The crimson room had a subtle menace to it.
Previously, Delilah sat restrained in the chair at the center, blindfolded with hands and legs bound tightly, with Holly seated facing her.
Now, though they remained in the same positions, Delilah seemed uncomfortable, barely paying attention to the thirteen-year-old's words.
Her lips were dry, and her mouth was bleeding from where she'd been constantly biting her lips and tongue. Her leg trembled with barely contained impatience, and she was noticeably less active than usual.
Holly seemed oblivious to this subtle change, though perhaps he noticed and simply didn't care. He kept talking, asking, and answering his own questions as if laughing at his own jokes wasn't sufficient amusement.
"I see now. He doesn't even know you think of him as a brother. That alone could explain why he's less active… unless he truly has what it takes. In that case, you wouldn't have to tell him."
