The sound stopped.
But its echo stayed behind, buzzing in my skull.
Jason was still crouched, breathing hard. I watched his shoulders rise and fall in silence. He didn't speak. Neither did I.
Minutes passed—maybe seconds. Time felt strange in that room.
He finally looked up, voice low. "They don't want us dead."
I blinked at him. "What?"
"If they wanted us dead, we'd already be gone. They want something."
I nodded slowly. "Information."
He pressed his palm to the cold floor like he was grounding himself. "They want to see how far we'll go before we break."
I shivered. "Then we can't give them what they want."
Jason didn't respond. His gaze moved to the corner where the bucket of water sat. He walked over and kicked it hard.
It didn't spill.
"They're watching," he muttered. "And they're not just here for me."
As if summoned by his words, the speaker crackled again.
"You're catching on," said a new voice—male, smooth, and almost amused. "But you're late to the game."
Jason squared his stance. "Who are you?"
Silence.
Then: "That depends. Who do you think we are? Your past? Your punishment?"
He didn't answer.
"You'll find out soon enough," the voice said. "But for now, let's see what she remembers."
The line went dead.
Jason turned to me sharply. "Janica—what do they mean?"
But I didn't answer.
Because something inside me had just clicked.
A memory. A whisper. A room like this one, years ago.
And one name I hadn't thought of in a long, long time.