Her cell was an abyss, devoid of time or change, where seconds felt like hours and hours like days.
Harper’s fingers traced the cold, unforgiving floor, each groove and imperfection a tactile map of her confinement. It had become familiar to her—too familiar—its ridges and imperfections worn into her palms from hours of restless tracing. She could feel the grit beneath her nails, the slight throbbing of her wrist, and her stomach churning with hunger.
But it was the thirst. It was the thirst that clawed at her most relentlessly, insidious and consuming.
Every breath seemed to parch her further, the air carrying no moisture, no life. She swallowed against the dryness, but her throat felt like sandpaper, each movement scraping away at what little resolve she had left. It was cruel how her mind betrayed her, conjuring images she couldn’t escape, couldn’t afford to linger on.
Of Water. Not just drinking it—though the thought of a cool, steady stream slipping past her cracked lips was maddening—but feeling it. The memory rushed forward unbidden: the cold shock of diving into the ocean, her body slicing through the surface as sunlight dappled the water around her. She could almost feel the salty spray clinging to her skin, the way it blurred against her lashes, the briny tang lingering on her lips. Her hands remembered the weightlessness of the tide pulling her, the way she would surrender to the ocean’s rhythm, her heartbeat slowing to match the push and pull of the waves. Back then, it had been insignificant—just another swim, unworthy of note or memory. Now it felt like a treasure she’d squandered, a relic of a life so far removed from this suffocating cage that it might as well have been a dream.
The hallway stretched endlessly before her, its walls cloaked in dense smoke that clung to her skin like damp wool. Each breath scraped against her throat, pulling in the acrid taste of ash that settled bitterly on her tongue. Tears streaked her cheeks, relentless in their descent, their heat burning trails that vanished the instant they reached the floor—absorbed into the boards as though the hallway itself fed on her pain.
Drip.
Her bare feet squeaked against the slick floorboards, each step accompanied by a wet suction. Ahead, the faint orange glow of the door flickered, weak and faltering, as though the smoke sought to snuff it out entirely. The light called her forward, but its warmth felt wrong—cloying, threatening, more a promise of danger than a beacon of safety.
Each step was a struggle, her legs dragging against the invisible weight pressing down on her chest. The air seemed to thicken, resisting her every movement, as if the hallway itself conspired to hold her back. Through the haze, her stinging eyes caught the picture frames lining the walls. This time, the shadows within shifted, revealing fragmented glimpses of faces. One frame held her gaze—a girl with dark hair and wide, bright eyes, frozen mid-laugh. Something in the image twisted inside her chest, familiar and aching, but before she could reach for it, the smoke curled upward, consuming the face.
She reached out for balance, her hand brushing the wall—but the sensation beneath her fingers was wrong. The surface was slick, clammy, and disturbingly warm, sending a jolt through her. Harper recoiled with a sharp intake of breath, nausea twisting violently in her stomach as she wiped her hand on her shirt, desperate to rid herself of the feeling.
The heat radiating from the door was different now—subtler, more insidious, seeping into her skin. This time, the knob turned under her fingers, creaking as the door gave way just slightly, the gap between it and the frame no more than a sliver.
She pushed harder, her shoulder pressing into the wood as her fingers gripped the edge of the doorframe. The door groaned, opening another inch—but then it stopped. There was no lock holding it back this time, but the resistance was palpable, an invisible force meeting her efforts and holding fast.
It wasn’t the door. It wasn’t the door.
Drip.
The sound snapped her focus behind her, but the hallway had vanished into an infinite black void. The picture frames, the smoke, the faint squeak of her steps—everything was gone, swallowed by the consuming darkness. Only the door remained, the faint glow of its light barely clinging to existence.
Drop.
Her focus snapped back to the door, her grip on the knob tightening until her knuckles ached. The light spilling through the gap dimmed further, shrinking to a pale, wavering ember. “Open,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please.”
