Day 3

The following morning, I find myself back in the corridor leading to the dungeon. I hesitate outside the door and take a slow breath, knowing what awaits inside. For a moment, I wish – pointlessly – for a way out that isn’t there.

The girls flinch as the heavy door slides open. Aria's hand clenches at her side, while Harper presses herself deeper into the corner. The others watch warily as I step inside, my boots shuffling against the soft surface of the floor.

"Welcome back to another beautiful morning in Hell," I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

Aria's eyes narrow at the attempt at humor, while Mia flinches slightly, fingers tightening around the sleeping mat at her side. I immediately regret the words, wishing I could take them back.

Aria steps forward, her movements measured and controlled despite the strain in her jaw.

"No more waiting. Let's just get it over with."

I reach into the velvet pouch at my belt, pulling out the six sticks – four long, two short. The girls don't move as I hold them out. Harper's remains pressed against the wall, lips trembling, as if even approaching me risks sealing her fate.

Aria is the first to break the paralysis. She steps forward with steady, deliberate hands and selects a stick without hesitation. Juliette follows, slower, her fingers hovering before she finally commits. Mia steps in with a small, jerky motion, as if her body wants to get it over with before her mind can stop her.

One by one, the rest approach, drawing their fate from my palm with the same, inevitable reluctance. When the last stick leaves my hand, a heavy silence settles over the room.

Aria is the first to look at hers. A faint crease forms between her brows – she's gotten a long one. Juliette glances down and exhales in relief, shoulders easing. Harper's grip tightens on her stick – she still refuses to look at it. Mia’s eyes flick downward, her breath catching – but I can’t tell whether it’s relief or dread.

Isla has gotten a short stick. I can see it in her body language when she looks down – the way her shoulders slump just slightly, her fingers tightening imperceptibly. Her fingers twitch around the stick, as if she could somehow alter the fate inscribed within the wood.

Harper stares at hers, disbelief flickering across her face. She stands motionless, her wide eyes darting between her own stick and Isla's.

"I didn't..." Harper starts, but her voice cracks. She swallows hard. "I didn't think..."

"That you would draw a short stick two days in a row, Harper?" I already understand that she has also drawn the short stick. Again.

Harper's head snaps up, her face contorted in disbelief. A strangled sound escapes her – something between a sob and a laugh. She grips the stick so tightly I think she might break it.

"This isn't fair," she whispers, more to herself than to me.

Her gaze drops back to the short stick, then shifts to Isla. The Scottish girl stands rigid, her face carefully neutral, but her hands tremble at her sides.

Isla exhales shakily, her lips parting. Her green eyes glisten with unshed tears as she shifts her weight, her fingers flexing and unflexing as if they’re looking for something solid to hold on to.

"You... you can't do this," Harper says, her voice fracturing. "You just can't-"

She looks at me, desperation etched across her features.

"You know how hard it was for me to do it with Sofia. You know I couldn't – I can't-" Her breath comes in short, panicked bursts.

She turns to Isla, her hands reaching out but stopping just short of touching her.

Isla flinches at Harper's outstretched hands, retreating until her back hits the soft dungeon wall. She presses herself into it, as if trying to merge with the surface. Her breathing is uneven, her face drawn with visible anguish.

"D-don't touch me," she chokes out, shaking her head violently.

Tears streak down her face, leaving glistening trails on flushed skin. She spreads her palms against the wall as if trying to push herself further into it, her small body quivering.

Harper freezes, her hands falling limply to her sides. Her shoulders slump forward, chest rising and falling rapidly. She speaks in a broken whisper.

"I didn't mean to hurt you... I’m just... I’m scared."

She licks her lips, glancing at the others for support. None meet her eyes. They all watch with tense, rigid expressions.

My fingers twitch at my sides as I observe Harper's breakdown and Isla's desperate retreat. The Scottish girl's breath comes in shallow gasps, her face contorted with fear. She wipes roughly at her tears, smearing them across her freckled skin.

"I d-don't want to volunteer," she stammers, her words hitching. "I can't- I won't."

Harper's hands shoot up, palms outward.

"Wait – Isla, please-" Her words crack as she steps closer, but Isla presses harder against the wall.

Isla's voice rises with desperate urgency.

"Stop! Don't come near me!"

Her voice slices through the room, sharp as a blade.

She turns her head sharply to the side, eyes squeezing shut as if blocking Harper out might make her disappear. Her hands splay against the wall, knuckles whitening with effort. A strangled sob rips from her, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to smother it.

Harper freezes mid-step, her outstretched hand trembling. Her face crumples as she realizes the full impact of her actions.

"I'm sorry."

