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I try to laugh, but it hurts. “Isn’t that the game?”

They shut the current off.

The man in the suit leans in. “You can stop this anytime, Samuel. Just tell the truth.”

I look at him, the calm face, the steady hands. I want to hate him, but all I can feel is this sick admiration for the way he keeps his shit together.

I say nothing.

He nods, like he expected that.

“We’ll try again,” he says, and walks out of the circle. The masks reset, cycling through a new set of questions, more personal now: first crush, worst fear, most shameful secret. I answer when I can. Sometimes I lie, sometimes I tell the truth, but I can’t tell which is which after a while.

The lights pulse. The sound never stops. My world becomes this narrow tunnel of sensation, alternating pain and relief, pressure and release.

Time dies.

At some point, my chin drops to my chest. I can’t keep my eyes open. The voices become background, the questions blend together. I start to drift, my mind filling the blanks with anything it can grab: the suit guy’s face, the chill in the air, the way the maskers move in perfect unison.

I think I hallucinate, because at one point I see the man in the suit holding my head in his hands, pressing his forehead to mine, telling me, “You are almost ready.” Then he’s gone, and the pain returns, sharper this time, needle points of fire down my arm.

The last thing I hear before I lose it again is the hum of the light, cycling up to pure white. The masks close in, and the world disappears.

The next time I wake, I am aware of every inch of my body. The restraints have changed: tighter, less forgiving, the edges biting in with each attempt to flex. My arms are locked behind the chair, shoulders torqued at an unnatural angle, fingers going from tingling to numb.

My thighs are spread wide and cinched to cold metal. My head lolls forward, drool stringing from my chin to my chest. I try to raise it, but the muscles in my neck won’t obey. I am perfectly displayed, an object lesson in helplessness.

The lights are on full now, never flickering. I can see the other side of the sub-basement: empty but for an array of tools, carts, and the three masked figures who orchestrated my misery. They stand at parade rest, unmoving, waiting for something. The pain in my body is nothing compared to the ache in my brain—a deep, pounding hangover, threaded with spikes of nausea.

I try to breathe slow, but every inhale is a shudder. The air is so cold I can see it, fogging as I exhale.

Time passes, or maybe it doesn’t.

A new sound, this time boots on cement. Heavy. Each step deliberate.

The man in the suit appears at the edge of my vision, the rest of him now in the same black uniform and mask as the others, but his height and presence gives him away instantly. He is the only one who moves with real intent, hands behind his back, pacing a slow arc. He stops a few feet from me, looks me up and down, then gestures to the trio.

They converge. The left mask produces a clamp, the middle one a length of surgical tubing, the right one a syringe. I struggle, but nothing gives. The tubing wraps around my bicep, cutting off circulation, and the clamp bites into the skin above my wrist. The right mask finds a vein and pushes the plunger. I feel the ice of whatever’s in it before I see the world slow down.

The pain recedes, replaced by a numbness that’s almost pleasant. I can hear my heartbeat. I can see every breath of fog.

The man in the suit steps closer. He removes his mask, slow and deliberate, revealing that face again: hair short, jaw square, a scar under his left eye. His lips are thin, mouth set in a line that says, “fuck around and find out.” He kneels to eye level, taking my face in his gloved hand, thumb dragging the line of my jaw.

“Why do you keep resisting?” he asks, and this time there is no filter, just the raw baritone of his voice.

I try to spit at him, but my mouth is too dry. It comes out as a hiss.

He laughs, and it’s not cruel, just amused. He doesn’t let go of my face.

“You could make this easier,” he says, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “But you won’t.”

I glare at him. “Not built for easy.”

He cocks his head, as if genuinely interested. “What are you built for, Samuel?”

“Not you,” I say, and surprise myself with how much I mean it.

He leans in, lips an inch from my ear. “If you want to fight, I’ll make it worth your while.” The warmth of his breath makes my skin prickle.