Page 12 of Hallow’s Crown

The way the question lands is like a punch to the gut. “Yeah,” I say, voice nearly a whisper.

“Do you regret it?”

My throat tightens. “Yes. I was forced as part of initiation. Do or die.”

The right mask holds the tablet closer. “Are you capable of remorse?”

I want to scream. “Yes. Just ask your questions.”

The three figures confer, then middle mask steps up to the edge of the light. The first time I see detail in the mask: it’s seamless, not even a slit for air. The eyes behind are dark, but I sense a presence, watching every micro-twitch of my face.

“Why did you not attempt to escape when you realized you were trapped?”

My mind flashes back to the couch, the spinning water bottle, the feeling of inevitability. “I did. I looked. There was no way out,” I say, then add, “I don’t waste energy on hope.”

“Do you wish you were dead?”

I laugh, but it turns into a cough. “Sometimes. Not right now.”

The three stand silent for a stretch. I listen to my heart pound, counting off the beats. I try not to look away.

“Would you kill, if ordered?”

The room goes cold. My skin prickles. I think of prison, the fights, the way a command from the wrong person was a death sentence. “Depends who’s asking.”

A new voice, not filtered, not synthetic, comes from behind. Deep, calm, the same as in the living room.

“What if I ask?” The man from before steps into the light, still in the same dark suit, face naked and controlled. His eyes are the same: watching, not judging. Just measuring.

He walks a slow circle, the others stepping back. He studies the way my arms are twisted in the cuffs, the way my jaw clenches, the way I can’t stop tracking his every move. He stops just out of reach, folds his arms, and waits.

I say, “What the fuck is this?”

He says, “It’s a test. We want to see who you are when the masks are off.”

I stare at him, defiant. “Funny then, that my captors are all masked, isn’t it?”

He looks at the figures. “Escalate.”

The left mask moves to a metal cart at the edge of the room. A tray slides out—more cuffs, lengths of tubing, something that looks like a cattle prod. They select a pair of adhesive pads and slap them onto the inside of my forearms. I try to jerk away, but my body won’t listen.

The whine returns, louder, and the metal cuffs start to vibrate. It’s a low, bone-deep buzz, and I realize after a moment that it’s not just noise—it's an electric current, not enough to burn, just enough to make every muscle cramp. The pain is sharp, then dulls to a throb. I grit my teeth.

The middle mask: “Would you betray your own for survival?”

“Define ‘own,’” I say, voice strained.

“Anyone you cared for.”

I spit at the mask. “Not a lot of those left.”

“Would you betray a stranger?”

“No.”

They crank the juice. My teeth clack together.

“Would you betray yourself?” The right one leans close. I see my own reflection in the mask—sweat, blood, eyes wild.