low, mechanical whine, like the groan of some ancient, twisted machine, coming from the ceiling.

And then—pain.

 It was like the air itself turned against him. The first pulse of agony hit him like a lightning bolt, a white-hot streak of fire that tore through his skull.

His body jerked, and I could see the shock in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe what was happening to him. His breath hitched as he staggered back, knees buckling slightly.

I froze, watching helplessly, my heart slamming against my ribcage. I could hear him gasping for air, his fists clenched at his sides, his entire frame locked in place as the pain began to ripple through him.

His body trembled, and I could feel it—like the air had thickened, pressing down on both of us, making it hard to breathe.

His voice cracked—low and strained, barely a whisper, but somehow louder than everything around us.

"Janica…"

I wanted to scream, to run to him, but my own body felt like it was made of lead. I could only watch as he fell to his knees, his eyes wide with terror.

I could see him fighting it, every muscle in his body straining as if he was being torn apart from the inside. The agony twisted his features, and I could hear his breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

I couldn't move. The pain in his eyes, the helplessness in his voice—everything inside me screamed to reach out, but I was frozen.

I watched him fall forward, his body going limp as the tremors racked through him. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped. Jason was left there, sprawled on the cold concrete floor, his body still trembling as if the shock waves were still running through him.

Silence descended, thick and heavy.

I was still frozen, my heart pounding in my chest, unable to do anything but breathe in the suffocating quiet that followed. The room felt colder somehow, emptier. And the weight of it, the weight of everything, pressed down on me harder than I could bear.

Then came the voice.

Calm. Cold. Disembodied. A presence in the room that wasn't there, but somehow, it was everywhere.

"The louder you get, the worse it becomes."