The door shifted again, its movement agonizingly slow, the gap widening just slightly. Beyond it, the light wasn’t empty anymore. Shadows writhed and twisted, their forms flickering like firelight. She froze, her breath catching as a sudden rush of icy air surged through the gap, cutting through the oppressive heat and raising goosebumps on her skin.
Drip. Drop.
The sound swelled, rhythmic and deafening, each beat pounding in her ears like an off-kilter heartbeat. Her legs buckled beneath her as she stumbled back, clutching at her throat. The smoke coiled tighter around her, pressing against her lungs with crushing force. And then the door began to move again—but this time, it was closing. Slowly at first, the sliver of light narrowing inch by agonizing inch, until it gained speed.
“No!” The word tore from her throat as she lunged forward. Her fingers scraped against the door, grasping at the air as it slammed shut with a final, echoing thud.
The hallway plunged into silence.
Harper collapsed to her knees, the weight of the darkness crushing her from all sides. Her tears dried into salt trails on her cheeks, the heat that had fueled them extinguished, leaving only a bone-deep chill in its wake.
And then she woke with a start, the line between nightmare and waking blurred. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, her heart hammering as though trying to escape the confines of her ribcage. The cold floor beneath her palms felt almost alive.
Except she had no tears to give it. Her eyes were dry, burning, as if they had been scorched clean. In her dream, tears had been unstoppable. But here, in the cold grip of reality, even they had abandoned her.
She shifted forward on trembling limbs, her knees scraping against the coarse surface with every movement. Her fingertips reached out, hesitant and desperate, brushing blindly against the darkness until they collided with the cold steel of the cell door. The impact sent a jolt up her arm, and for a moment, her hand lingered there, as if searching for warmth where there was none to be found.
She pressed her forehead against the door, the chill biting against her damp skin like frost creeping over glass. The metal felt unforgiving, indifferent to her presence, but she stayed there, her breath fogging the surface in shallow, uneven bursts. Her lips parted, the first word struggling to escape as her throat tightened.
“Open,” Harper whispered. Her fingers splayed across the door, their tips numb from the cold, searching for some hidden seam, some way through. But the steel was smooth, a blank slate that offered no answers. She pressed harder, her nails catching faintly on invisible ridges, as if clinging to the hope that the door might answer her in kind.
“Please.” _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic OceanHuman #5.058: The Gilded Cage
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Interaction(s): N/APreviously: Walk Me Home
The first touch of water was an electrifying shock that jolted through Harper's body, tearing a small gasp from her lips.
Tilting her face skyward, she appeared to offer a silent prayer to the heavens, inviting the relentless spray to envelop her in a warm torrent that washed away the weight of her struggles, each bead of moisture rebuking the residue of her past. The warmth gently invaded her taut muscles, unwrapping layers of tension she hadn’t sensed before. With lips slightly parted, she welcomed the refreshing coolness, a sweet baptism that flooded her senses with liquid clarity, eliciting a deep, primal shudder that ignited every nerve ending in a euphoric awakening, and in that moment of intoxicating release, she surrendered completely, feeling reborn in the gentle deluge.
Though the room buzzed with life—the distant hiss of other showers, the shuffle of water-slicked feet, and the muted coughs and sighs—those sounds faded into a soothing hum, mere background noise to her ritual. Harper’s hands quivered with a desperate urgency as she vigorously etched away the remnants of her confinement, each stroke of the cloth like a feeble attempt to cleanse not just her skin but her very soul. The warm water cascaded over her, the gentle caress a fleeting reprieve from the lingering ache of her branded wrist, where the raised flesh still pulsed and throbbed as if it refused to be forgotten about. Regardless, she surrendered herself to the rhythm of the water, losing herself in its embrace, each droplet a soothing kiss against her heated skin, momentarily distracting her from the tumult she knew raged just beyond the sanctuary of the bathroom.
