Day 3 (continued)

Harper suddenly whirls around, her face streaked with tears and snot.

"You promised," she accuses, her voice raw and ragged. "You said you'd take away the pain. That was worse than... than anything else in this fucking place."

The other girls have turned away from the tank, unable to look at what’s left of Isla drifting in the bloody water. The piranhas have finished their work, their forms reduced to red shapes darting in the dark liquid.

The tears I refuse to shed pool in my chest like molten lead, pressing against my ribs with every breath. Harper's accusation hangs in the air, but I can't look away from Isla's remains – her head floating limply, hair splayed out like blood-tinted weeds in the churning water.

"John, please," Harper whispers, her voice cracking. "Just... say something. Anything."

"This was not supposed to happen."

It comes out flat, mechanical. Harper flinches at the tone – she expected anything but this deadened monotone.

"What the hell do you mean?" she demands, stepping closer. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wild. "How could this not be supposed to happen? You're the one who-"

She cuts herself off, pressing her palms to her face. When she speaks again, she sounds dangerously quiet.

"You stood there watching. Watching while they... while she..."

Her words dissolve into shuddering breaths. Behind the glass, the other girls cluster together, some openly crying now.

"The tank was supposed to get filled with water, she was supposed to drown, relatively peacefully.” I try to explain, knowing how absurd it sounds now. “I didn't know there would be piranhas."

The silence stretches as Harper processes my admission. Behind the glass, Mia collapses against the wall, body wracked with silent sobs. The others trade terrified, hollow glances – the realization that even death won’t go the way they’re told.

Harper's face cycles through betrayal, rage, and finally, hatred. Her hands flex at her sides, knuckles stiff with the effort of not striking out.

"You're a monster," she whispers, barely audible over the mechanical hum of the water. "A monster who pretends to care. Who pretends to..."

Her words fade as she swallows hard, shoulders trembling. Her breathing becomes ragged, shallow and fast. For a moment, she just stares at me with those wide, wet eyes – eyes that are still haunted by what she just witnessed.

"Be human? Well, I failed – what now?” I say, jaw tight with frustration. “You want to hit me? Do what Mia didn’t? Go ahead - I won't punish you."

My words hang like a challenge in the stale air. Harper's fingers twitch at her sides, energy crackling between us. Her jaw tightens, eyes burning with a fevered intensity.

"I hate you," she breathes, words rough with unshed tears.

Then, with startling speed, her hand snaps up and slaps me hard across the face. The crack echoes through the chamber like a gunshot. Pain flares hot across my cheekbone, but I don't flinch. Blood trickles from my nose, tiny vessels burst from the impact.

Harper freezes, stunned by her own violence. Her hand trembles in the air.

I wipe the blood with my fingertip.

"Feel better now?"

Harper stares at me with an expression that shifts from rage to guilt to grief. The red mark on my face throbs. She looks away, but not before I catch the glint of fresh tears at the corners of her eyes.

"No," she admits, voice cracking. Hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening. "It makes me feel worse."

She wipes angrily at her face, leaving wet streaks behind.

"You don’t get to stand there and make yourself the target so I’m the one who ends up feeling guilty."

She points violently toward the tank where Isla's body has settled, water cloudy with blood.

"What she wanted was to feel something human."

"And I gave it to her.” My voice is quiet, grim. “I want to give it to all of you, because that's all I can do."

Harper scoffs, a bitter sound echoing in the chamber.

"You give us humanity by fucking us right before we die? By making us feel better just so it hurts more when we die?" She steps closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "That's not humanity, that's a perverse twist on it."

She gestures at the chamber, the machines, the blood.

"This whole thing is sick. Sicker than any of us could have imagined."

Her breathing steadies, but her eyes remain frantic, haunted.

"I don't know if you're genuinely trying to help us, or if this is just another part of the show."

I sigh.

"Whatever makes you feel better, Harper."

Her lips press into a thin line. Her hands flex at her sides, one rising to wipe roughly at her face.

"It doesn't matter what makes me feel better," she says, words unsteady. "Because tomorrow, I'll be dead or someone else will."

She looks away, eyes fixed on the dark water inside the drowner.

"And you'll still be here, still being paid to watch it happen. Still doing what you're told." Her words drop into silence. "That's what really hurts. That you have a choice and we don't."

"I have the illusion of choice.” I mutter, uneasy, unwilling to revisit yesterday’s argument. “I can choose to kill you or refuse and get killed myself. And then someone else will be killing you."

