The steel cables of her willpower pulled tighter and tighter with every feral, animalistic growl clawing its way up from her stomach, stretching to the absolute breaking point. Starvation had mutated far beyond a mere hollow pang in her gut; it was now a sinister smoke actively gnawing at her mind and blurring her logic. That flawless tray on the table, that glass of crystal-clear water... Each one called out to her like a siren, lying in wait for her most vulnerable second to violently shatter her resistance. Serevia pressed her cracked lips together; defying the desert-like drought in her throat and the taste of rust coating her tongue, she slashed one final, broken, and furious glare at the "blessings" resting on the table.

  That glare harbored absolutely no desire, only pure terror and absolute distrust. This was the lethal allure of a poisoned apple; if she touched it, she would burn, and if she ate it, she would be entirely eradicated.

  She violently wrenched her body around with a sudden, razor-sharp motion. She turned her back entirely on the table, on that intoxicating aroma, and on the lethal possibilities. Anchoring her vision strictly to the blank white wall, she desperately thrashed to scrub the spiced scent of meat flooding her nostrils from her mind. Hauling the quilt over her shoulder and pulling it completely over her head, she entirely severed herself from the outside world, from that tray, and from the Leader's looming shadow.

  This time, the darkness waited for her like a welcoming embrace. Her mind utterly failed to resist any longer. One... Two... Three... And her consciousness plummeted like a dead stone straight into that deep, dreamless, pitch-black void.

  Time completely lost its meaning inside this windowless cell where day and night violently bled into one another, mutating into a fluid nothingness. While Serevia remained lost in the crushing depths of that death-like slumber lasting for hours, her body fought a silent, desperate war to repair itself. The razor-sharp agony aching in her bones had dulled, surrendering its ground to a far more tolerable, blunt exhaustion. Her fever had broken, and the murky fog choking her mind had finally begun to clear.

  Yet this peaceful, numb state of absolute nothingness was violently shattered by the only reality left in the room: that metallic sound.

  The cold, mechanical grind of the key turning in the lock sliced through the silence like a physical blade. Serevia's eyelids fluttered open with the violently trembling reflex of a cornered animal sensing pure danger. Fueled by that sound, the heavy daze of sleep instantly surrendered to a freezing, violent surge of adrenaline. As the cold sweat pooling on her forehead carved a path down her temple into the pillow, she ruthlessly anchored her gaze to the door.

  The heavy metal door violently ground inward, groaning against its hinges.

  The silhouette materializing on the threshold was the exact shadow ripped straight from Serevia's nightmares. The Leader stood anchored there like a stone statue, wielding his pitch-black, flawless uniform, his expressionless mask, and the suffocating, absolute authority that entirely choked the room.

  Confronted by this visage, the young girl violently shuddered in the bed as if struck by a lethal electrical charge. Her narrowed eyes, still thrashing to adjust to the light, blew wide open. Why the hell was he here? What did he want now? Had he returned to violently snatch back the frail life he had spared mere hours ago, or had he come to fill the blanks beneath that unfinished "you are useful" sentence?

  Serevia violently scrambled backward in the bed, fiercely crushing the sheets. She didn't stop until her spine slammed brutally against the cold metal headboard of the cot. She hauled her legs up toward her stomach and pressed her knees tightly against her chest; shrinking her body down, she actively shifted into a defensive stance, hiding entirely behind the quilt and her own bones. Beneath the covers, she clenched her hands into white-knuckled fists; her nails bit deeply into her palms, and every single muscle pulled violently taut like a drawn bowstring.

  The Leader's ice-blue eyes ruthlessly locked onto the girl cowering in the corner of the bed, glaring back at him exactly like a wounded feral cat ready to snarl.

  Serevia's gaze harbored pure terror, yes; but absolutely no surrender. If this man sheathed in black had truly come to finish the job he left undone, to finally rip the life from her lungs, she would ensure he didn't do it easily. She ground her teeth together, held her breath, and braced herself for the impending strike. The air in the room violently thickened, and every passing second began to stretch into an agonizing century.