Harper's whispered apology hangs in the air, unanswered. She takes a hesitant step back, her bare feet silent on the dungeon floor. Her hands drop to her sides, fingers curling into loose fists as she looks at Isla's rigid form. The Scottish girl remains pressed against the wall, her breathing fast and shallow. A tear slips down her freckled cheek; she swipes it away with an unsteady hand.

I step forward, and the shift in the room is immediate. The remaining girls fall silent, their bodies tensing as if bracing for impact. The air thickens around us, as though even the walls are waiting for what comes next.

Isla’s breath stutters when she notices me approaching. Her wide green eyes flick between me and the others, her small body trembling. When I stop in front of her – close, but not touching – she flinches like she expects a blow. She shrinks back against the wall, trembling, chin dipping to her chest as though making herself smaller might spare her. She doesn’t dare lift her eyes.

"Breathe," I say quietly, the command steady but not harsh.

Her chest rises and falls in shallow, frantic bursts. Her shoulders tremble, her hands curl into small fists at her sides, and her whole frame seems to shrink inward under the weight of panic. Harper watches from a few steps away, hands knotted together at her stomach, guilt and dread etched deep into her face.

"Please."

The word slips out of Isla in a tiny, fractured whisper, her voice breaking around it. She isn’t talking to me – It’s the kind of plea that escapes when terror squeezes every other sound out of a person. Her head tilts even lower, eyes squeezed shut, face turned partially away as though the very sight of me might trigger a blow.

I raise my hand slowly – just my fingertips – and touch the edge of her jaw. She startles at the contact, a sharp inhale rattling through her chest, but she doesn’t pull away. She simply freezes. My fingers trace the trembling line of her jaw until I reach the corner of her cheek. Her skin is damp with tears; I brush them away with my thumb. She shivers, her breaths small and uneven.

“Look at me,” I say, not unkindly.

Two fingers slip beneath her chin, guiding it upward with a slow, gentle insistence. She resists at first – not physically, but in posture, fear pulling her gaze downward. But my touch is steady, unavoidable, and slowly her face lifts, her tear-wet eyes forced up to meet mine.

Her pulse flutters wildly beneath my fingertips. Her lips part with a broken, shaky inhale. The terror in her expression is raw and unmasked – and for a moment, I can feel each unsteady breath trembling against my hand.

“Isla,” I say again, softer. “Breathe.”

She tries. Air drags through her nose in tight, uneven pulls. Her whole frame shakes with the effort, her delicate shoulders twitching each time she inhales too sharply. My thumb remains at the corner of her mouth, feeling the wetness there. She’s trying to steady herself – failing, but trying.

Harper watches from nearby, desperate and silent. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Behind me, the others stand rigid and uneasy – Mia clasping her elbows, Lian chewing the inside of her cheek, Juliette pale as bone, Aria’s expression hard and unreadable.

Isla’s fingers slowly rise to my forearm – not pushing me away but clutching at me like an anchor. Her nails bite into my skin. A tiny whimper escapes her before she can swallow it.

I ignore everyone else. Right now, there is only Isla – terrified, cornered, barely holding herself together.

"Listen to me.” I say. “One of you must volunteer to die. One of you has to make this decision."

I measure each word. Isla’s grip tightens until her fingers tremble from the strain. She opens her mouth, but only a shudder comes out.

Harper makes a strangled sound beside us. Her hands twist together so tightly her knuckles bleach white. Tears spill silently down her face.

Isla swallows hard, forcing out a hoarse whisper.

"Why… why does it have to be me?"

I shake my head.

“It’s either you or Harper,” I answer. “Decide between yourselves.”

The words hit her like a physical strike. Her grip falters, then falls away completely as she steps back. Her green eyes flick to Harper – just for a second – then drop to the floor. Her lips tremble, pressed into a thin, desperate line.

Harper gasps - a raw, broken noise.

"No – wait, no." Her voice cracks. "We don't have to – you can't just-" She turns to me, pleading. "Please don't make us do this. Isn't there another way?"

I turn my head toward her.

"You already know the only other way is to kill you both."

Harper’s face drains of color. She staggers back, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, breath shaking through her.

Isla lets out a small, choked sound and brings both hands to her mouth. Tears stream down her freckled cheeks. When she finally looks at me again, the devastation there is almost unbearable. She turns slowly toward Harper, trembling from head to toe. After a moment’s hesitation, she extends her hand – barely more than a trembling offering. Harper stares at it, her breaths short and panicked. For a long moment, neither of them move.

Then, with a choked sob, Harper takes the offered hand. Her fingers tighten around it almost desperately.

"Isla... I can't..." she whispers, voice splintering.

Isla exhales shakily, squeezing back.

"It's okay," she says, though her voice wavers. She forces herself to meet Harper's eyes. "I... I think..."

The words stick in her throat. Harper watches her, horrified. Isla closes her eyes, gathers what little resolve she has, and forces the rest out in a trembling whisper.

