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A sound from the side—a sharp, electrical buzz—and then pain explodes along my ribs, a current of agony that makes my back arch against the restraints and a scream tear from my throat. It lasts only a second, maybe two, but it leaves me gasping, tears springing to my eyes.

I hadn’t even seen the man approach, hadn’t noticed the device in his hand until it was pressed against my side, delivering its message with brutal efficiency.

“I told you,” the red mask says, his voice unchanged, as if he hadn’t just watched me being shocked. “The next lie wouldn’t be pretty. Try again, Rhea. What did you do?”

The threat of another shock hangs in the air, and I can’t bear the thought of that pain again. My body is still trembling from the aftershocks, muscles twitching involuntarily.

“I killed someone,” I gasp out, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I killed Jack.”

The air in the room seems to still. None of the masked figures move, as if they’re waiting for more.

“Why?” The red mask asks, his tone neutral, giving nothing away.

I swallow, tasting salt and fear. “He... he tried to rape me,” I say, the words coming out in a rush now. “It was self-defense. I swear to God, it was self-defense.”

A silence falls over the room, heavy and significant. The men exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them.

“Prove it,” the red mask finally says. “Tell me what happened that night.”

I close my eyes briefly, forcing myself to breathe through the panic threatening to overwhelm me. When I open them again, I look directly at the red mask, willing him to believe me.

“It was Halloween,” I begin, my voice steadier now despite the tears still streaming down my face.

“I was at a party at the Delta Sigma Rho house. I didn’t want to go, but my roommate convinced me.

” The memories flood back, vivid and painful.

“I met Jack at the party. We danced, had some drinks. He seemed nice at first.”

I pause, gathering myself. The man with the shock device shifts his weight, a subtle reminder of what awaits if I try to lie again.

“He asked me to go upstairs with him, and I... I went. But when we got to a room, I started feeling weird about it. I told him I wanted to leave, but he grabbed me, wouldn’t let me go.

” The words come faster now, tumbling out as I relive the moment.

“He pushed me onto the bed, and I... I fought back. I grabbed a bottle and hit him with it, but he kept coming. So I pushed him off me, as hard as I could, and he fell back.”

I can see it all so clearly—Jack stumbling backward, the look on his face, the sickening sound as his head connected with the bureau. The blood, so much blood, spreading out beneath him.

“He hit his head on the bureau,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “There was blood everywhere. And he just... he wasn’t moving. I panicked. I tried to get out through the window, and that’s when...”

I stop, the memory of the masked stranger—Thatcher—appearing in the doorway flashing through my mind. How do I explain that part? Do they know about Thatcher’s involvement?

“That’s when what?” The red mask prompts, stepping closer.

“That’s when I ran,” I say, deciding to skip over Thatcher’s appearance. “I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. So I ran away.” My voice breaks on the last word, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks. “It was self-defense. I swear. I never meant to kill him.”

The man with the shock device steps closer, and I flinch, a sob catching in my throat. “I’m telling the truth!” I scream, the words ripping from me with desperate force. “Please, I’m telling the truth! He was going to hurt me, I didn’t have a choice!”

Adrenaline courses through me, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, my fingertips, the soles of my feet. The fear of another shock, of more pain, has stripped away any pretense, any attempt at control. I’m raw, exposed, terrified.

The red mask studies me for a long moment, then raises a hand to halt the man with the shock device. “I believe you,” he says finally, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “About that part, at least.”

Relief floods through me, so powerful I nearly slump in the chair despite the restraints. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I try to calm myself, to process what’s happening.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice hoarse from screaming. “Why am I here? Where is this place?”

The red mask ignores my questions, stepping closer until he’s directly in front of me, his masked face level with mine. “Did you know Jack before that night?”

I shake my head, confused by the question. “No, I’d never met him before. I didn’t even know his name until after... after it happened.”

“Were you hired to kill him?”

The question is so unexpected, so bizarre, that for a moment I can’t even process it. “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

“Answer the question.” His voice is harder now, all trace of gentleness gone. “Were you hired to kill Jack?”

“No!” I say emphatically, bewildered by the direction this interrogation has taken. “No, I wasn’t hired by anyone. It was just... it was a horrible accident. I told you, he tried to force himself on me, and I fought back. That’s all.”

The red mask stares at me for what feels like an eternity, the blank face of the mask revealing nothing of the thoughts behind it. Then, with a flick of his hand, he signals to the others.

Without a word, they begin to file out of the room, their footsteps echoing on the concrete floor.

I watch them go, desperately searching for any clue, any hint of Thatcher among them.

Their builds, the way they move, anything that might be familiar.

But there’s nothing recognizable about any of them.

And then they’re gone, the heavy door closing behind them with a definitive thud, leaving me alone in the dim room, still bound to the chair.

Silence settles around me like a physical weight.

I strain my ears, trying to catch any sound from beyond the door—voices, footsteps, anything that might give me a clue about what happens next.

But there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of the light bulb overhead and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time loses all meaning in this windowless room, with nothing to mark its passage but the steady throb of pain in my wrists where the restraints have rubbed them raw.

Exhaustion tugs at me, the adrenaline crash leaving me hollow and drained. But I can’t relax, can’t let my guard down. Not here. Not now.

So I wait, alone with my thoughts and the creeping fear that this silent solitude might be worse than whatever came before.