The door lock clunked. The man entered. Cardigan off. Folded. Sweater off. Folded. Apron on.
She'd watched him do it a dozen times. But today something was different.
Her heart slammed against her ribs; hard, real, a fist pounding from the inside. The chemical fog that usually sat behind her eyes had burned off. Every detail came through sharp and bright: the grain of the concrete floor, the stray thread on the man's apron, the ceiling panels glowing steady and clinical above.
The man walked straight to her chair.
He didn't speak. He reached for the mechanism on her left armrest. His fingers found a latch, twisted it; a series of clicks, and the metal box around her hand swung open on a hinge.
Her hand was there. Pale, stiff, fingers curled slightly. She hadn't seen it in; she didn't know how long. It looked foreign. Dead.
Something screamed inside her to swing it, to drive her palm into his face. But she held still.
He worked the right armrest next. Another series of clicks. Her right hand came free. Then he moved down to her legs.
She waited.
One cuff opened. Then the other.
This was it.
She drew her knees to her chest; muscles screamed, joints cracked, weeks of stillness punishing every inch of movement, and drove both feet into his chest.
He grunted, stumbled backward, crashed into the tool table. Instruments clattering to the floor; scalpels, clamps, the handsaw skittering across concrete.
She stood. Her legs buckled. She caught herself on the armrest, forced her knees straight. Adrenaline poured through her like a lit fuse. She grabbed the heaviest thing within reach; a steel mallet, its head slick with something dark. The cold weight in her palm was the most real thing she'd felt since waking up.
The man pushed himself up. Turned to face her.
No fear in his eyes. No surprise. He didn't raise his hands. Didn't speak. Just watched.
She lunged.
The mallet caught him in the shoulder. He grunted, stumbled sideways, but his expression didn't change; not pain, not anger. Just that flat, watchful stillness from The Void. She swung again, wild, clumsy, and the head connected with his ribs. A crack; sharp, satisfying. He dropped to his knees, breath ragged, one hand pressed to his side. He looked up at her.
Still watching.
She stood over him, mallet raised above his skull. One swing. That's all it would take.
His eyes. She saw it in his eyes; not fear, not pleading. Anticipation. He wanted this. Not the pain. The reaction. The data. Another variable to note.
She dropped the mallet. It hit the floor with a clang that rang through the room and died.
She looked around. Arthur sat in his chair, watching her with placid, unworried eyes. He hadn't moved through the whole fight.
She walked to the tool table. Picked up the handsaw; the rusty one, its teeth brown and uneven. She didn't look at the man. Walked toward Arthur.
Arthur didn't flinch. Didn't cry out. His eyes followed her approach, calm and steady.
She stopped in front of his chair. Pressed the serrated edge against his throat. His skin was paper-thin; she could feel his pulse through the steel, slow and steady.
"Open the door." Her voice came out low, rough, not sounding like her own. Her eyes stayed locked on Arthur's.
Something crossed the man's face for the first time. Not fear. Not anger. Disappointment. Directed inward. His lips pressed together. The Facade cracked; he had miscalculated.
He got to his feet slowly, painfully, one hand braced against his ribs. He limped to the door. Raised his palm to the biometric pad.
The lock clicked open. The door swung inward with a heavy thunk.
She pulled the saw from Arthur's throat. Ran.
Her bare feet slapped the concrete stairs. Up. Away from the warmth, the smell, the hum in the walls. Away. Into the dark of the stairwell.