Time didn't slow.
It sharpened.
Thirty seconds sounded generous until every second started to feel like a blade pressed closer to skin.
On one screen, Tara sat bound to a chair, her head bowed, shoulders trembling. On another, my apartment,my space, occupied by someone who knew me well enough to smile at the camera like this was a game we'd planned together.
And between them stood the woman, calm as ever, waiting for my answer.
"What exactly are you asking me to give up?" I said.
She didn't reply immediately. She didn't have to. Her silence was deliberate, an invitation for me to imagine the worst version first.
"Access," she said finally. "Names. Patterns. Everything you've been holding back because you still want to believe you're different."
"I already gave you information," I snapped. "I crossed your line."
She turned to face me fully. "You crossed a line. Not the one that matters."
My chest felt too tight, like my ribs had shrunk overnight.
"And if I don't?" I asked.
She glanced at the screens. "Then we stop protecting what you love."
The word protecting almost made me laugh.
I looked at Tara again. Her hair was messy, her wrists red where the restraints bit into her skin. She lifted her head just enough for me to see her face.
She wasn't crying anymore.
She was waiting.
For me.
The realization landed hard and ugly.
"She wouldn't forgive me," I whispered.
The woman followed my gaze. "Forgiveness is a luxury people like us can't afford."
My phone buzzed again.
Second Name: You still have time. Don't do this.
My hands trembled.
"Why is he still messaging me?" I demanded. "If you're so powerful, why can't you stop him?"
The woman smiled faintly. "Because this isn't about power. It's about choice."
I hated her for that.
I hated myself more.
"What happens if I give you what you want?" I asked quietly.
She didn't sugarcoat it. "You become visible."
The word settled in my bones.
Visible meant traceable. Useful. Watched.
Changed.
"And Tara?" I asked.
"She walks out alive."
"And him?" I nodded toward the screen showing my apartment.
Her expression didn't change. "He stops being untouchable."
That was not the same as safe.
I closed my eyes.
I saw Tara at thirteen, braiding my hair before school. Tara at nineteen, holding my hand when I cried over my first real heartbreak. Tara last night, bleeding over broken glass and still trying to stand in front of me like a shield.
"You said I adapted," I said. "What happens after that?"
She studied me. "After adaptation comes alignment."
I opened my eyes.
"I want proof," I said.
"Of what?"
"That you'll keep your word."
She gestured, and one of the screens shifted.
Live footage.
A different room.
Tara's restraints were being removed.
She looked up sharply, eyes wide with confusion.
Hope.
It hurt to see it.
"Five minutes," the woman said. "That's what cooperation buys her."
I laughed once, bitter and broken. "You really know how to sell damnation."
"I know how to recognize survivors," she replied.
I picked up my phone.
My reflection stared back at me from the dark screen. I barely recognized the woman looking back.
"I'll give you access," I said. "But not everything."
Her eyes sharpened. "Careful."
"I'm careful," I replied. "That's why I'm still breathing."
I unlocked the folder on my phone, the one I'd never planned to share. Notes. Timelines. Names I'd circled and uncircled a hundred times. Connections I'd sensed before I'd understood them.
I sent the first batch.
The woman's phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, then back at me. "This is a start."
"It's all you're getting today."
She considered me for a long moment.
Then she nodded. "Fair."
The screen showing my apartment flickered.
The second name froze mid-step.
Someone else entered the frame.
Not law enforcement.
Not anyone official.
Someone he recognized.
His smile vanished.
For the first time since this began, I felt something like balance shift.
My phone buzzed again.
Second Name: What did you do?
I didn't reply.
I couldn't.
Because the truth had finally caught up to me.
I wasn't reacting anymore.
I was participating.
The woman turned to Evan. "Get her ready."
"For what?" I asked.
"For what comes after leverage," she replied. "Once people know you'll choose, they start testing how far you'll go."
The screens dimmed.
Tara's feed went dark.
My apartment vanished from view.
And suddenly, there was only me, standing in a room where my silence had already rewritten the rules.
As Evan led me toward the door, I realized something that made my stomach drop.
This wasn't the moment I became dangerous.
It was the moment they decided I was useful.
And people like that never stop asking.