"I think I want to volunteer.”

Harper's grip on her hand tightens convulsively. Isla lifts her gaze to me, pain flickering across her face – then something settles behind her eyes. A hard, quiet resolve. Harper makes a small, wounded sound, like something vital has been torn loose inside her.

"No – wait, Isla, please don't-”

Isla squeezes Harper's hand again, more firmly this time. The tremor in her body doesn’t vanish, but it goes still, contained. Channeled. She breathes in, then out – steady in the way someone becomes only after deciding something terrible but final.

She turns to face me fully. Her chin lifts a fraction. Her spine straightens. The gesture has a quiet dignity to it, the kind that makes the room feel smaller.
"I'll do it," she says, speaking louder now.

Juliette freezes beside Isla, body rigid, fingers hovering as if she might reach out – but she doesn’t. Her lips part slightly, then press together. Her eyes widen, and her breath hitches. Slowly, the reality of what just happened sinks in. The protective anchor she found in Isla is gone, and the weight of that loss presses down. Her shoulders slump fractionally, and her eyes glisten with a quiet, stunned grief.

Isla speaks in the same tone she might use when telling a patient she needs a difficult procedure.

"I choose the drowner. The water – quick, isn’t it? No pain, not really?" Her eyes dart to the machines behind the glass, and she swallows. “That one. I don’t want to suffer.”

I look at Harper. “That’s now the second girl willing to die to save your life,” I say. “You must be special.”

Harper flinches as though I’ve struck her. All color drains from her face, leaving her freckles stark against her skin. Her grip on Isla tightens until her knuckles turn white, as if Isla is the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

"I'm not special," Harper whispers, barely audible. Her voice cracks, then fractures. "I'm just-" She cuts herself off with a shuddering breath.

Isla's fingers curl around Harper's, squeezing gently.

"You are," she says, quiet but steady.

Beside them, Juliette stands very still, one hand lifted toward Isla but not quite touching. Her throat works around a swallow. Her eyes glisten – not with dramatic tears but with the stunned, silent grief of someone who realized they’re about to lose the only person who made this place feel even remotely bearable. The girl looks suddenly even younger than she is, frighteningly alone.

I give a slow, measured nod toward Isla, acknowledging her choice. There’s a weight to it, a quiet respect for the courage it took to decide. Then I step back and gesture toward her.

“Say your goodbyes.”

Isla moves from girl to girl, speaking quietly to each one. She pauses before Juliette, standing close enough to touch but not quite doing so. The redhead's usually vibrant face is sallow, her freckles standing out like dark specks on pale parchment. Her green eyes – normally so bright and sharp – are dull with unshed tears.

Juliette's chest rises and falls rapidly as she watches Isla approach. Her arms wrap around herself instinctively, hugging her own body as if to hold herself together. When Isla stops before her, Juliette's lower lip quivers. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Tears spill down her face as she finally manages,

"Isla…"

Isla offers her a small, sad smile. Her hand lifts toward Juliette’s shoulder, hovering there.

"Hey, Juliette," she says softly.

Juliette makes a wounded sound deep in her throat. She lunges forward and wraps her arms around Isla, holding her fiercely. Her entire body shakes with silent sobs.

"I don't want you to go."

Isla wraps her arms around her, just as tight. She presses her face into Juliette’s shoulder, tears slipping freely into the blonde’s hair. The other girls stand back, watching in tense silence, the space heavy with grief and helplessness.

"It's okay," she murmurs, stroking Juliette’s back in slow, steady motions. "It's... it's okay."

The words come out rough, thick with unshed tears, but she speaks with a strange, quiet certainty.

Juliette pulls back just enough to look at her, her blue eyes red-rimmed and streaming. She sniffles, her hands still wrapped around Isla as if she can't bear to let go.

"No, it is not," she whispers fiercely.

Juliette presses her forehead against Isla's, her breath coming in shaky gasps. She speaks so quietly only Isla can hear.

"I'll miss you."

Isla brings her hands up to hold Juliette’s face gently, her thumbs brushing tears away with aching care.

"I'll miss you too," she says, voice breaking slightly. "But... this is the way it has to be."

Juliette makes a choked sound and collapses into Isla’s shoulder again, clinging with desperate strength. Isla doesn't resist – she just holds Juliette tighter, her face buried in her friend's hair. The air is thick with salt and grief, with the quiet hitching of breath as both girls cling to each other like they're holding back the inevitable. The other girls stand motionless, witnessing this fragile moment with unsteady expressions.

After a long, terrible minute, Isla gently eases Juliette back. Her thumbs brush more tears from the girl’s face. They stare at each other, saying nothing, because neither of them trusts the sound of their own voice anymore.