When she finally stepped out, her towel wrapped tightly around her, her skin felt raw, every nerve alight from the sudden stimulation after days of deprivation. As she dried off, reluctance clawed at her, each quick swipe feeling like a betrayal to those who weren’t with her. That hadn’t made it.
She’d honestly gotten lucky, hadn’t she? Coming undone—collapsing into herself— right at the end like that. It probably helped that such naked vulnerability was a luxury she couldn’t afford, something she’d had years to practice hiding.
Harper sighed, shaking her head as she walked to the bench where her uniform awaited her. Slipping into it felt like donning a second skin, as if it were warning her against losing herself still. It wasn’t over, these trials. She knew that for certain. Still, she hesitated as her fingers traced the edges of the ‘Φ’ embroidered on the chest, the raised stitching rough under her touch. A mark of survival, yes, but also something more insidious.
Compliance.
Unlike her old uniform, there was no pride to be found here in the present moment. Not with the school, not with the student body, and not with herself.
The sound of the kitchen doors flinging open snapped Harper’s attention forward. A rush of tantalizing scents filled the room, their intensity nearly overwhelming after days of deprivation. Her senses,however, strained to map the room as trays of food were carried out, the faint clatter of silverware and dishes filling the silence that followed. She could sense the collective gaze of the room shifting, the buzz of whispered conversations fading into an anxious hush as the attention slid away from newcomers like her and landed squarely on the grand entrance of Dr. William Montgomery. She couldn’t see the sweeping gaze he cast over the students, but Harper felt its force just the same.
Cold. Cruel. Approved. Those words clung to Harper like a layer of frost, chilling her to the bone as Montgomery’s voice reverberated through the room. Each syllable was a scalpel carving away at her cheek and at any remaining pretense of dignity or humanity.
Harper tilted her head slightly as if listening harder might make his statements make sense. Was this truly a man who had been stamped with someone’s approval? He sounded less like an educator and more like an executioner, delivering his apparent methods so far with all the gleeful detachment of someone who had never been at the mercy of his own designs.
Her thoughts flickered unbidden to her upbringing, to the relentless structure of her military household. Her father’s discipline had been harsh at times, but it had always carried a purpose—a foundation of strength rooted in preparation, not punishment. Every rule had been about fortifying her, about instilling resilience and moral clarity. Even when she had chafed against his strictness, she had never doubted the intent behind it. Strength, he had said, was as much about conviction as it was about endurance.
This wasn’t the same.
This wasn’t about building strength; it was about erasing autonomy, reshaping them into obedient instruments for a system that demanded absolute submission. To him, they weren’t people—they were resources, raw materials to be broken and reforged in service to his vision. And Nakamura, the very man meant to lead the Foundation, had not merely permitted this; he had endorsed it, his signature a cruel mark of approval that legitimized Montgomery’s cruelty.
The rest of the “good” doctor’s words dripped with a veiled mockery, as if to remind them all of their place in this meticulously engineered hierarchy. Harper sat rigid in her seat, the fabric of the black uniform suddenly too restrictive, despite the “benefits” it had given her thus far. She shifted uncomfortably, her body stiffening as Montgomery’s accolades fell over her and the others clad in black. His words were meant to praise them, but to Harper, they felt more like a searing confirmation of her role in this orchestrated game. Each phrase burned, much like the mark on her wrist—another unwanted reminder of how far she had fallen into their trap.
And it was only the beginning.
When his gaze shifted to those in tan, her stomach twisted. The acknowledgment, if it could even be called that, wasn’t praise but a dismissal—a confirmation of their engineered inadequacies, calculated failures that served to bolster the supposed superiority of those like her. The hierarchy he described wasn’t a ladder for all to climb; it was a carefully constructed trap, designed to keep most of them at the bottom, struggling in vain. It was a hierarchy that thrived not on potential, but on division. On the crushing of spirits.
