The lower cell was worse than the kennels.
Not because of the physical conditions, though those were bad. Stone walls, no bed, just bare floor. A bucket in the corner. Cold that seeped through the walls and settled in his bones.
But worse because it meant something different. The kennels had been punishment from a sadist. This was something clinical. Structured. Saunder's disapproval felt colder than Elrin's rage.
Two days John spent there. Food came once, a thin soup and stale bread. Water came twice. The rest was just cold and silence and the growing suspicion that his new owner might be worse than the old one in ways he couldn't quite articulate.
On the third day, the door opened.
Saunder stood there, impeccably dressed as always, holding the leather journal.
"Good morning. I trust you've had time to consider our last session?"
John's voice came out as a rasp. "Yes, my lord."
"Excellent. We're moving to phase two of the resilience studies. Follow me."
John followed, his legs weak from disuse. They descended further, past the level of the lower cells, down stairs that got progressively cruder until they were barely more than carved stone.
The bottom level was different. No cells, just open space. Stone walls, stone floor, no insulation, no heating. Wind whistled through gaps in the masonry. The temperature was brutal.
Two guards waited there. They didn't look at John with cruelty or even interest. Just professional detachment.
"Strip," Saunder said conversationally, opening his journal to a fresh page.
"My lord?"
"Your clothes. Remove them. The trial requires baseline body temperature without insulation."
John's hands moved to his shirt, stopped. "Please, I don't—"
"This is science, John. I need controlled variables. Clothing introduces too many thermal protection factors. Strip."
The guards stepped closer. Not threatening, just ready to assist if necessary.
John stripped. The cold hit his skin immediately. He crossed his arms over his chest instinctively, trying to preserve heat.
"Good. Now, this trial tests knowledge retention under physical stress." Saunder pulled out a sheet of paper covered in neat script. "I've compiled questions about your claimed Earth knowledge. Science, geography, history, cultural details. You'll answer each question. Correct answers allow you to leave. Wrong answers extend your exposure by one hour each."
John's teeth were already chattering. "How many questions?"
"Twenty. Though you only need to answer correctly enough to survive. Shall we begin?"
No choice. Never any choice.
"Yes, my lord."
Saunder consulted his list. "First question. You claim Earth has multiple continents. Name them in order of size, largest to smallest."
John's mind raced. Asia was biggest. Then Africa. Then North America? Or was it South America? Europe was small. Antarctica. Australia was smallest.
"Asia, Africa, North America, South America, Antarctica, Europe, Australia."
Saunder checked his notes. "Antarctica is larger than South America. Incorrect. One hour."
"What? No, I—"
"Next question. The capital of this 'Japan' you claim to remember?"
"Tokyo."
"Correct. Third question. Human body contains what percentage of water?"
John's mind blanked. Sixty percent? Seventy? "Seventy percent?"
"Sixty. Close, but accuracy matters in science. Incorrect. Two hours total now."
The cold was getting worse. John's body shook continuously.
"Fourth question. Primary language spoken in Brazil?"
"Spanish?" John guessed.
"Portuguese. Three hours. Fifth question—"
It went on. Twenty questions, delivered with clinical precision. John's knowledge of Earth, the world he'd supposedly come from, proved embarrassingly spotty. Things he should know, basic facts any actual person from Earth would remember, slipped through his freezing mind.
By question fifteen, he'd accumulated six wrong answers. Six hours of exposure.
"Sixteen. Chemical formula for water."
"H2O." Finally, an easy one.
"Correct. Seventeen. Year World War Two ended?"
"1945."
"Correct. Eighteen. Distance from Earth to its moon in kilometers?"
John's mind was slush. Numbers meant nothing. "I don't know. Three hundred thousand?"
"Three hundred eighty four thousand four hundred. Seven hours total now. I'm being generous rounding down."
"Please—"
"Nineteen. Author of Romeo and Juliet?"
"Shakespeare."
"Full name."
"William Shakespeare."
"Correct. Final question. If you truly came from Earth, from Japan specifically, what was your address?"
John opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
He couldn't remember.
The apartment in Saitama, where he'd lived with his father and stepmother. The address should be immediate, automatic. But his mind produced nothing. Just blankness.
"I... I don't..."
Saunder watched him, quill poised. "Take your time. Your address. The place you lived. Should be simple."
Tears froze on John's cheeks. "I can't remember. I can't—"
"Incorrect. Six hours total. Wait." Saunder made a note. "Actually, this is particularly interesting. The inability to recall personal details suggests either traumatic memory suppression or, more likely, that these memories were never real to begin with. Confabulated rather than experienced."
He closed the journal with a snap.
"Six hours. Beginning now. Guards, ensure he doesn't lose consciousness and freeze to death. We need him functional for future trials."
Saunder walked toward the stairs.
"Wait!" John's voice cracked. "Please, my lord, I'll do better, I'll remember more—"
"This isn't punishment, John. It's data collection. Your suffering provides valuable information about the resilience of delusional frameworks under physical stress."
He paused at the base of the stairs.
"Though I admit, watching you realize your Earth memories are fragmentary and unreliable is gratifying. Not emotionally gratifying, you understand. Intellectually. The scientific validation of my hypothesis."
He climbed the stairs without looking back.
The door at the top closed. Locked.
John stood naked in the freezing room, his body already shutting down non essential functions to preserve core temperature. The guards watched impassively from the corners.
Six hours.
He'd done six questions wrong. Six simple questions about the world he'd supposedly lived in for eighteen years.
And he couldn't remember his own address.
Saunder's voice echoed in his head. Not cruel. Not angry. Just clinically interested in watching delusions crumble.
Pure narcissism dressed up as science.
A man so detached from empathy that torture became data points.
John's legs gave out. He collapsed to the stone floor, curled into the tightest ball possible, and waited for six hours to pass.