Page 3 of Reckless: Corruption

The water drips—my own personal countdown timer. It’s brutally effective that way. I only drink when desperation drives me to lie beneath it, letting each drop hydrate me between bouts of unconsciousness. The water tastes metallic, carrying hints of rust and minerals that coat my tongue.

My bladder screams a desperate ping, but I hold out as long as I can. There’s something uniquely dehumanizing about performing basic functions for an unseen audience.

“You know,” I rasp, voice sandpaper-rough from disuse. My joints crack like stressed metal as I shift, each pop echoing in the damp air. “You could at least give me the courtesy of looking away while I pee.”

A shuffle in the darkness, like white noise in the system. Fabric rustling against stone. The almost imperceptible sound of someone holding their breath. I handle my business in the corner, preserving what fragments of dignity remain, before slumping back to the floor. The concrete is cold enough to burn, but I barely notice anymore. When I tip my head back to catch water drops, each feels like both salvation and submission.

“You’re welcome.” The voice that emerges from the shadows is distinctly feminine, carrying notes of boredom and world-weary cynicism that would make any therapist salivate. There’s a flatness to it, deliberate and practiced, like someone who’s learned emotions are best kept vacuum-sealed.

“Thank you?” I phrase it like a query seeking parameters, my heart rate picking up despite myself. Human contact after isolation hits like a drug, even from an unseen presence that could mean harm.

“I broke a pipe one floor up.” More movement, as though my observer wants to step into the light but can’t quite execute the command.

My eyes trace the industrial ceiling, following pipes and conduits that disappear into shadow, but the leak’s source remains encrypted. “No one noticed? It’s been days.”

“It’s been three days since you arrived, but only one day since Alexander’s first session with you.”

The words crash my mental processes, sending a wave of dizziness through me that has nothing to do with hunger or dehydration. Time down here doesn’t flow right. Like gravity’s off but for hours. I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. I’m clearly not built for this particular stress test.

“They haven’t even started yet,” she adds, inching closer to visibility.

“So you broke a pipe.” I focus on that bit of beautiful chaos rather than contemplate what yet implies, clinging to this scrap of conversation like a lifeline.

“They won’t notice for a few more days.” Her voice carries that special blend of boredom and menace that suggests she’s done this before. The words stretch and flatten, reminiscent of someone who finds humanity both exhausting and vaguely amusing. “When the water pressure bothers them enough.”

I snort despite myself, the sound turning into a pained cough that sends needles through my ribs. “Clever girl.”

“I like breaking things.”

Well, that’s not ominous at all.

“Don’t worry, I won’t break you.”

“Come into the light,” I urge, immediately feeling like every villain in every horror movie ever written. My fingers curl against the concrete, anticipation mingling with dread.

“Cameras.” One word, loaded with implications. Her shadow gestures upward, where the faint red light of a camera blinks like a mechanical eye.

“How unfortunate.” I try to match her deadpan delivery, though no one does dead inside quite like my mystery observer.

“I could take them out for you.”

The offer hangs in the air like an unexecuted command, vibrating with possibilities both threatening and liberating. Time to run a risky program. “Hi, I’m Cayenne Sterling.”

“Mona.” The name drops between us like a gauntlet. No last name offered, but none needed.

“Ah, so my sister.” I test the word like a bruise, probing for pain. “Where do I stand? Neutral territory? Do you hate me like Alexander? Like Roman?”

“I hate everyone equally.” More shuffling, and finally she edges into the dim light. Her outline emerges like a photograph developing—long dark hair, petite frame, features blurred by my concussion-addled vision. She moves with deliberate slowness, each step measured and precise, as though conserving energy for something more important than movement.

“Well, Mona-I-hate-everyone-equally. Same.” My stomach gnaws at itself, a rumble loud enough to echo, but I refuse to beg for food from my newly discovered sister.

“I could hate you less,” she muses, studying me with the detached interest of someone watching an animal in a zoo.

“What exactly are you doing down here?” I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn’t send pain shooting through some part of my body.

“Watching you.”

“Why?”

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