Despite these realizations, when Montgomery declared the arrival of the feast, an uncontrollable swell of hunger clawed at Harper’s insides like a wild beast, desperate to break free from its invisible chains. The word “food” pulsated through her thoughts, twisting her stomach into anxious knots as the imagined and savory scent of roasted meats and confections hugged her senses while her taste buds came alive with long-buried desire. Yet the phrase “generous donation” echoed ominously in her head, clawing at her throat and knocking aside any fleeting thrill. It layered unease over her excitement like a dark shroud, forcing her to question the motives lurking beneath such apparent goodwill.
Something was undeniably amiss.
The clatter of plates being set down in front of them jolted her from these thoughts. The faint sizzle of juice fizzing in the glasses beside the meals reached her ears, and her fingers brushed against the edge of the plate, its warmth seeping into her skin. A savory aroma wafted upward, curling around her senses like a siren call, her stomach twisting with need and unease in equal measure.
Montgomery’s voice rang out, smooth and commanding, as he raised his glass in a toast to “new beginnings.” The clinking of glasses echoed around her, punctuated by hesitant laughter and the creaking of chairs, wrapping her in a cocoon of forced camaraderie, if it could be called that. As her fingers glided nervously over her untouched glass, every sound amplified the frantic pounding of her heart, where indecision loomed over her like a specter, taunting her.
To reject the gilded cage this time or to succumb to the siren call. Which would it be?
To join in would feel like capitulation, an acknowledgment that she accepted their twisted games and the cruel new rules that governed her life. Yet refusal might draw attention, marking her as defiant before she’d even had the chance to understand the battlefield she was standing on. Harper lifted the glass and tilted it toward her lips, the faint fizz of the liquid teasing her senses with the promise of refreshment.
But she didn’t drink.
Instead, Harper held it there for a moment, a silent acknowledgment without surrender, before lowering it carefully. She felt the room's collective sigh, a restless energy shifting as Montgomery put his glass down as well with a finality that marked the transition into their meal—an invitation she felt ill-prepared to accept despite the symphony of eager silverware scraping against porcelain.
Her fingers hovered over her fork, indecision paralyzing her as the chatter around her grew louder, punctuated by the scrape of utensils and even some murmured praise for the meal. The warmth radiating from the plate seemed to mock her hunger, the aroma curling into her nose like another siren call she couldn’t block out. Harper gritted her teeth, her stomach twisting as she tried to steel herself. To eat was to submit, to play into their hands—but to refuse was to invite scrutiny, something she couldn’t afford right now.
Her hand moved before her mind could stop it. The fork trembled slightly as she speared one of the meatballs and brought it to her mouth, hesitating as the savory aroma hit her full force, a cruel betrayal of her instincts. Her lips parted, and the moment the food touched her tongue, a cascade of flavors erupted—rich, tender, perfectly seasoned. It was everything her deprived body craved….and yet it sat heavy in her mouth.
The scents, though tantalizing, carried an insidious undercurrent—one she couldn’t quite place but knew enough to distrust. This meal, like everything else in this place, felt like a trap, designed to disarm her, to coerce her into a comfort that didn’t exist. The Foundation didn’t offer kindness. It offered control, and this meal, with its carefully curated aromas and perfectly timed delivery, was another link in the chain they were trying to fasten around her.
The food wasn’t sustenance. It was a test.
Withdrawing her hand from the plate, she embraced the gnawing discomfort curling in her stomach. She could sense the complacency surrounding her as most continued eating, a heavy cloud of complicity so thick Harper could almost taste it, turning her stomach even more.
She swallowed hard, pushing the remnants of the bite down her throat as if burying something deep within her. But the taste lingered, a reminder of what she had just done. She could not give them the satisfaction of seeing her yield any further.
And then, a whispered warning slithered into her consciousness like a serpent, almost lost amid the raucous chatter but unmistakably clear once repeated:
“It’s horse meat.”