  The Leader carried the heavy, crushing echo of his combat boots against the floor all the way to the dead center of the room. Without tearing his eyes away from Serevia for a single millisecond, he strode directly toward the solitary, metal-framed chair resting before the table. The high-pitched, ear-shredding screech of the chair's legs violently grinding against the smooth flooring sliced through the lethal silence inside like a physical blade. That sound pulled Serevia's frayed nerves even more violently taut, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

  The man settled into the chair with a slow, utterly commanding motion, acting exactly as if taking his rightful place upon a throne. The fabric of his black uniform pulled taut, and the leather rigging emitted a faint, heavy creak. He rested his elbow against the rigid surface of the table, directly beside the entirely untouched tray. Propping his black-gloved hand beneath his chin, he tilted his head slightly to the side. This posture radiated no overt threat, no blinding fury, and absolutely no rushed execution decree. Only the glacial, soulless curiosity and absolute patience of a scientist dissecting a lab rat entirely dominated his stance. He didn't break his position; he remained as motionless as a stone gargoyle, as silent as a gravestone.

  Those ice-blue irises burning behind his visor stared with a stagnant, relentless focus, thrashing to violently pierce Serevia's soul and extract every single thought, every drop of terror from her mind with absolute precision.

  Cowering in the corner of the bed with her spine violently braced against the iron bars, Serevia ground her teeth together to keep from being completely pulverized beneath the crushing weight of his gaze. She met the masked gargoyle across from her with the exact same rigidity, hurling an even sharper expression right back at him. Tearing her eyes away equated to absolute weakness, and Serevia violently refused to shrink down or play the prey for this man in this room ever again.

  The gears inside her mind ground together with the deafening roar of rusted iron. Why had he come? What was his absolute purpose? Had he violently changed his mind at the last second? Had that "you are useful" verdict been completely shattered and replaced with a freshly written death warrant? Or did he simply extract a sadistic thrill from watching this absolute helplessness, this pure terror, from witnessing the final spark of hope violently extinguish in his victim's eyes?

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Yet her feral instincts, her deeply ingrained survival drive, actively whispered that this setup was no execution. If the Leader truly intended to pull the trigger, he would have done it the exact second he stepped through that door, entirely bypassing the act of sitting in that chair or adopting such a casual stance. Sarcos executioners absolutely refused to lock eyes with their victims; they merely eradicated them. This silent duel, this mutual dissection, heralded a war infinitely more complex and deeply psychological than the blunt end of a barrel.

  The minutes melted away, stretching into agonizing hours. The air inside the room violently thickened, the tension swelling into a palpable, suffocating density. Only the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of his breath pulling through the mask remained audible.

  The Leader tore his gaze from the girl's face for a fraction of a heartbeat, dropping his focus onto the table, onto the plate that still steamed but had begun to bleed its heat. He swept his eyes over the plate, the tines of the fork, the entirely untouched bread, and the full glass of water. Beneath his mask, that unseen yet palpably mocking smirk violently reclaimed its place on his lips. When he raised his head and locked back onto Serevia, he became the first to violently shatter the silence.

  "Your stomach is practically glued to your spine from starvation..." His voice, bleeding through the mask's filters, rang metallic and muffled, yet terrifyingly clear. "Yet you haven't laid a single finger on that plate."

  He tore his gaze away from the meat stew rapidly losing its heat on the table, its fat already beginning to congeal, and violently locked onto the trembling body cowering in the corner of the bed. The profound silence radiating from behind his mask violently thickened the air in the room, warping every single second into absolute torture. His gloved fingers twitched slightly beneath his chin; the microscopic motion signaled a calculated dissection, perhaps even absolute patience. The raspy resonance tearing from his throat bled through the mask's filters and flooded the room.

  "While a hot meal rests right in front of you..." he murmured, his voice low but resonating with a frequency that violently penetrated every corner of the cell. "...you actively choose to watch your stomach digest its own bones."

  He paused for a brief, agonizing heartbeat, driving his gaze straight into the absolute depths of the girl's eyes.

  "Why exactly did you refuse to touch your plate?"

  Serevia knew the absolute answer to this question hid entirely within the dense cloud of pure distrust hanging suspended in the air.

  Tearing her eyes away from the man's ice-blue irises, she swept her gaze over the pale, white walls of the room and the metallic surface of the locked door. Every single corner, every microscopic detail actively screamed that she was trapped inside a cage, being monitored exactly like a lab rat. When she violently snapped her gaze back to that pitch-black silhouette, that absolute monument of authority, a feral spark of defiance intertwined with her terror.

  "The reason..." she hissed, her voice spilling from her scorched throat like a jagged, ragged whisper. "...isn't it absolutely obvious, Leader? Or are you simply playing dumb?"

  Not a single millimeter of the man's posture broke; he offered absolutely no reaction. He acted exactly as if he fully anticipated this frail fury, this paranoid backlash. Although unseen, the lips behind his mask had undoubtedly settled into that terrifyingly familiar, nerve-shredding flat line.