"Isla, Harper - time to go."

My voice sounds dead even to my own ears. Juliette flinches as if the sound physically hits her. Her fingers clamp around Isla’s arm, desperate, digging in. Harper scrubs at her face roughly with her hand; Lian looks like she might be sick. Aria’s arms fold across her chest, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with a fury she doesn’t bother to hide.

Isla inhales sharply as I step forward, her body going rigid. Harper stands beside her like a puppet held up by strings.

Finally Isla squares her shoulders and gently frees her arm from Juliette’s grip, the girl’s fingers sliding off like they don’t want to let go.

"Okay," she says quietly and steady, but the tremor beneath the words gives her away.

She turns toward the machine room, her bare feet leaving faint impressions on the soft dungeon floor. Harper follows close behind, her movements jerky and uneven. They walk in unison toward the machines, their backs rigid with the effort of keeping upright.

The machine room's heavy door seals behind us with a mechanical hiss that makes both girls flinch. Isla's breathing becomes shallow and rapid as she absorbs the array of death mechanisms spread before her.

Harper moves closer to the drowner, her fingers tracing the cool glass walls where water will rise to end a life. She looks almost fascinated by the methodical brutality of it, her eyes lingering on the pipes and seals, the panels that control the flow.

Isla turns toward me. Her green eyes are wide and luminous with tears she’s barely holding back. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, fingers digging into her upper arms like she’s bracing for impact. Her mouth opens once – no sound – then closes again. A single tear slips down her cheek.

I watch the tear track its path down her freckled skin, the salt tang of her fear thick in the space between us. Her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath her crossed arms, the delicate bones straining against the tight grip she maintains.

"Drowning," she whispers at last, her Scottish accent softer than I’ve ever heard it. "I... I want it to be quick."

"It will be almost painless,” I say. “I promise."

My thumb brushes a tear from her cheek, then another. Her skin is warm and damp beneath my touch. She doesn’t pull away – just exhales sharply when she sees my fingers come back wet.

"I trust you," she says, voice faint and trembling. "Please... don't let me suffer, John."

I nod, though I cannot promise more than the procedure allows. My hand stays cupped to her face, fingers curling slightly along the line of her jaw. Her skin burns beneath my palm. Harper stands nearby, watching us both with red-rimmed eyes.

I open my arms. The movement is slow, deliberate. Isla stiffens for a heartbeat, startled by the gesture – then she steps in, arms circling my waist, her fingers pressing into the small of my back. She’s shaking. Her whole body trembles against mine, but she doesn’t pull away. Her breath comes in short, uneven bursts against my neck.

I hold her tighter, resting my chin on the crown of her head. Isla makes a small, broken sound in her throat, her fingers clutching at my shirt as if afraid I'll disappear. Her body heat seeps into me, her skin damp with perspiration and the salt of her tears.

"I'm sorry," I murmur into her hair.

The words feel hollow, insufficient. I breathe in the scent of her curls, her skin, the sharp edge of adrenaline rising off her.

Her grip shifts. One hand glides up my back, then curls around the nape of my neck. Her fingers slide into my hair and tug me downward until her forehead rests against my collarbone. Her breath shudders, warm and damp against my throat.

"Just... don't let go yet," she whispers.

There’s no demand in her voice – just the raw plea of a condemned woman clinging to the last human warmth she’ll ever feel.

Harper clears her throat softly. Isla tenses, breath catching, but she doesn’t release me. After a moment she lifts her face. Her eyes are wet, her lips parted, her expression caught between terror and need. She’s inches from me.

I don’t hesitate.

Her gasp is swallowed when our lips meet. Her hands move to frame my face, fingers brushing against my jaw as she parts her lips in surprise. I taste the salt of her tears and the bitter-sweet relief of the moment. She kisses back immediately, giving herself to the moment without hesitation or skill, only need. Her breath hitches when my tongue brushes hers. hHer fingers tighten against my cheeks like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding down to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Her body molds against mine, her soft curves pressing into the solid line of my chest. The kiss becomes messy, desperate, her teeth catching my lip as she trembles. When we part, her breathing is ragged, her pupils blown wide.

I trace my hands down her arms, feeling goosebumps rise beneath my palms. Her skin is so warm, so alive – it's impossible to reconcile that with what's coming. She watches me with her face flushed, her breath unsteady. When I reach her hands, I intertwine my fingers with hers, squeezing gently.

She squeezes back with surprising force. She doesn’t speak – but the glazed shine in her eyes, the little quiver in her lip, the way she tilts a little closer – all of it answers the question I haven’t fully voiced.

"Do you want to do it?” I ask softly. “One last time?"

Isla's breath catches when my hand grips her ass, pulling her flush against me. She doesn't resist – she leans into it, her eyes bright with tears.

