Day 3 (continued)

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 little therapy session with the girls yesterday 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 behavior 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, palms splayed against the glass, 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 ye.”

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

Sometimes she just stares.

And that’s the worst of all.