They don't give me a choice.
The room they lead me to isn't underground this time. It's higher—upper floor, deep inside the house, where the walls are thicker and the windows don't open. A suite dressed up as comfort: soft lighting, neutral tones, a bed too large to feel innocent.
A mirror stretches across one wall.
I recognize it immediately.
Not a mirror.
Glass.
"Smile," the sharp-smiled man says pleasantly. "You're on camera."
My stomach tightens.
"How many?" I ask.
"All of them," the woman in black replies. "Visual. Audio. Biometric."
She gestures to a slim band waiting on the bedside table.
"Put it on."
"What does it track?" I ask.
She smiles. "What matters."
I slip the band around my wrist. It hums softly, warm against my skin. I hate how intimate that feels.
The dark-suited man hasn't spoken since we left the room downstairs. He stands near the door now, arms folded, eyes fixed on the far wall like restraint is a muscle he's flexing.
"You'll stay here tonight," the woman says. "Observation phase."
"And if I don't?" I ask.
She tilts her head. "Then someone else will."
The door closes behind them.
Locks engage.
Then—another click.
I turn.
The dark-suited man is still inside.
"You're staying too?" I ask.
"Yes."
My pulse spikes. "That wasn't mentioned."
"No," he says calmly. "It wasn't."
The air shifts. Heavy. Charged.
"Are they watching this?" I ask.
"Everything," he replies.
I look at the glass again. The ceiling. The corners.
"So this is forced proximity," I say. "Let me guess—designed to see what we'll do."
"What you'll do," he corrects.
"And you?"
"I'm leverage."
That makes my chest tighten in a way I don't like.
"Sit," he says gently.
I laugh once, sharp. "Is that an invitation?"
His mouth curves—not quite a smile.
"Yes."
I sit on the edge of the bed. He stays standing. Always control. Always distance.
"They'll try to push you," he says quietly. "They'll use attraction, fear, curiosity."
"And you?" I ask.
"I'll be used against you."
My phone vibrates.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Six: Intimacy accelerates outcomes.
I don't look away from him as I say, "They already are."
The door opens without warning.
The sharp-smiled man steps in like he owns the room—which, I suppose, he does. His gaze flicks between us, assessing the space between our bodies like a chessboard.
"Ah," he says. "You're already settling in."
"You're not supposed to be here," the dark-suited man snaps.
He grins. "Correction. I'm not supposed to touch her."
His eyes slide to me.
"And I haven't."
Yet.
The silence stretches.
"You're crowding her," the dark-suited man says.
"I'm observing," the sharp-smiled man replies. "Isn't that the point?"
He moves closer—too close. Close enough that my knees brush his thigh. The band on my wrist warms, humming louder.
"You feel that?" he murmurs. "They love spikes."
"Back off," the dark-suited man says.
"Or what?" he asks lightly. "You'll make a scene for them?"
I can feel it now—the tension threading between them. Old. Personal. Dangerous.
They're not rivals because of me.
I'm leverage because of them.
The sharp-smiled man lowers his voice.
"Tell me," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "Who do you want watching you more?"
My breath catches.
"That's not fair," I say.
"No," he agrees. "It's effective."
My wrist buzzes—heart rate climbing.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Choose.
"I don't want either of you," I say.
They both smile.
"That's not an option," the sharp-smiled man says.
Something inside me snaps—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a clean, cold break.
"Fine," I say.
I stand.
The dark-suited man stiffens. "Don't."
I step closer to the sharp-smiled man instead.
His eyes flash—surprise, then satisfaction.
"This is what you want?" he asks.
"No," I say quietly. "This is what they want."
I reach out—not to touch him—but to take his wrist, lifting it gently.
The band on my arm pulses hot.
"I'm choosing," I say clearly. "Right now."
The dark-suited man swears under his breath.
The sharp-smiled man leans in, voice low and pleased.
"Careful," he murmurs. "You're playing with fire."
"I know," I say. "That's the point."
I let go.
And then I turn—walk straight to the glass wall—and place my palm against it.
"I have a rule," I say aloud.
The room goes very still.
The sharp-smiled man laughs softly. "You don't get to make rules."
"I do now," I say.
My phone vibrates violently.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:You're not allowed to address us directly.
I keep my hand on the glass.
"I refuse," I say, calm and clear, "to let you use someone else's destruction to scare me into compliance."
The band on my wrist heats—sharp, painful.
The dark-suited man moves instantly, grabbing my arm.
"Stop," he says urgently. "This is a violation."
"I know," I say through clenched teeth. "That's why it matters."
The screens flicker on the opposite wall.
A name appears.
Not mine.
Someone I recognize.
The woman from earlier. The one who warned me.
Her image freezes.
My stomach drops.
"Undo it," I whisper.
The sharp-smiled man's expression has changed now—something colder, more calculating.
"You broke a rule," he says. "That's a consequence."
"No," I say. "That's punishment."
The screen changes again.
A live feed.
The woman in black—standing somewhere else in the house—looks directly into the camera.
"First strike," she says calmly. "Next time, choose better."
The feed cuts.
The room goes silent except for my breathing.
The dark-suited man releases my arm slowly, his face tight with something like anger—and something like respect.
"You shouldn't have done that," he says.
"I know," I reply.
The sharp-smiled man watches me like I've just become interesting for the first time.
"Well," he says softly. "Now you're really playing."
My phone buzzes once more.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Seven: Heroes die first.
I meet their eyes.
"Good," I say. "Then stop mistaking me for one."