"Yes," she whispers, her words barely audible.

The word sends a jolt through me, but it's not lust – something closer to heartbreak. She wants this because it’s the last thing she’ll feel. Her arms wind around my neck as she rises onto her toes, her breasts pressing against my chest. I can feel the rapid thud of her heart, her whole body trembling with fear and yearning intertwined.

I lift Isla easily, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist as I carry her toward the nearest metal table. The other girls watch in horrified silence, but I ignore them. This moment isn't for them.

Isla buries her face in my neck, tears warm against my skin as she clings to me. When I set her down on the table, she looks up at me with eyes that shine with desperate need.

"Now," she breathes, her hands already working at my belt. "Before I lose the courage."

My fingers slide into Isla's hair as she works my belt open, her movements swift and practiced despite her quivering hands. She peels down my pants with an urgency that borders on panic, her breath hot against my stomach. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just desperate, single-minded focus.

I push her back onto the cold metal table, the contact sending a shiver through her body. Her legs part immediately, heels digging into the edge as she pulls me down with her. She's already wet when I press against her – maybe from the fear, maybe from the touch, maybe both. She whimpers as I slide inside, her back arching off the table.

Her body is impossibly tight around me, her inner walls fluttering like a trapped bird. Isla's nails dig into your biceps as I push deeper, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I feel every twitch, every small spasm as she struggles to breathe through the overwhelming intensity.

She's so warm, so alive, and the thought of her being anything else – of her ending this way – makes my grip on her tighten instinctively. I set a ruthless pace from the start, knowing she doesn't want tenderness. Not now. Not when she needs to be reminded of what it means to be alive before she's ripped away from it.

Isla's fingers tighten against my biceps as I thrust into her, her back arching sharply with every movement. She's wet, hot, and tight – her body gripping me like she never wants to let go. Tears stream down her face, mixing with the sweat along her temples as her breath comes in ragged gasps. She clings to me, her nails biting into my skin as her body moves in time with mine.

"I want to feel you," she whispers hoarsely, her words breaking. "Make me forget – just for a little while."

Her words crack as she says them, her whole body shaking as she moves beneath me. Her heels press harder against the edge of the table, lifting her hips as she meets my thrusts with a desperate eagerness.

She's already close – I can feel it in the way her walls clench around me, in the way her breath hitches as I grind against her clit with every thrust. She's giving herself over to this completely, pushing aside all fear, all hesitation, and focusing only on the sensation of being filled by me.

I slow down slightly, rolling my hips in slow, deep circles to drag out the moment. Isla gasps, her hands moving from my arms to grip the edges of the table, her knuckles white with the effort of holding on. Her thighs tremble around me, quivering with the effort of meeting my movements.

I press my palm against Isla's sternum, feeling her hammering heartbeat as I watch her face. Her eyelids flutter, her pupils blown wide as she lets out a soft, shuddering moan. She's close – so close – and the way her body arches toward me betrays how much she needs this release.

"Please," she breathes, her nails scraping against the metal beneath her. "Please, John-"

I don't let her finish. Instead, I increase the pace again, slamming into her with renewed force. Her back lifts off the table as a choked cry escapes her, her legs locking around my hips to keep me as deep as possible.

The metal table groans under our weight as we both move in perfect synchronization. Her nails rake down my back, leaving fresh marks that sting and pulse in time with my pounding heartbeat. Every thrust drives her higher, and I can see the exact moment her body betrays her – her back arches impossibly further, her heels dig into the table's edge, and her walls clench around me with a strength that nearly sends you over the edge.

"John, I'm-" She doesn't finish the sentence before her whole body tenses, her mouth falling open in a silent scream. Her thighs lock around me, holding me impossibly deep as her orgasm tears through her.

I watch Isla shudder beneath me, her body convulsing as her orgasm rips through her with violent intensity. Her nails dig into my back, her back arching off the table as she gasps for breath, her entire body shaking with the force of it.

She's so beautiful like this – sweat-slicked skin flushed deep red, her freckles nearly swallowed by the color, her mouth open in a silent scream. I can feel every pulse of her around me, her inner walls fluttering and gripping in erratic waves.

"I can't – can't breathe," she gasps, though it's more from the overwhelming pleasure than any real lack of oxygen.

My rhythm falters as I feel the familiar heat rise in my core. Isla's body still trembles beneath me, her inner walls pulsing around my cock in the aftermath of her climax. I thrust harder, the metal table screeching in protest as I drive into her with all the force I can muster.

Isla's eyes lock onto mine, wide and desperate, still glistening with unshed tears. She arches her back again, her breasts pressing up as she gasps my name.

"Please," she whispers, though I don't know if she means for me to stop or to continue. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Her body clenches around me like a vice, still rippling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. I can feel the heat of her walls, so tight around me, so slick and welcoming despite the circumstances. Despite the terror. Despite knowing what comes next.

