Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
The pillar draws my attention next—a thick wooden beam meant for restraint and endurance. My imagination supplies images of being bound there, arms overhead, while Giovanni circles me like a predator. The fantasy sends an unwelcome pulse of desire through my core.
Jesus Christ, Emmaleen. Your survival instincts are clearly broken.
But it's only natural, right? Stockholm Syndrome starts somewhere. First you fear your captor, then you start to understand them, then you begin to identify with them. A perfectly predictable psychological response to prolonged stress and isolation.
Except I walked into this cage voluntarily. Signed the papers. Asked for seconds.
That makes me either the world's most committed researcher or the world's most elaborate suicide case.
A small nightlight near the floor catches my eye—subtle, almost hidden in the shadows. It illuminates what I hadn't noticed before: another door, smaller than the main entrance, set into the far wall.
I approach cautiously, half-expecting it to be locked or booby-trapped. But the handle turns easily, revealing a narrow corridor that opens into...
A bedroom. If you can call it that.
The space is roughly ten by twelve feet, concrete walls painted institutional white. A single steel-frame twin bed dominates the center, topped with a thin mattress covered in medical-grade vinyl. No sheets, no blanket, no pillow—no comfort items of any kind.
It's like a prison cell decorated by someone with a degree in Psychological Warfare.
In one corner, a toilet. In the other, an open bathtub. No privacy screen, no curtain, just exposed plumbing and a set of institutional soaps lined up like soldiers. A single white hand towel hangs from a hook.
The message is clear: even basic human functions exist at Giovanni's discretion, under his observation.
But what really catches my attention is the small tray sitting on the single nightstand. Food that's clearly been waiting here all day—two slices of bread, now hard and crusty from exposure, four slices of what looks like salami or hard sausage, and a glass of water.
No one has entered this room since I arrived. This meal was placed here this morning, before I even showed up to play Giovanni's games. He planned this entire day down to my bedtime snack.
The level of premeditation should be terrifying. Instead, I find it oddly reassuring. Giovanni's not improvising his cruelty—he's following a script. Scripts can be analyzed, predicted, potentially subverted.
I pee—only realizing the urgency of this basic bodily function when it’s over—and then quickly eat the stale bread and sausage. Not bothering to savor flavors that were probably unremarkable even when fresh. The sausage was salty and dry, but my body needs protein after today's physical demands. The water tastes metallic but goes down easily.
Eat, bathe, dress, sleep.
One down, three to go. But standing naked in this surveillance-adjacent bathroom, contemplating whether I have the energy for basic hygiene, I make an executive decision.
Bathing can wait until tomorrow. I'm too exhausted to care about cleanliness protocols right now.
I collapse onto the narrow bed without bothering to analyze whether skipping the bathing portion of Giovanni's command constitutes rebellion or just practical time management. The vinyl mattress cover crinkles under my weight, cold against my skin.
The room is kept slightly cool—another deliberate discomfort, no doubt. But after hours of psychological warfare, physical exhaustion wins over environmental complaints.
My eyes close before I can catalog any more control mechanisms built into my assigned sleeping quarters.
The last thing I register is the soft hum of ventilation and the complete absence of natural light—designed to disorient, to remove any connection to normal circadian rhythms.
But none of that matters right now.
Sleep comes fast and hard, dragging me under like an anesthetic.
The distant sound of a creaking door makes my entire nervous system detonate.
I'm sitting up before my brain even registers movement, heart jackhammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape through bone and cartilage. The darkness is so complete I might as well be wearing a blindfold, but every survival instinct I've developed over twenty-four years of questionable life choices is now screaming DANGER in surround sound.
There's no way to tell what time it is in this windowless bunker. Could be midnight. Could be 3 a.m. Could be next fucking Tuesday for all I know. Giovanni probably designed it this way—temporal disorientation as psychological warfare. Because why let your captive maintain something as basic as circadian rhythm awareness?
My whole body feels like I've been hit by a truck driven by someone with a personal vendetta against my muscle groups. Every joint aches. Every tendon feels stretched beyond manufacturer specifications. Master's "conditioning" program apparently doubles as medieval torture disguised as physical therapy.
Please don't let this be morning. Please don't let this be the start of Day Two.
Footsteps approach through the darkness—measured, deliberate, the kind of walk that says I own this space and everything in it.
Panic floods my system. I launch myself out of bed, vinyl mattress crackling in protest, eyes wide and useless in the near-blackness. My feet hit cold concrete, and every nerve ending fires at once.