Page 7 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

T he first thing I register is the weight. My limbs feel dull, slow to report back. My mouth is dry. Head full of static.

For a second—just one—I think of Ava. Panic flares, fast and sharp. Instinct, not logic. She wasn’t with me. She’s safe. That’s the only thing I know for sure, so I hang onto it like oxygen.

The walls are white. Bare. Nothing personal. Not lived-in—staged. That’s worse.

I don’t move. Sometimes the only advantage you have is letting them think you’re weaker than you are.

My pulse throbs at my temple—slow and heavy, like a drumbeat.

There’s pressure at my wrists and ankles. Not painful, just firm. Padded restraints. A touch of concern with a locked buckle. How thoughtful.

Then I feel it—something lower.

A deeper discomfort. Internal. Anchored.

It takes me a second to name it, a moment to register the pressure—low, internal.

A catheter.

What the fuck?

My stomach turns.

Of course. Wouldn’t want a hostage ruining the linen.

The bed’s too soft to be punishment, too precise to be comfort. High thread count. No creases. The kind that says: lie still, look pretty, don’t bleed on the sheets.

Everything feels arranged.

Cool air. No drafts. No street noise. No footsteps overhead.

That means distance. Seclusion.

This isn’t just a room in a house.

It’s a setup.

A place where a person can take their time.

A holding space. Temporary. Which makes it worse.

I don’t open my eyes. If they think I’m still out, that’s leverage I’m not giving up yet.

There’s a sound to my left—leather shifting, breathing that isn’t mine. Close.

I shift my fingers slightly, testing sensation. I keep my breath even. Not because I’m calm. Because I’ve learned what panic costs, and I can’t afford that kind of debt right now.

Footsteps cross the room. Steady. Intentional.

Not a man in a hurry.

A man who knows exactly how long it takes to make someone afraid.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Dry. Tacky. Whatever he used—it was clean, fast, absolute. No struggle. No warning. Just lights out.

He didn’t want me dead. He wanted me quiet.

That’s good. Not safe—just useful. Dead is harder to negotiate with.

I shift again, just enough to feel the blanket over my legs. Soft. Light.

Tucked too neatly. That’s the part that gets me.

This wasn’t rushed. This was well-planned.

I take in the sharp edges of the moment. Not the how. Not the why. Just the what. What I have. What I can use.

Because whoever brought me here—whoever drugged me, stripped me, restrained me—whoever thought I’d fold just because they made it look polite—doesn’t know the first thing about me.

In the corner, the chair shifts. Footsteps approach.

And then his voice, cool and unhurried: “Open your eyes.”

That voice. Like he’s used to being obeyed. Like even furniture might listen.

I can’t help but sigh.

Here we go again.