Isla's hands slide up to my shoulders, her grip unsteady as she pulls me down into a desperate kiss. Her tongue meets mine, clumsy and frantic, as if she can prolong this moment by the intensity of it. Her hips rock up to meet mine, her body still moving with need, still chasing pleasure even as time is running out.

"I feel you," she whispers against my lips, her breath coming in short gasps.

My vision narrows as the intense pressure builds, every muscle in my body tensing as I thrust deep. Isla's fingers dig into my shoulders, her back arching off the metal table as I spill inside her. Her inner walls convulse around me, milking every last drop with hungry contractions.

I rest my forehead against hers, both of us panting heavily. Isla's skin feels fever-hot against mine, her face still flushed from exertion and pleasure. Her green eyes search mine, vulnerable and pleading. I let a few moments pass like this, before I do what I must.

My hands slide beneath her, lifting Isla with effortless strength. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist, my cock still buried deep inside her as I rise. For a moment, it's just the two of us, isolated in this brutal reality – her arms around my neck, her face pressed against my shoulder, the steady rhythm of my heartbeat against hers.

Then reality crashes back in. The cold metal under my feet. The hushed breathing of the other girls watching. The glass and metal of the drowner waiting beyond us.

Isla doesn't speak, but I feel her chest heaving against mine. Even beneath the fading haze of pleasure, fear pulses through her in waves.

I step through the reinforced door into the glass chamber of the drowner. It’s a simple yet horrifying design – merely a transparent cylinder with a drainage system at the bottom. No mechanical contraptions here, no fancy torture devices. Just physics and time working against the condemned. Water drips from the ceiling, echoing in the confined space as I carry Isla inside. Her body trembles against mine, her skin growing clammy with nervous sweat despite the heat of our bodies.

I lower her gently until her feet find the slick tile. Her legs wobble, buckling for a moment before she catches herself with a hand on my chest. Her gaze sweeps the clear walls encircling us.

"This is it," she whispers.

I keep my hands on her arms to steady her. She looks up at me, tears gathering, fear carving every line of her face.

"I don't want to do this," she breathes, her words cracking. "I don't want to die."

I don't answer immediately. What can I say? That I understand? That I feel sympathy? That I wish there was another way?

I tilt her chin up with my fingers.

"You don't have to be afraid."

Isla shudders at my touch, her pupils dilated in the dim light of the chamber. The water continues its slow drip onto the floor around us both, forming tiny ripples across the wet tiles. She watches it with a strange fascination, as if studying the movement could distract her from what's coming.

"I'm already afraid," she says softly, barely audible over the steady trickle. "But you make me feel..." She swallows. "I don't want to lose this. Not yet. Just for a little longer."

Her hands press against my chest. Before I can respond, she pulls me down, and her mouth is on mine – desperate, trembling, tasting of fear and tears. I kiss her back without hesitation. Isla clings to me, her fingers gripping my shirt as if she could keep me anchored through sheer force of will. Her mouth opens under mine, eager and desperate, her tongue meeting mine with frantic urgency.

When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, tears streak down her face. They catch in the dim lighting, suspended like tiny diamonds before falling. She presses her forehead against my chest, her body trembling.

"I can't stop shaking," she whispers.

I wrap my arms around her, feeling every tremor, every sharp breath. For a moment, I let her lean into me completely.

But the moment can’t last.

“I need to go.”

She stiffens instantly, digging her fingers into my shirt.

"No," she breathes. The word is jagged, shredded by panic. "Not yet… Please."

I should pull away. Turn toward the exit. End this cleanly. Instead, my hand rises to stroke her curls before I can stop it. She shudders at the contact.

"I know I have to," she continues, her voice cracking. "I know it's stupid to beg, but I can't stop myself. Just..." She inhales shakily, her breath hot against my chest. "A little longer. Please."

Her hand comes up to my face, touching me with a tenderness that cuts deeper than anything else tonight. Her thumb traces my cheekbone as she looks up at me with wet, glistening eyes.

"You're not as cruel as they think you are," she whispers. "I know that."

I feel something crack open inside my chest – small, sharp, like the splintering of wood. She's wrong. I am cruel. I have been cruel. But right now, with her hands on me, her body pressed against mine, I can't bring myself to believe it.

Isla's thumb continues its soft, circular motions along my cheek, her other hand still fisted in my shirt. The wet drip of water from the pipes above echoes through the chamber, each drop marking the slow passage of time that neither of us dares to acknowledge.

Finally, I force myself to step back.

Isla’s fingers cling for a final second before slipping away. She looks up at me through tears, her breath shuddering in the cold, damp air.