Harper’s breath catches. She doesn’t speak at first, body rigid. When she does, her voice carries a hollow weight.

"So what you're saying is... there will always be a John?" Her fingers twitch nervously. "Some poor bastard getting paid to do the same thing you are?"

She shakes her head, strands of damp hair sticking to her forehead.

"That doesn't make me feel better. It makes me feel more like an animal in a zoo."

She pivots away, shoulders hunched, moving toward the glass of the water tank. Her reflection is pale, haunted.

"I don't want to believe it, but I do."

Her voice thins to a strained whisper as she stares at the bloodied water. The glass still streaked with condensation from Isla’s final moments.

"There's always going to be someone to push the button."

Her hands press flat to the glass fingers splayed, trying to feel the terror, the wetness of the machine through the barrier.

"I watched you with her... I saw how you tried to make it... I don't know what to call it. Human? Decent?"

She turns back, searching my face. I meet her gaze, wishing for understanding.

"If I knew there were piranhas in that tank, I would have said so right away, before she made her choice."

Harper’s shoulders slump slightly, though the stiffness doesn’t fully leave. She exhales sharply, glancing toward the drowner before returning her gaze to me.

"I know you would have," she admits softly, desperation threading her voice. "I want to blame you, but… I can’t."

"That's why I hate this so much," she continues, moving closer. "I want you to be the villain. I need you to be. But you're not. And that... that fucking hurts more than anything else."

I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

"Let's go."

Harper doesn’t resist, but stiffens at first, breath catching. Slowly, she relaxes into me, her head resting against my chest. Fingers curl into my shirt, gripping – not resisting, but anchoring herself in the moment.

"It's stupid, but I don't want to be alone right now," she murmurs, words muffled.

Her free hand rises hesitantly, pressing against my side, thumb moving in slow circles, unconsciously matching the rhythm of her breathing.

"You still smell like her..."

The second Harper and I step back into the holding area, the remaining girls freeze. Aria and Lian shift away, eyes dropping immediately. Mia presses herself into the far wall, arms wrapped around her ribs like they’re the only thing keeping her together. The silence hangs thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional shuffling of feet against the floor and shallow breathing.

Harper doesn’t react at first, but I feel her stiffen under my arm. Her fingers tighten in my shirt before she exhales – sharp, controlled – and steps away from me, straightening her spine. No one looks up.

"I get it," she says, voice steady but hollowed-out. "I get why you don't want to look at me. It must be pretty fucking hard to pretend you didn’t see what happened in there."

Lian flinches, her hands curl into fists at her sides. Mia’s nails scrape the wall behind her. Aria’s eyes rise for half a second before dropping again. Their silence is suffocating.

Harper exhales sharply and shakes her head.

"Look, I don't expect you to be happy about it. I'm not, either. But if you can't even fucking look at me, then we’ve got a problem."

She steps forward, meeting each averted face.

"I didn't have a choice. None of us do."

Aria finally lifts her eyes, blinking fast. Her bottom lip quivers slightly before she bites down on it, steadying herself. The other girls remain silent, but Harper doesn't relent.

"I know what you're thinking," Harper continues, voice softer now but no less firm. "That I did something wrong. That I deserved what she got."

Her fingers twitch at her sides, curling into fists and then relaxing again.

"But I didn't. I just... I just didn't want to die."

Lian raises her face and looks at Harper.

"We know," she murmurs, thick with something between sympathy and grief. "It's not... you."

Harper's breathing falters at Lian's words, a shudder passing through her body. The room feels smaller, the air thicker, as if the space itself is pressing in around them. Aria's hand comes up to wipe at her eyes, her movement sharp and unsteady.

"It's just... hard to watch," Mia whispers, her voice nearly inaudible. Her fingers trace patterns against the wall behind her, a nervous tic that betrays her fear. "Knowing that tomorrow it could be me."

Her eyes flicker toward the machine room, then back to the group, avoiding eye contact with me or Harper.

"Or any of us."

Then there’s Juliette.

She hasn’t moved since we entered. Curled in the corner, knees pulled to her chest, arms locked around them like she's trying to hold herself together. I approach her. She stares at the wall, eyes unfocused and distant, but I know she sees me coming.

When I kneel beside her, she exhales shakily. Her hair – yellow blonde, framing her youthful features – hides most of her face. But I can see her jaw clenching, see the tight line of her mouth.

"Hey Juliette," I say quietly.

