Page 27 of Heresy
TESTING THE KING
VERA
It is Day Eight, or maybe Nine. I no longer measure time in sunrises, but in the shifts of my own internal landscape. My routine has changed. I am no longer just a survivor, enduring. I am a performer on a very small, very cold stage.
The ghost in my head that commands survival has a new mantra:He is watching. Make him see.
I know he is. The small, dark dome in the corner of the ceiling—the zookeeper's eye—is a constant, silent presence. So I give it a show.
I begin with my body, the only territory that is still mine. Every movement is a message. My muscles scream in protest as I force them into push-ups, the floor a sheet of ice against my palms. The bite mark on my shoulder ignites with a fresh, hot pain with every repetition, a fiery reminder of the stakes. He wants to see me broken. I will show him the anatomy of a thing that refuses to shatter. Sit-ups follow until my core is a knot of fire, each contraction a silent "fuck you" aimed at the unblinking lens.
When my body can do no more, I begin the work on my mind. I sit on the cot, my back ramrod straight, and stare at the blank concrete wall. But I am not seeing concrete. I amrebuilding my art, a gallery inside my own skull. I reconstruct a photograph of a rusted ship's chain, focusing on every fleck of oxidation, the way the low sun turned the corrosion into a deep, bloody crimson. It is a meditation. It is a refusal. I am consciously projecting a strength I'm not sure I possess.
The harsh grate of the metal slot at the bottom of the door announces the morning meal. I expect the usual: a dry sandwich in institutional plastic, a bottle of water. Routine. Sustenance.
But today is different.
The plastic tray slides across the floor. Alongside the familiar bottle is the same sandwich, but next to it sits a single, perfect, red apple. It shines under the dim gray light, a drop of impossible color in my monochrome world.
My first reaction is a jolt of pure, animal surprise. But the ghost is faster. It smothers the feeling with cold, hard analysis.
This is not a kindness. This is a move.
Dmitri used to do this. A small, perfect gift after a night of silent, terrifying punishment. A gesture designed to confuse, to create a debt, to make the victim grateful for the briefest reprieve. It is the first step in conditioning an animal: a crumb of reward for still being alive. He is testing me, trying to see if I am a dog that can be trained with small treats.
My hand is steady as I reach for the tray. The apple feels heavy, real. A poisoned gift. I lift it to my lips, my eyes finding the dark, smoked-glass dome in the corner. I take a slow, deliberate bite. The crunch is loud in the silence. The juice is sweet on my tongue, a burst of flavor after days of cardboard.
I eat every last piece. Let him see me take the fuel he provides. He thinks he is laying a trap. He doesn't understand. I am gathering my strength. And I will use it against him.
The game has changed.
Hours after the morning tray,long after I've finished my brutal routine, the silence is broken by the harsh scrape of the bolt. It's the wrong time. My body tenses, coiled, but I force myself to remain seated on the cot, a queen on a makeshift throne.
The heavy steel door swings inward. It's not a guard. It's Hex.
He steps inside, his combat boots echoing on the concrete, and the door closes behind him. The sound of the lock turning is a final, metallic click that seals us in together. He’s not the enraged animal from the hallway; he's the calculating King, dressed in a clean, dark t-shirt that does nothing to hide the solid muscle of his chest and shoulders. This version of him is infinitely more terrifying.
In his hand, he holds a book. He moves with a deliberate precision that feels like a performance. He stops before me, close enough that I can smell the faint, clean scent of soap and the ever-present undertones of whiskey and leather.
I watch his hand—a hand capable of such brutal violence, the one that slammed me against the wall—as he runs a thumb over the embossed title on the book's cover.The Americans. Robert Frank.It’s a key to a room in my mind, and his expression says he knows it. He knows this is the art I love, the kind of brutal, honest beauty I tried to create. This knowledge is a violation all its own.
He leans down, not looking at me, and places the heavy book on the foot of my cot. The placement is not a gentle offering; it's a strategic move, a claim staked in the center of my territory. Only then do his eyes lift to mine, cold and analytical, gauging my reaction.
My voice is a dry rasp, but I force the words out. "What is this?"
He turns his head slightly, his gaze unblinking. "Sustenance," he says, the word a low rumble.
"I don't want anything from you." The lie feels thin, brittle, and we both know it.
A slow, cold smile touches his lips. He reaches out, not to me, but to the thin gold chain around my neck—a cheap thing I bought for myself eight months ago, a small symbol of the new life I was starting. His fingers brush against my skin, a touch as cold as his smile, and with a single, sharp tug, he snaps the delicate chain. He doesn't look at the small pendant as it falls into his palm. He closes his fist around it.
"You already have it," he says, his voice flat.
The words are a chilling clarification; he's not talking about the book. He means his attention, the full, suffocating weight of his obsession. It’s not a gift I can refuse, but a sentence I am already serving.
Without waiting for my reaction, he turns and heads for the door, swinging it open. He unlocks it, steps through, and closes it without a backward glance.
The bolt slides home with a deafeningTHUD.
