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Gillian

T he email went out two hours after I locked the door. Subject line: Business Continuity, Chicago Travel .

I copied the internal calendar, the comms director, even Andra. Booked a real flight on his behalf and added a fake hotel reservation with a view. The trip appears legitimate. Ellis Harrison is out of office until further notice, per standard protocol. One minute later, I forwarded it to Helper 99 with a single line: “Do not schedule resets while he’s away. Testing in progress.”

He’s technically my oversight contact. Functionally, my handler.

He’ll think it’s protocol. He always does. I didn’t build the system. I just studied it long enough to know how to impersonate someone who did. The phone is dead. The cameras are mine. The failsafes rerouted. It took months. A thousand stolen seconds. Pages and pages of notes. But now I know where to cut the wire so no one hears the alarm.

The panic room is on the first floor, hidden behind custom paneling. No windows, no ladder. A hatch in the ceiling leads to a second-floor closet—meant for emergency access. I removed the rungs weeks ago, leaving it a vertical box too high to climb out of. The vents are sealed tight, designed to refresh the air without offering any entry.

I use the hatch when I need to. It opens one way.

Day One is mostly watching. He wakes up disoriented, tries the door, tests the panel with his palm like he thinks it’s a glitch. He says my name once, then again. The second time, there’s an edge in it—command. I don’t answer. I let him speak into silence.

He tries the cameras. One red light blinks in the corner. I want him to think maybe someone’s watching. I just don’t want him to know who. He moves through the room like a man wearing the illusion of choice.

When the hatch opens, he jumps like I’ve shot him. But it’s only a single folded towel. No food. No water. Just the towel—useless, unless you’re planning to bleed. He grabs it anyway, inspects it like it might mean something more. When it doesn’t, he throws it at the door. It leaves a red smear. He’s already split his lip—anger or panic, I can’t tell. Either way, he passed the first test.

By nightfall, he’s pacing. Dry-mouthed. Slower now. He tries the door again. Clears his throat and says, “Water,” like it’s a suggestion, not a need. Then again, firmer: “I need water.”

I don’t answer. He kicks the door, once. Then sinks down in the corner. His head tips back. He exhales through his nose like that alone will get him through.

He pisses in the opposite corner just before lights-out. Tries to hide it, like he’s still in charge of what I see. Like dignity might matter.

Day Two, he starts yelling. At first, it’s in that clipped, professional voice he uses in crisis meetings—the one where he pretends he’s still delegating. I mute the feed. Let him waste oxygen.

Later, he tries kindness. “Gillian,” he says, softly. “I know you’re scared.”

I slide a set of keys through the hatch—old ones, not for this room. They belonged to me once. A reminder. He doesn’t touch them. I send a photo next—me and Kevin, three years ago, before I worked at the company, before Ellis. I look young. Open. Happy. He stares at it a long time before folding it in half and tossing it aside.

No food. No water. I want the body to start whispering to him before I do. Let him wake up with his tongue thick, his stomach turning on itself. Let him think it’s coming. Soon. Just not yet.

Day Three, he starts pacing again. Five steps across, five back. He counts under his breath. Sometimes he stops, rubs his temple like the pressure’s building behind his eyes. I used to get migraines, too, after the resets.

I pipe in ambient noise—distant wind, low thunder. Just enough to make sleep impossible. He starts talking to himself.

By evening, he pisses in the corner again. The smell starts to rise. I drop the temperature—not enough to kill him, just enough to make him slow. The kind of cold that steals hours. When he shivers, I watch his fingers twitch against his thighs like he’s trying not to scratch his own skin off.

Still no food. Still no water. I let the hunger do its work. Let the thirst crawl. That night, I give him something else: the sound of his own voice, played backward. Just enough to make him question what’s real, what’s a glitch, and what’s in his head. I want him to feel it in his bones before he makes sense of it.