Page 10 of Heresy
My captor steers me toward a staircase at the back of the room.
Cast iron and oak that rises into shadows like a Jacob's ladder in reverse—architectural metaphor for journey not toward heaven, but deeper into whatever hell these men have constructed from loyalty and violence. Each step takes me further from ground level, further from any possibility of escape, deeper into a vertical kingdom that exists outside the law.
I can feel the eyes of every man in the room following our ascent.
Their attention is physical weight that makes each step feel like walking through deep water, atmospheric pressure that increases with altitude rather than decreasing. Second floor. Third floor. Fourth floor. Each level represents deeper penetration into infrastructure of organized brutality, further from civilization and closer to whatever passes for justice in this manufactured world.
The top of the stairs opens onto a long, narrow hallway.
The air is colder here, the sounds of the clubhouse below muted to distant rumble like approaching storm contained within walls designed to absorb sound along with everything else that might escape to tell stories. A series of identical heavy wooden doors line one wall, all closed, all suggesting narratives I don't want to hear about previous occupants and their fates.
My captor marches me to the very last door at the dead end of the corridor.
Like walking a plank. Like approaching gallows constructed specifically for the ceremony of my transformation from person to possession. Each step down this hallway represents a mile traveled away from the universe where I had rights and choices and agency over my own existence.
He turns the knob and shoves the door open, then shoves me forward into darkness.
I stumble, catching myself against a rough wall that scrapes my palm and reminds me that pain is still possible, thatsensation continues even after everything else has been stripped away. The concrete is cold enough to burn, a temperature that penetrates skin and settles into bones like winter made permanent.
The door stays open.
The angry one—Fuse, I think I heard someone call him—leans against the frame with arms crossed, blocking the only exit with considerable bulk. He says nothing. Just watches me with the intensity of a guard dog evaluating a prisoner, measuring distance and calculating how quickly he could cover space between us if violence becomes necessary.
My eyes slowly adjust to gloom that seems designed to disorient.
And understanding crashes over me like ice water, freezing every molecule of hope I'd been harboring without conscious permission.
It's not a bedroom. It's a cell.
The walls are bare,unpainted concrete—industrial surfaces that have never known warmth, never been touched by a decorator's hand or a resident's attempt to create a home. Raw gray surfaces that weep moisture in patterns that speak to poor ventilation and deliberate neglect, a dampness that carries the smell of mold and despair.
A single metal-frame cot huddles against a far wall like abandoned furniture. The mattress is no thicker than my hand, covered with a thin gray blanket from a military surplus or prison commissary—designed to prevent death from exposure rather than provide rest. The metal frame shows rust stains that could be oxidation or something else entirely.
High on the opposite wall, a small, square window offers a view of a deep gray sky, crisscrossed by thick iron bars like a metallic web. Even if I could reach it, even if I could break the glass, escape would remain a theoretical concept. The window doesn't offer hope; it offers just enough light to see how completely trapped I am.
There's nothing else. No table, no chair, no rug. The absence is more devastating than restraints would be. This isn't a prison cell; it's a storage unit for human-shaped objects that no longer qualify for basic considerations like dignity.
I turn back to the door, my heart sinking. There's no handle on this side. No knob. Nothing but a flat steel plate. This isn't a space designed for occupation—it's a container.
The understanding settles into my bones with the weight of absolute truth. Someone planned this room. Every detail represents a deliberate choice made by people who have thought carefully about how to break human spirits. The height of the window, the absence of a handle, the cold. My eyes scan every surface, every corner, hunting for the final detail of the design. Concrete, steel, bars, a door without a handle. And there it is. Tucked into the high corner where the wall meets the ceiling is a small, dark dome of smoked glass. Unobtrusive. Nearly invisible in the gloom. An eye that never blinks.
The cage comes with a zookeeper.
A shadow falls over the doorway, eclipsing the hulking form of my guard. The President stands there, filling the entire frame with a presence that transforms oxygen into a scarce commodity. He doesn't enter the room—doesn't need to. His authority extends into every corner, a psychological gravity that bends reality around his will.
He just looks at me.
His gaze sweeps over my face, my torn shirt, my trembling hands with clinical detachment that carries more menace thananger ever could. Not rage. Not desire. Just a cold, methodical assessment that catalogs every detail for future reference. He's memorizing my face, my fear, my diminished state. Gauging my strength, looking for cracks in foundation that he can exploit when circumstances require a different approach.
It's the look of someone deciding whether I'm worth keeping alive.
The examination continues for a long, silent moment that stretches my nerves to breaking point. Each second feels like tiny eternity, measured in heartbeats and gradual erosion of whatever dignity I have left. His eyes are unreadable pools that reflect nothing back—no compassion, no cruelty, just calculation proceeding according to algorithms I'll never understand.
After what feels like geological time, he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Not to me. Not acknowledgment of my humanity or recognition of my terror. Just professional assessment complete, data gathered, decision reached according to criteria that exist entirely outside my comprehension or influence. I am now categorized, filed, assigned value according to a system that operates beyond my ability to appeal or negotiate.
He steps back.
