Time stopped meaning anything.
At first, Keith tried to count. Steps. Breaths. The number of times the lights flickered before going dark again. But the rhythm never stayed the same long enough to hold onto. Sometimes the lamps stayed lit for what felt like hours. Other times, darkness swallowed everything almost immediately.
They were doing it on purpose.
The cage was just large enough to sit in. Not stand. Not lie down properly. The metal floor was cold, always damp, and faintly warm in places where others had bled before him. The air smelled worse as time passed—sweat, rust, old pain that no amount of cleaning could erase.
They didn't speak to him.
That was the worst part.
When the door opened, it was never to ask questions. Never to explain. Hands would drag him out, force him upright, chain him in place. The pain came next—precise, controlled, measured. Always stopping just before his body could give up completely.
Then healing.
Warmth would flood through his veins, knitting torn muscle and cracked skin back together with cruel efficiency. The pain vanished, but the memory of it didn't. It stayed sharp, fresh, layered on top of everything that came before.
That was the method.
Break the body. Restore it. Repeat.
Keith understood it far too well.
They weren't trying to kill him. They were trying to teach him something. Not obedience—yet. Endurance. Limits. How much a person could take before something inside them gave way.
He refused to scream.
Not because he was brave. Because he knew screaming was data. Reaction was data. And data was what they were collecting.
Between sessions, he was returned to the cage.
Sometimes he caught glimpses of others being dragged past. Some fought. Some begged. Some were already empty-eyed, moving only when pulled. A few never came back.
Keith learned not to watch too closely.
But he listened.
Chains clinking. Boots scraping stone. Distant snarling—low, eager, animal. He never saw the source, but the sound alone was enough to turn his stomach.
Dogs, someone whispered once as they were hauled past.
Big ones.
That night—if it was night—Keith noticed something else.
The faint pressure inside his chest stirred.
Not flaring. Not leaking. Just… reacting.
Every time pain struck, that presence seemed to tense, like a muscle wanting to contract. Keith forced it down immediately, smothering it before it could do anything noticeable. Instinct screamed at him to use it, to cling to whatever advantage he had.
But instinct was exactly what this place punished.
Anything unusual would be noticed.
Anything noticed would be dissected.
So he endured.
Across the chamber, separated by walls and distance, the girl endured too.
He knew because sometimes, between the opening and closing of doors, he heard her breathing. Ragged at first. Then steadier. Controlled. Just like his.
That knowledge mattered more than he wanted to admit.
It meant she hadn't broken.
Yet.
The routines blurred together.
Pain. Healing. Return.
Pain. Healing. Return.
Food came irregularly—thin broth, tasteless and warm, just enough to keep him functional. Water was rationed. Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by lights or noise or hands yanking him upright again.
Keith adapted.
He learned how to relax muscles before impact. How to let joints go slack to reduce damage. How to breathe through pain so it didn't steal consciousness from him too early.
He learned how to survive inside a system designed to erase people.
What he didn't learn—what they clearly wanted—was submission.
And that frustrated them.
He could tell by the way the sessions changed. Slightly longer pauses. Slightly stronger force. New tools introduced, then discarded when they didn't produce the desired result.
Still, he stayed quiet.
Still, he stayed small.
Still, he hid everything.
One day—maybe weeks in—something went wrong.
The healing came late.
Too late.
Keith lay on the floor, vision blurring, breath shallow, body refusing to respond. Cold crept into his fingers, then his arms. He recognized the signs immediately. Shock. Real damage. The kind they didn't usually allow.
For the first time since being brought here, fear cut through him cleanly.
Not of pain.
Of ending like the others.
The warmth finally came, flooding his system harshly, violently. His body convulsed as tissue rebuilt itself in a rush, nerves screaming as sensation returned all at once. He gasped, sucking in air like he'd been drowning.
The door remained open longer than usual.
Someone stood there, watching.
Keith kept his eyes half-lidded, unfocused.
The man spoke quietly, almost thoughtfully.
"Interesting," he said. "Most would have shown something by now."
Keith said nothing.
The door closed.
After that, the sessions slowed.
Not stopped. Slowed.
As if they were reassessing.
Keith didn't know what that meant yet. But he knew one thing for certain: places like this didn't reassess unless they were planning to change how they used you.
That night, lying in his cage, every nerve aching despite the healing, Keith made a decision.
He wouldn't escape yet.
He wouldn't resist openly.
He would wait.
Because whatever came next—transfer, sale, reassignment—it would be outside these walls.
And outside these walls, mistakes were possible.
Somewhere, not far away, the girl was still breathing.
That was enough.
For now.