The clamor of small conversation grounded to a halt, the sharp scrape of knives against china a scream in her ears. The savory aroma that had moments ago teased her senses now turned acrid, clinging to her skin like an unwelcome stain.
“So?” another voice snapped, defiant and unbothered. The sound of chewing resumed, a display of detached exaggerated cruelty that made Harper’s blood boil. “What’s the big deal?”
Squinting slightly at her meal despite her situation, the brunette did her best to quell the anger that flared within her, a wildfire igniting at the thought of consuming something so beautiful, so free, reduced to a symbol of an insatiable appetite for power.
She wouldn't surrender to the urge to eat any more of it; this defenseless animal had once belonged to one of them as well, and consuming it felt like a betrayal, a compromise of something sacred beyond the creature.
Her loyalty wasn’t something easily given, but when it was, it was steadfast. It wasn’t just to people—it extended to the values she held closest, the things that defined her sense of right and wrong. Eating this meal, accepting it as though it meant nothing, would be an act of complicity she couldn’t stomach. Harper had compromised too much already just by being here in this uniform. She wouldn’t betray herself any further.
Let them notice, she thought bitterly. Let them see.
The moment followed with an almost comic relief she had not predicted, one that was so incredibly jarring.
But it was Banjo, so of course it was right out of left field.
Harper’s head tilted toward the source of his voice, drawn despite herself, as an absurd image bloomed unbidden in her mind: a horse playing cricket, effortlessly smashing sixes. What a ridiculous thought, absurdly juxtaposed against her current moral tumult.
Her fingers curled tighter in her lap, her nails pressing faint crescents into her palms as she continued to listen, her eyes closed now, her head towards the sky in focus. It was as if the blond were daring the room to meet his audacity. His tone was exaggerated, every word dripping with his usual charm, but there was an edge to it this time—a defiance that danced just on the line between audacity and recklessness. He was performing, as he always seemed to do, his words drawing scattered chuckles from nearby students. But the laughter felt thin, hollow, as though no one was quite sure if they were allowed to find it funny.
She didn’t laugh. Not at the punchline. Not at the absurdity of his cricketing horse. Not even at the way he seemed to revel in the dissonance he created, his grin likely wide enough to split that stupid face of his.
When the laughter faded, Banjo’s movements caught her ears next. The rustle of fabric, the faint snap of seams tearing—he was doing something profoundly stupid, dangerous, again. Harper could sense his grin even without seeing it, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that invited both annoyance and concern.
What was he thinking?
“Sit down, idiot,” Harper murmured under her breath. This place was not P.R.C.U. They would not be as forgiving of his antics. But what could she do about her teammate’s reckless bravado?
The thought barely settled in her mind, barely had time to take root before her own body conspired against her once again. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, sending her hand shooting out to grip the edge of the table as if its solid surface could anchor her floundering existence. The smells—the heavy, mouthwatering richness of the roasted meats-teetered on the edge of suffocation, each inhale a suffocating grasp that clawed at her senses.
Her fingers hovered over the fork again, trembling slightly, a betrayer in this war of wills. The table felt unsteady beneath her touch, every gentle shudder of movement around her exaggerated, as if the world spun just a touch too quickly. Her lips pressed into a thin, tight line, a firm determination fighting against the tide of her body's desires.
Her mind screamed in dissent, even as her very cells cried out for release.
The second bite hit her tongue better than the first, an explosion of flavors that was almost cruel in its perfection. It was still everything her deprived body craved, but everything her mind loathed. Her jaw worked slowly, mechanically, the act of chewing both soothing and damning as warmth spread through her chest, dulling the hollow ache in her stomach but sending fresh spikes of guilt stabbing into her ribs.
But the dizziness didn’t subside. If anything, it deepened, pulling her under like a riptide. Her body craved more, demanded it, and she couldn’t summon the strength to resist. The fork clinked against the plate again, her hands moving with a mind of their own as she took another bite.
And then another.
And then another.
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