  "Is it an absolute habit of yours..." he murmured, heavily emphasizing every single syllable as he ground them out. "...to answer my questions with another question every single time... Serevia?"

  Her name... That name again.

  The specific way her own name bled from this man's lips violently triggered a bizarre, indescribable resonance inside Serevia's mind. Even heavily filtered through the mechanical, freezing cold of his mask, a bizarre, sinister gravity actively hijacked his tone. The word "Serevia" spilling from his mouth felt less like a mere name and entirely like an absolute declaration of ownership, perhaps carrying a pitch-black, underlying implication she utterly failed to decipher. This form of address violently stoked the terror burning inside the young girl, yet it simultaneously tied a bizarre, nameless knot deep in her stomach. It was utterly terrifying, yet also damnedly... captivating.

  Her willpower shattering, the young girl snapped her gaze toward the metal tray on the table in a split-second reflex, locking onto the meal slowly bleeding its heat. The predator sitting across from her easily caught this fugitive glance, drenched in both raw desire and absolute terror.

  The Leader flawlessly read the violent tremor starvation had carved into her body, that desperate, magnetic pull. He viewed this entire spectacle as nothing more than a crude biological necessity, a tedious equation demanding a solution. If he truly intended to slaughter this girl, this wretched street rat, he absolutely wouldn't resort to cowardly, convoluted methods like poison. He would simply pull the trigger and finish the job. The sheer paranoia infecting his victim's mind actively insulted his logic.

  He halted the breath hissing behind his mask for a fraction of a heartbeat, before letting his glacial voice flood the room.

  "You have no reason to fear... I haven't grown pathetic enough to lace your food with poison just yet, little thief."

  He hurled those final two words—heavily weaponizing that label "thief"—straight across the girl's face like a physical slap, dripping with mocking dominance.

  Serevia violently straightened her spine against the mattress the exact second that accusation, that degrading label, struck her. The crushing lethargy of starvation and sickness vanished for a fleeting heartbeat, violently surrendering to pure, unadulterated fury. She drove her eyes straight into the man's soulless mask and hissed her retort like a cornered viper snapping into a defensive coil.

  "I am no thief!"

  The Leader refused to shift a single millimeter in his chair. He merely tilted his head slightly to the side, dissecting her frail denial with the stagnant gaze burning behind his visor. His voice harbored not a single microscopic crumb of emotion; he merely delivered a cold, immutable reality.

  "You are. Your denial does not alter the truth."

  The young girl violently dropped her shoulders, the feral fire in her eyes drowning beneath a profound, pitch-black grief. She tore her gaze away from the man's face and anchored it to the sterile, freezing floor. Her lips trembled. Swallowing this brand, especially after she had lost absolutely everything, actively shredded her soul. Yet she desperately thrashed to scream what true theft actually meant, to hurl exactly who had stolen what from whom right back in his face.

  She slowly raised her head. Hot tears flooded her eyes, yet her glare sharpened into a razor edge. Her voice barely exceeded a whisper, but the words violently tore from her mouth like pure venom.

  "I am no viler than you... You are the true thieves! You stole my brother!" She faltered for a fraction of a second. Forcing those words into the air physically agonized her, but she absolutely had to smash that reality straight into his face. "Did you forget, Leader?"

  She wielded that title at the end of her sentence not as a mark of respect, but as a violent accusation hurled directly across his face. Her voice might have fractured, yet a suppressed, razor-honed fury actively thrashed beneath it. The Leader refused to break his rigid composure against this strike. He offered absolutely no answer. He hadn't personally ripped her brother from that crowd, perhaps, but he stood as the absolute incarnation of the will that had issued the order. Sarcos's stale, immutable excuse ghosted through his mind: "Treatment." In truth, that word functioned as nothing more than a hollow shroud for the pitch-black void where those taken never returned. Exactly what happened to them or where they vanished remained a total mystery. And he possessed absolutely zero answers to offer the girl, nothing to bridge that yawning abyss.

  As the Leader maintained his absolute silence against Serevia's razor-sharp, accusatory outburst, he slowly raised his hands toward the black oxygen mask suffocating his face. The young girl froze completely solid the exact second she watched his fingers begin to unfasten the metallic clips on the sides of the mask. She choked back her breath, her mind violently thrashing to comprehend the absolute madness of this maneuver.

  This was pure suicide. Absolutely no one breathing within the borders of Sarcos would ever dare drag a single breath into their lungs without a mask. Flooding the lungs without those filters would scorch internal organs exactly as if they were bathed in acid, violently executing a person within seconds as they vomited blood. Yet he didn't hesitate for a single heartbeat.