Page 45 of Glass Rose
John rummages through his pockets and holds up a handful of small flashlights. “Everyone takes one.Always. Power goes out, you don’t want to be fumbling in the dark when those things are around.”
He tosses them across the table. Mine lands with a solid thunk. Military grade. Black anodized aluminum with a strike bezel.
“Batteries are fresh.” John flicks his on to demonstrate. “Three settings—high, low, and?—”
The beam hits my eyes directly. White light explodes behind my retinas.
—strapped to the chair, electrodes pasted to my temples and chest, metal cold against my wrists, ankles. Blinding light in my face.
“Subject Seven, describe your symptoms.” Someone hovers above me.
Light so bright I can’t see him, just feel the needle sliding into my arm.
“Increase intensity by twenty percent.” It’s Dr. Webb. “Let’s see how much he can take.”
Colors spiral and pulse, drilling into my brain. Sound, light, smell, everything is amplified beyond human tolerance.
“Increased heart rate, pupil dilation, heightened cortisol. Note the time. Up another fifteen percent.”
Pain spreads through my veins like fire. My muscles seize, straining against the restraints. Blood drips from my nose, metallic on my tongue.
“Sir, his vitals are spiking dangerously. He’s clearly in pain,” Sofia protests. “We should?—”
“Push it further,” Webb says. “We need to know his threshold. This is what he was made for.”
“Gavin?” Sofia’s voice sounds like she’s speaking through glass.
The world whites out, my consciousness flickering like a dying bulb. My body convulses, and alarms blare as my heart stutters in my chest.
Then warmth—unexpected, human warmth against my skin.
Reality snaps back like a rubber band. The warehouse. The dinner table. Sofia’s hands holding mine, her fingers massaging my palm.
“—really impressive setup,” Alex says. “Ever consider putting some of this on film? People eat this prepper stuff up.”
I blink. Force air into my lungs. Her pulse beats, steady and strong, something real to anchor to.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asks.
“What?”
“Mine’s blue.” She glances up at me, her thumbs working in small circles. “Dark blue, like the ocean at night.”
“Brown.” I focus on her eyes. “Dark brown, like coffee before you add anything to it.”
They widen slightly, those beautiful coffee-colored irises locked on mine. Her fingers pause their movement against my palm.
“Brown, huh?” Her voice is low, private. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Gray, maybe.”
John glances over, oblivious to what just happened. “Everything okay over there?”
“Fine.” Sofia recoils, withdrawing her hands from mine.
The absence feels wrong.