She lifts her head just enough for our eyes to meet. Her bright blue irises look dulled, waterlogged but without tears. She looks older than her eighteen years in that moment, like someone who's seen too much in too short a time.

"I'm sorry about Isla." I keep my voice low and resist an urge to touch her arm.

Juliette flinches at her name. Her fingers dig hard into the skin of her arms, and I can almost see her recoil inside despite her outward stillness.

"The piranhas... that wasn't supposed to happen."

Her head snaps up, blue eyes flashing with sudden, startling intensity.

"Stop." The word is sharp and fragile at once. "Stop this. You do not get to be sorry."

Her chest heaves as she draws a shuddering breath.

"You do not get to act like you did not plan this."

The accusation hits like a slap, and for a moment, I can't speak. Even Harper looks rattled.

"You think I wanted that?" My voice comes out low, rough. "You think I wanted to watch her... be torn apart like that?"

My throat tightens.

"That wasn't supposed to be her death."

Juliette’s eyes narrow, studying my face as if she’s searching for cracks.

"Then why you did not stop it?" Her question cuts deeper than any accusation. "Why you did nothing?"

My jaw tightens.

"I couldn't. I have the power to kill you but not to save you."

Juliette's grip on her arms loosens slightly, but her gaze doesn't waver. She watches me, still wary, but her anger softens into something bruised and confused.

"I do not know what to believe," she whispers. "Not anymore."

Juliette's shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. The movement makes her look small and fragile. She gives a small, bitter exhale.

"So we just..." She gestures around the dungeon. "We just continue this lottery of death until one of us stays alive?"

The other girls exchange uneasy glances. Harper's arms are wrapped around herself, as if trying to hold in the horror. Mia presses her forehead to the wall.

Juliette's hands tremble as she wraps them around her knees.

"Kill or be killed. Very simple, no?"

I don't answer immediately. The question hangs in the air, heavy with everything it doesn't say.

"Essentially," I admit. "The last one standing takes the prize."

Juliette's lips press into a thin line. She stares at me with an unreadable expression, her blue eyes darken with grim acceptance. Then she lets out a humorless laugh.

"Fifty million dollars," she murmurs. "So that is the price of us. That is what people pay to watch us die."

"That’s the system," I say, rising to my feet. "And it's not changing. Very little here is something I control."

My fingernails dig into my palms. The sting grounds me, reminds me of the reality.

“And today I learned I can’t even control the machines.”

Juliette's gaze flicks to my hands, then to my face. Something flashes across her features – recognition, perhaps, or understanding. For a moment, there's a crack in her shell of defiance.

“You know the feeling,” she whispers. “To be helpless.”

“I do.” I look away. “More than you think.”

Then I turn around and leave the dungeon.

The heavy door seals shut behind me with a pneumatic hiss, cutting off the dungeon’s stale air. The corridor outside feels cleaner, colder – sterile in a way that only makes my stomach twist harder. Juliette’s words still cling to me like damp cloth. I roll my shoulders back and force my breathing steady.

Time to get answers.

My boots strike the concrete with clipped, angry rhythm as I head toward Jeff’s office. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in sickly white.

When I reach the door marked PRIVATE – NO ADMITTANCE, I rap three hard knocks. After a brief pause, the lock beeps and the door swings open. Jeff lounges behind his oversized mahogany desk, feet propped up, sipping from a crystal tumbler. His expensive cologne mingles with the ever-present smell of new leather from the high-end furniture.

"John!" Jeff's voice is too jovial, his smile too wide.

He gestures expansively to the leather chair across from him.

"Come in, come in. Have a drink."

He doesn't wait for a response before pouring amber liquid into a second glass.

I stay standing.

“What the fuck happened there, Jeff? She was supposed to drown!"

Jeff’s smile holds, but his eyes sharpen. He sets the decanter down with exaggerated care, the glass clinking against the wooden surface.

"I could ask you the same thing… John."

He drags out my fake name with just enough weight to remind me he knows the real one.

“What the fuck was that yesterday?” he adds.

My pulse spikes.

“What do you mean?”

"You see..." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "You can be as gentle or as rough with these girls as you like, even though the audience wouldn't mind more occasional rough treatment."

His eyes cool to surgical steel.

"But what you don't get to do is to play the victim."

He tilts his head slightly, examining my reaction.

"Your yesterday's little therapy session with the girls was... highly inappropriate."

Jeff continues.

