Page 18 of Heresy
Their voices join mine in a low, guttural chorus.
Not shout or celebration, but something deeper—sound of promise sealed in tomb, acknowledgment of shared damnation that binds us beyond law or conventional morality.
"What is done in blood, is bound in silence."
The words hang in the air like incantation, a sacred vow that transforms every man in this room into a guardian of secrets that could destroy us all. But also promise that what happens within these walls remains within these walls, protected by loyalty that operates beyond rational self-interest.
Glass touches lips, whiskey burns throats.
And somewhere above us, in the concrete cell I've claimed as my personal domain, a ghost waits in darkness.
My ghost now.
Mine to break, mine to keep, mine to understand.
The splinter works deeper, but now it serves my purposes.
Now it has official sanction.
Now I can indulge whatever psychological need drives me toward her without compromising authority or revealing weakness.
I have transformed obsession into duty.
And duty, unlike desire, is something a king can acknowledge without shame.
SEVEN
THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD
VERA
The sound of the bolt is a physical thing—metallic thunder that slams into my bones, a shockwave of finality. I stand frozen in the sudden, oppressive darkness, listening to the frantic percussion of my own heart, a drumbeat so loud it seems impossible the entire building can't hear my psychological disintegration. For uncounted time, I exist suspended between those heartbeats, my reality reorganizing itself around a new truth: I am property.
Eventually, the adrenaline recedes, leaving behind a deep, numbing cold. My legs begin to shake. I slide down the wall until I'm a heap of violated architecture, arms wrapped around my knees. The concrete ridges bite into my spine, a welcome pain—proof that some sensations still belong to me.
The panicked, screaming part of my brain wants to take over, to beat my fists against the steel door until my bones break. But the other part—the ghost that has kept me breathing for two years—calmly pushes it aside.
Okay,the quiet voice says with clinical precision.Analyze. Survive.
My mind snaps into focus, a machine designed for crisis management. It begins to catalog, to map the terrain, fighting back the tide of helpless terror through systematic analysis.
Fact one: I am alive. The decision to preserve rather than eliminate me is a data point. It speaks to a value I possess, even if that value remains undefined.
Fact two: I am a prisoner. This is a concrete box designed for human storage. The walls are engineered to absorb screams, the door constructed to prevent escape, the window barred with iron that has witnessed too many desperate prayers.
Fact three: He controls every variable. Hex—the man with dead eyes and ghosts he claims dwarf my own—holds absolute power over my continued existence.
This is the survival mechanism learned through necessity, the mental discipline that transforms a victim into a strategist.
Hours pass, or maybe minutes. The gray light from the high window fades to black. Just as I wonder if they plan to starve me, a harsh grating sound rips through the silence. A small slot at the bottom of the door slides open. A plastic tray is shoved through, skidding across the floor.
A sandwich wrapped in plastic. A bottle of water.
The slot screeches shut. I stare at the tray on the floor—not a meal, but sustenance for a lab rat. Revulsion churns in my stomach, but the ghost is ruthless.
Eat,it commands.Food is fuel. Fuel is strength. Strength is the only weapon they haven't confiscated.
My hands shake as I unwrap the sandwich. It tastes like cardboard and despair, but I force down every bite. I drink all the water. This is how dignity dies—one necessary compromise at a time.