"You have to," she says, voice hushed. "I know that."

Her hands fall limply to her sides, fists unclenching. She swallows, her face contorts as she tries to keep her composure.

"I'm sorry I have to do it," I tell her as I step out of the chamber. "Farewell, Isla."

My hand hesitates on the control panel as I lock the door to the drowner. Isla's wide, panicked eyes lock with mine through the glass.

I turn to Harper and hand her the remote to the drowner.

"Press the button. Let's finish what we started."

Harper stares at it like it’s a live weapon. Her breath stutters, her hands flexing before closing into shaking fists. When she finally reaches for the remote, her fingers brush mine – ice-cold.

"I can't believe you're making me do this," she whispers, though she’s already taking it.

Her thumb hovers above the red switch. The trembling is so intense I half expect her to drop the device. She doesn’t. She lifts it to eye level, breathing in shallow, panicked bursts.

Inside the drowner, Isla presses her palms against the glass, fogging it with frantic breaths.

Harper’s throat bobs. Sweat beads at her temple. The remote wobbles in her grip. Her thumb dips toward the button, pulls back, dips again.

"You don't have to make a show of it," she murmurs. "Just say the word, and I'll do it."

Her eyes meet mine – raw, pleading not for mercy or forgiveness, but for permission to stop hesitating.

"Do it."

The command leaves my mouth harder, heavier, more final than I intend. Harper's breath hitches, her throat working as she swallows hard. For a second, she hesitates – the remote quivers in her grip, her thumb twitching just above the red switch. Then, with a ragged exhale, she slams her thumb down on the button.

The drowner hums to life with a low, ominous gurgle. Isla jerks inside the tank as the first trickle of water spills in from above. She slams her palms against the glass, her breath fogging the clear surface in rapid bursts. Harper stands rigid beside me, fists clenched so tightly her nails leave crescents in her skin.

Through the observation window, the remaining girls are a tableau of dread. Mia presses her face to the glass, knuckles white where her fists rest against it, her lips moving soundlessly – prayer or denial, it’s impossible to tell. Aria is carved from stone, arms folded over her chest, her expression severe and unforgiving. Lian has collapsed into the far corner, knees pulled to her chest, trembling. Juliette stands frozen in place, tears streaking down her cheeks, her expression mirroring Isla’s terror in the tank.

As the water rises around Isla's thighs, her green eyes lock onto mine with raw, silent entreaty. She’s trying to breathe evenly – but her chest rises in frantic, uneven bursts. Her hands smear condensation across the glass as she drags them downward, leaving misted trails. Harper flinches at every splash and gasp, but she doesn't look away.

The water reaches Isla’s waist, lapping coldly at her skin. She sways, fingers scrabbling against the slick surface. Her breathing grows ragged, her chest heaving with panicked breaths that leave misty patterns on the glass. When the water passes her breasts, she instinctively folds her arms inward before remembering she's already bare. Her gaze snaps to mine again – pleading, confused, terrified – as she struggles to keep her chin above the rising level.

Harper’s grip on the remote tightens so hard the plastic groans under the pressure. She licks her lips, swallowing convulsively.

"I'm sorry."

The water halts abruptly just beneath Isla’s chin. She freezes, lungs pulling in air through the narrow gap between surface and ceiling. Her wide green eyes flick between me and the motionless waterline, searching for any indication of how much longer she has.

Harper exhales shakily, the remote trembling in her hand. The stretched silence is broken only by Isla’s tiny, strangled whimpers and the soft drip of water from the fill vents. Her red hair floats around her like strands of fire, clinging to her cheeks as she lifts her chin to keep her nostrils above the surface. She presses her fingers weakly to the glass. They slide, smear. She tries again.

Harper moves closer to the tank, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Is it supposed to stop?" she whispers.

"No. Something is wrong."

My words hang heavy in the humid air of the chamber. Isla’s eyes flick wildly between us, her breath rushing out in panicked little bursts. I can see the terror in her face, but there's something else there too – a desperate flicker of hope that maybe, somehow, this won't happen after all.

Harper retreats a half-step.

"Do you think it broke?" she asks, her words cracking slightly.

There’s hope in her voice – real hope, bright and trembling. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, unable to stand still. Isla feels it too, a tiny flare forcing its way up through all the dread. The other girls remain silent, watching from behind the transparent wall. I slowly approach the tank, hearing the muffled sounds of Isla's ragged breathing through the glass. She's floating now, standing on her toes as she struggles to keep her face above the water. She presses one trembling palm higher against the glass, as if she could brace herself on it.

A soft metallic tick echoes inside the tank. Isla flinches.

“What was that?”

A silver body shoots through a hidden chute and plops into the water in front of her.