“You lost control there, John. Showed weakness. And today? You let that girl – Harper – hit you. On camera. ”

My throat goes dry.

“You're not their therapist,” he says. “Not their lover. Not their punching bag. You are the host of a very lucrative reality show, and such behaviour makes you look bad. Makes us look bad.”

He steeples his fingers, voice dropping. Suddenly his expression softens.

"Now, before you get too upset, let me make this perfectly clear. The audience loves you, John. The ratings skyrocket every time you show the slightest bit of... discomfort." His lips curl into a hungry smile.

“The problem is-" he leans forward again, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur "-that you still need to be in control. Down there, you are in charge, not the girls. Yesterday you ruined the flow of the show. Made the audience uncomfortable." His eyes glitter with cold amusement. "And Isla paid the price."

His words strike me hard, knocking the breath from my lungs. For a moment, I can't speak, can't even think. My jaw tightens as I stare at him, my hands still balled into fists at my sides.

“Why not just punish me instead?” The words scrape out, raw and hoarse.

Jeff chuckles, amused like I told a joke.

"Oh, John. I think I really hit a nerve, didn't I?"

Jeff takes his glass and leans back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid as he watches me with calculated amusement.

“You went full-on Lima with those girls.” He sips slowly, ice cubes clinking. "And we used it against you."

“Lima? What the hell does that mean?” I still forget to move, but at least my voice is steadier now.

Jeff’s smile becomes instructional – condescending.

“Lima is the opposite of the Stockholm syndrome.. you know what Stockholm syndrome means, do you?”

I nod mutely.

“Good.” He leans back in his chair, studying me like a scientist observing a specimen. “It’s an interesting phenomenon, actually – you should read about it when you have the time.”

His tone drops an octave, becoming dangerously soft.

“I hope you don’t harbor any illusions about saving them.”

My voice barely comes out.

“No, I don’t.”

“Excellent.”

He reaches for a remote and clicks the large screen on the wall. Isla’s final moments fill the monitor: piranhas bursting through her abdomen, her palms splayed against the glass, her face distorted in a silent scream as blood fans into the water like red silk.

My blood freezes.

"Just wanted to remind you of the consequences." Jeff doesn't take his eyes off me as I stare at Isla's final moments. “Is my message clear?”

I can barely breathe.

"Perfectly clear."

Jeff nods with a satisfied grin.

"I'm glad we understand each other. Dismissed."

The word lands like a guillotine drop.

I force myself to turn away. Isla’s frozen face burns between my shoulder blades as I leave.

The hallway outside Jeff’s office buzzes with indifferent fluorescence. My footsteps echo against the concrete floor as I make my way to the break room. I need to be alone for a moment, even if it's just to gather my thoughts.

I find the break room empty, lights dim, air stale. I pour black coffee from a shiny new pot. My hands shake so badly I spill half of it. Frustrated, I slam the cup down on the counter hard enough that the rest of the dark liquid sloshes over the sides, scalding my fingers. The pain registers distantly, secondary to the anger clawing up my throat.

"Fuck this," I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.

The fabric stretches taut against my clenched fists. I need to punch something – anything – but there's nothing in this sterile break room except cheap furniture and vending machines. My reflection in the metal fridge shows someone I barely recognize – eyes wide, unhinged, vibrating with rage and helpless fear.

I slam my fist into the refrigerator door. The metal caves with a deep, dull thunk. Pain shoots up my arm, hot and bright, blood from my knuckles smearing across the dented steel. I stare at the damage and consider hitting the fridge again.

After a long moment I take a deep breath, turn around and go to my living quarters.

The door shuts behind me with a quiet click. The luxury of the room only makes everything feel worse. I grab the whiskey bottle from the dresser, pour too much into a glass, and down it in one swallow. It burns, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Images of Isla churn behind my eyelids – the terror, the betrayal in her eyes when the piranhas tore into her. The promise I’d made to make it quick. The way she trusted me right up until the end.

My hands won't stop shaking even after I take a shower and go to bed.

I clutch the pillow to my chest, trying to breathe past the crushing weight in my ribs. The pillow smells faintly of detergent and something else – something that reminds me of Isla. My eyes sting hot.

Sleep eventually drags me under. Feverish. Broken.

In my dreams, Isla’s face changes: screaming, forgiving, accusing.

Sometimes she whispers “I forgive you.”

Sometimes she asks: “Why did you let them?”

Sometimes she just stares.

And that’s the worst of all.