60

60
CLARISSA DEVOR —

Morning came without sunlight.

The heavy curtains over the barred window let in only a faint gray glow, just enough to keep me aware of the fact that I was awake and trapped. A tray slid through the slot in the door — toast, eggs, and something that might’ve been coffee if I didn’t know better.

No Karl. No guard waiting to gloat. Just silence.

I sat on the bed, picking at the toast, thinking.

Karl said the “real game” started today. Which meant I didn’t have much time to decide how I was going to play it. If I waited for him to make his move, I’d be reacting — exactly what he wanted.

So I decided to go first.

The trick with people like Karl wasn’t to fight them head-on. You didn’t overpower them; you made them believe you were dancing to their tune while quietly changing the music.

If Karl wanted videos, he’d get videos. Just… not the ones he thought.

The lock clicked and the door swung open. Two guards stepped in, followed by a man holding a camera. Karl wasn’t with them. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

“Stand,” one of the guards ordered.

I didn’t move. “If Karl wants his little show, he can ask me himself.”

The guard’s jaw tightened. “Now.”

I let them pull me to my feet, making a show of stumbling as if I were weaker than I was. The camera guy adjusted the lens, already framing the shot.

“What’s the setup today?” I asked. “Tears? Screams? Begging for mercy?”

No answer. Just the cold shove of a guard’s hand forcing me toward the corner of the room.

Fine. I’d give them something better.

As the camera’s red light blinked on, I let my shoulders sag, my voice drop. “If you’re watching this,” I said, looking dead into the lens, “don’t come for me. Don’t listen to what they tell you. It’s a trap.”

The guard snapped, “Shut up!” and shoved me forward, but I twisted the motion, making it look like I was thrown. I hit the floor with a grunt, keeping my eyes locked on the camera.

“Don’t give him what he wants,” I said, louder this time. “Make him bleed for it.”

The guard yanked me up, hand gripping my arm so hard I knew it would bruise.

The cameraman looked uneasy now. Good.

“Cut,” he muttered, lowering the camera. “Karl didn’t say anything about her talking like that.”

“That’s what he gets for not showing up,” I shot back.

They dragged me toward the door. The footage might never make it to him — but if it did, and if he understood the message, then Karl’s leverage just got a whole lot weaker.