Day 3 (continued)

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.

"Ye said ye'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 ye," 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 legs," Isla gasps, voice barely audible.

Blood clouds the water to 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, her mouth forming a silent scream as the piranhas reach her stomach. Blood flows faster, her body convulsing as the fish tear into exposed organs.

"I cannae... 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.

Harper whirls around, face streaked with tears and snot.

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

The others have turned away from the tank, unable to look at what's left of Isla drifting in the bloody water. The piranhas dart through the dark liquid, their work finished.

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 fill with water. She was supposed to drown, relatively peacefully." I try to explain, knowing how absurd it sounds. "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 Lian 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 it’s our turn?" 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, voice thick with something between sympathy and grief. "It is 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 is 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 did you not stop it?" Her question cuts deeper than any accusation. "Why did you do 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.