Page 14 of Shadow Waltz

Fighting back wasn't a luxury. It was the only thing that kept you human.

Time crawled by. Dinner was served on plastic trays, the kind of institutional food that tasted like cardboard and regret. I ate anyway, forcing myself to consume calories that might matter later, when I needed strength for whatever was coming.

As the hours passed, the energy in the room shifted. Guards appeared more frequently, staff moved with increased urgency, and the sense that something big was approaching grew stronger. Classical music began playing through hidden speakers, the kind of refined accompaniment you might hear at a gallery opening or charity gala.

The irony wasn't lost on me. They were treating this like culture, like art, like something beautiful instead of the human abattoir it really was.

“Time to go,” a guard announced from the doorway.

This was it. The moment I'd been preparing for, dreading, planning around. I stood up slowly, spine straight, head high, refusing to be hurried or intimidated. Miguel did the same, andaround the room, other lots followed suit with varying degrees of composure.

As we filed toward the door, Miguel leaned close enough to whisper in my ear. “Whatever happens in there, remember who you are.”

“I will if you will.”

“Deal.”

We were halfway down the corridor when Miguel stumbled, his shoulder bumping into the wall. The guard behind him barked an order to keep moving, but Miguel had stopped completely, doubled over and coughing hard enough that I could hear it echoing off the concrete walls.

“I said move,” the guard repeated, jabbing Miguel in the ribs with his baton.

Miguel straightened up slowly, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his bound hands. “Give me a fucking second,” he said, his voice hoarse but still carrying that edge of defiance that had kept him alive through three trips through this hell.

That was his mistake.

The guard's radio crackled to life, and a voice I recognized as Carina's came through crisp and clear: “Is there a problem with Lot 16?”

“Subject is being non-compliant,” the guard replied, his finger still on the radio button. “Refusing to maintain pace, talking back to staff.”

There was a pause that felt like the whole world holding its breath. Around us, the other lots had stopped moving, creating a traffic jam in the corridor that drew more attention from guards stationed at intervals along the walls.

“Lot 16 has a history of disruption,” Carina's voice said through the static. “Liquidate the defective merchandise and proceed with the schedule.”

The words hit me like ice water to the veins. I turned toward Miguel, opening my mouth to say something, anything, but the guard was already drawing his weapon. The same casual efficiency I'd seen in the photography room, the same businesslike approach to ending a human life.

“Wait,” Miguel said, and for the first time since I'd met him, he sounded scared. “Wait, I'll cooperate. I won't cause any more problems.”

But the guard wasn't listening anymore. His orders were clear, and defective merchandise didn't improve with negotiation.

“Miguel,” I said, his real name instead of his lot number, because I needed him to know that someone remembered who he'd been before this place reduced him to inventory.

He looked at me, and his expression shifted from fear to something that looked almost like relief. “Remember what I told you,” he said quietly. “About who you are.”

The gunshot was deafeningly loud in the narrow corridor, echoing off the walls like thunder trapped in a cave. Miguel crumpled to the floor, his gray uniform spreading dark with blood that pooled beneath him like spilled paint. His eyes were still open, still looking at me, but the light behind them had gone out like someone switching off a lamp.

“Clean that up,” the guard said into his radio, holstering his weapon like he'd just completed routine maintenance. “Send a crew to corridor three.”

Two more guards appeared with a plastic tarp and industrial cleaning supplies, approaching Miguel's body with the same detached professionalism they might bring to mopping up a spilled drink. One of them nudged Miguel's shoulder with his boot to check if he was really dead, a gesture so casual it made my vision blur red around the edges.

“Keep moving,” our escort said, stepping over Miguel's body like it was a piece of debris instead of a person who'd been breathing thirty seconds ago. “Schedule to maintain.”

I had to walk past him. Had to step over the spreading pool of blood, had to leave Miguel behind like he was nothing more than a speed bump on the way to our own destruction. The smell of gunpowder and copper filled my nostrils, and I could taste metal in the back of my throat.

Behind me, I could hear the cleanup crew getting to work, the sound of the tarp being unfolded and boots squelching in blood. By tomorrow, there would be no trace that Miguel Santos had ever existed, no evidence that a man who'd survived two trips through this system had finally run out of luck and time.

The corridor stretched ahead of us, leading to those auction room doors and whatever fresh nightmare waited beyond them. But all I could think about was Miguel's last words, the way he'd looked at me like he was passing on some kind of responsibility.

Remember who you are.