Time stopped meaning anything.
Zev knew only that it hurt.
Not all at once—never merciful like that—but in waves. Controlled. Deliberate. Pain applied, withdrawn, reapplied, each cycle measured with clinical precision.
The lights above him never dimmed.
His restraints were adjusted just enough to keep him conscious. Just enough to keep him aware.
Hours passed.
Three, maybe more.
His body trembled constantly now, muscles twitching with exhaustion and fear. Every breath scraped his lungs raw. His vision swam, edges darkening, but whenever he drifted too far—
—something sharp brought him back.
"Stay awake," a voice said calmly.
Zev choked on a laugh.
He tried to turn his head toward the children.
Eli lay slumped against the wall, breathing shallow. Alive—but barely. Every rise of his chest felt like a countdown. Mara sat curled beside him, arms wrapped tight around her knees, eyes glassy with terror.
Zev swallowed hard.
"Mara," he rasped.
"Hey… hey, look at me."
She flinched—but she looked.
"I'm here," he said, forcing the words through the pain. .
"I'm not… I'm not going anywhere."
A lie.
He knew it the moment it left his mouth.
His hands shook violently against the restraints.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I should've… I should've stayed."
Fear gnawed at him from the inside—cold, invasive, whispering all the things he didn't want to believe.
You failed them.
You're weak.
You're next.
His paranoia bloomed in the sterile light. Every footstep sounded like execution. Every pause meant something worse was coming.
He tried to shift, to put his body between them somehow—anything.
The restraints bit deeper.
"No," he whimpered.
"Please. Please—take me instead. Just—just let them go."
No one answered.
They never did.
The door opened.
Boots crossed the floor.
Zev's heart slammed against his ribs, panic surging so hard it nearly made him black out.
This is it.
He pulled until his shoulders screamed.
"DON'T TOUCH THEM—!"
A masked figure stopped in front of him.
Not to strike.
To observe.
"Subject displays advanced psychological degradation," the voice noted.
"Fear response escalating into paranoia. Guilt fixation present."
Zev sobbed.
He couldn't stop it.
His teeth chattered violently, tears blurring everything as his mind fractured under the weight of watching—waiting—never knowing when the next sound would be Eli's last breath or Mara's scream.
He tried to memorize them.
Their faces. Their voices.
So he wouldn't forget.
Elsewhere — West Side
Netoshka slammed her fist against the console.
Static hissed back at her.
"SP3CTR," she said sharply. "Respond. Status check."
Nothing.
Her jaw tightened.
She tried again—cycling frequencies, forcing the signal through layers of interference.
Finally—
Static.
Then a voice.
> "—Netoshka? Signal's bad. We hear you."
SP3CTR.
"Report," Netoshka said immediately.
A pause.
> "Zev's missing."
The words landed like a blade.
"We lost him during the East Side maneuver," SP3CTR continued.
"The Search has been ongoing for hours. No trace. No heat. No signal."
Rue's voice cut in—tight, furious.
> "The eastern wing's crawling with bandits and local thugs. They're circling like vultures. Secret Police patrol density just doubled."
Surgien followed, grim.
> "We can't move openly. Every sweep gets tighter."
Netoshka closed her eyes for half a second.
Zev.
Her fingers curled slowly.
"Hold position," she said, voice low and controlled.
"Do not engage unless forced."
> "You're coming?" Rue asked.
"Yes," Netoshka replied.
"As soon as we can."
She cut the channel.
Lyra watched her closely.
"Something wrong."
"Zev's gone," Netoshka said flatly.
Silence rippled through Team One.
Genrihk's shadows darkened.
"Then time is no longer on our side," he said.
Netoshka turned back toward the West Side interior—alarms murmuring beneath the walls, systems recalibrating, threats stacking endlessly.
"We can't abandon this," she said.
"Not yet."
Her eyes glitched faintly.
"But we are not leaving him."
She exhaled slowly.
"Zev, hold on," she muttered under her breath.
"Just—hold on."
Back in the Dark room, Zev screamed.
Not from pain.
From the certainty that no one was coming.
And from the terror that, when they finally did—
It would already be too late.