Then another. Then a third – each arrival punctuated by that sharp, metallic tap

A piranha, no bigger than Isla’s palm, darts in a quick arc through the water – its eyes black, its movements twitchy and electric.

My stomach drops.

“Oh no,” I exhale.

Harper stumbles backward as more flicker into the tank – sleek shapes glinting like steel. The fish move through the water like silver bullets, circling, assessing. One brushes Isla’s ankle. She gasps, jerks upward instinctively, the thin space of air shrinking even more.

Harper’s voice splinters her face draining of color.

"What the fuck is that?" she gasps.

The girls behind the glass erupt into screams, palms slapping against the barrier as if sheer will might shatter it.

Isla's breathing becomes erratic, her eyes wide with terror as she realizes what's happening.

"Fuck!"

My curse echoes through the chamber, swallowed by the distant, muffled screams of the watching girls. Isla starts to scream, sharp little bursts that tear out of her as she jerks away from the sudden stings beneath the water. Her whole body twists in frantic, instinctive motions, trying to shake off whatever is brushing and nipping at her legs. She kicks out blindly, gasping, her hands slapping against the glass as she tries to pull herself upward, leaving streaks of moisture and blood where the piranhas have already found their first easy meals – her fingers.

"They're... they're biting me," she chokes out, panic making her words almost unintelligible. Her pupils dilate in terror, and her entire body trembles violently as she curls tightly into herself, arms wrapping instinctively around her chest and stomach, shielding the most vulnerable spots from the sudden, biting assaults. Every movement is frantic, defensive, as if she could squeeze herself into a smaller, safer shape. A few piranhas dart upward, testing the water's resistance, their razor-sharp teeth catching the light.

“John-” her voice cracks, high and thin, “-get me out, get me out, GET ME OUT!”

Isla slams her palms against the tank, leaving bloody prints on the glass surface.

Harper whirls toward me, eyes wide with terror.

"Do something!"

"I can't!” The words tear out of me. “I can't stop the execution once it’s begun!"

Isla’s gaze locks onto mine, and something in her expression shatters. Not fury – not accusation. Hurt. The hurt of someone who had believed me.

Her words come out raw and broken.

"You said you'd make it quick," she whispers, her body already twitching from the constant bites.

The water around her has begun to darken – a crimson haze spreading outward as the piranhas feast.

Harper lunges forward, still clutching the remote.

"Please," she pleads, "you have to do something!"

Tears stream down her cheeks.

“I can’t open the tank,” I say, choking on the words. “It’s locked until the program completes.”

Harper hurls the remote at the glass wall. It shatters harmlessly. Behind it, the other girls fall into a horrified, suffocating silence.

"You fucking liar," Harper hisses. "You promised you could make it quick."

She spits the words at me, her blue eyes blazing with betrayal.

"She trusted you, and you let this happen."

Isla's breathing grows shallow and labored, her body growing weaker as the piranhas continue their relentless attack. I press my palms to the glass.

"I'm sorry, Isla. I’m so sorry..."

Isla meets my gaze, her eyes full of tears as she tries to speak. Her words come out in bubbles, her movements growing slower. The piranhas have found their way up her arms now, their tiny mouths snapping and tearing at the soft flesh.

"I... I forgive you," she manages, the words breaking as she forces them out.

Blood clouds the water around her. Her eyes don't leave mine, holding onto the last shred of human connection she can find. Harper turns away, burying her face in her hands. Behind the glass, the other girls have gone deathly still, watching as Isla's body jerks uncontrollably.

I lean my forehead against the tank’s surface, cold glass biting into my skin as I watch Isla's last moments unfold. The piranhas have found their way to her torso, stripping away skin and muscle in small, methodical bites.

"They're... they're eating my... my legs," Isla gasps, speaking in a weak whisper.

Blood has clouded the water to a dark red, but I can still see the fish moving – dozens of them now, their small bodies writhing in the churning water.

Harper has turned her back completely, her shoulders shaking as she sobs.

"Make it stop," she whispers to the wall. "Please... Make it stop."

Isla stiffens suddenly – her back arches slightly, her mouth forming a silent scream – when the piranhas reach her stomach. Blood flows faster now, her body convulsing as the fish tear into the exposed organs.

"I can't... feel my... my body," she manages, her words bubbling weakly.

Her skin has become waxy and pale, the once-bright freckles nearly invisible beneath the pallor of blood loss. The piranhas move in a frenzy now, their tiny teeth stripping away what little remains of Isla's internal organs. She gasps in wet, ragged breaths as her torso empties, her abdominal muscles twitching helplessly. Blood churns the water to a murky crimson, the fish darting and swirling like crimson snow in a blizzard. Her breathing stops abruptly, her body going limp as the piranhas tear at her throat. They swarm into the empty cavity of her torso, disappearing into the darkness of what was once Isla.