Page 9 of Hallow’s Crown

I pick up the phone. A battered Android, locked with a thumbprint. The screen is cracked but still bright, wallpaper a generic blue. I turn it over, noting the flecks of paint missing from the case.

The wallet is thin, worn smooth at the corners. Inside: two debit cards; an insurance card; a folded photo of a cat. No cash, just receipts. All recent, all food or gas, nothing personal.

The badge is clean. I run my thumb over the raised print, then set it down.

I glance at the tech. “He brought nothing else?”

“No, sir.”

I watch him walk away, then let my attention drift to the clock above the door. 08:12:48. The digits are blood red, every second marking a step closer to the first trial. The trial ends at sunrise, November 1, or not at all.

I let myself savor the silence for a moment. Out in the world, the Ministry is noise and pressure, always spinning, always threatening to collapse. Here, in the tunnel below the house, everything is frictionless. I designed it this way.

If there is such a thing as perfection, it is this: a system tuned to extract truth from chaos.

Chapter Three: Samuel

The first thing I do, once the mystery man leaves and I’m left alone, is scan for the nearest weapon. Not for escape—I know that’s not happening—but for leverage if the mood of this place takes a turn. Heavy ceramic bowl on the entry table, glass sculpture that looks sharp, fireplace poker behind the mesh screen.

All useful in theory, but the moment I relax into the chair at the edge of the hallway, the adrenaline dump sours my muscles, and I barely have energy to keep my head up. The urge to nap rides me hard, more than it should, and I try to puzzle out why.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept. Maybe it’s the weird, stagnant air, or the overhead lights set to migraine. I finger the edge of another sealed water bottle left for me, twist off the cap, and sniff it. Doesn’t smell like anything. I drink anyway. The cold goes down in one hard swallow, and it does nothing for my headache.

I replay the last few minutes on a loop, picking apart the exchange with the man in the suit. The one with the aura that’s somehow both threatening and intriguing. He didn’t use a name, and he never raised his voice, but the way he watched me… it’s still crawling under my skin. Not like I’m prey, not exactly. Like he wants to see what happens if he pushes just a little too far.

I can’t tell if I’m disgusted by the power play or some other, shittier emotion. Sometimes you see a man like that and part of you wants to punch him in the teeth, and part of you wants to see if he’ll break you.

My hands are shaking now, and I’m forced to put the water down. Maybe it’s just nerves. Maybe not.

Hands tingling. Knees weak. A heat building in my stomach, not fear but not pleasant, either. My vision doubles at the corners, just for a second, then corrects. I stand to walk it off, but my feet don’t want to cooperate. As I fall, I catch myself on the wall.

Fuck.

The next swallow of water burns my throat, which makes no sense, and I cough, spitting a little onto my shirt. My mind is running, but the signals are slower and I hate that. I start running through what I ate, what I touched, if maybe the bottle was tampered with, but the cap snapped just like any other.

I reach for my phone to Google “poison symptoms” like an idiot, but my pockets are empty. I check the end table, the shelves, the floor. No phone. The last I remember, it was in my pocket before I entered the house. Maybe I left it in the truck, or maybe someone took it. The thought should panic me, but all I feel is this distant, buzzy irritation.

In the mirror across the room, I catch sight of myself. Sweat beads at my hairline. My pupils are wide, almost swallowing the color. I blink, trying to reset, but my vision only gets floatier. I watch my own hand make a fist, then unclench, like it doesn’t belong to me.

I stagger to the couch, flop onto it, and try to breathe through my nose. In, hold, out, hold. I remember doing the same thing before the first time I got in a fight in juvie. The guard had this look—like, “I dare you to swing first”—and I couldn’t help it. My heart didn’t beat faster, just heavier, like it wanted to break its way out. That’s how it feels now, but my body won’t play along.

I replay the confrontation with the suited man, picking over the way he stood, how his eyes flicked from my face to my hands and back. I can’t figure the angle, and that makes me itch. I replay the conversation, hunting for clues, but it’s all heat and static. “You’re a point of interest.”

What the fuck does that even mean? I can’t remember if he smiled or not.

I can’t even remember the color of his eyes, just that they were on me the whole time.

Closing my eyes, the memory comes back sharper, but wrong. In the recall, the man is closer. I can feel the warmth from his body, the faint smell of aftershave. His voice vibrates through the bones of my skull. “This is a test.” Then he touches my chin, like he’s checking the set of my jaw. The pressure is electric, pins and needles all the way down my spine. I open my eyes, jerking upright, and realize my body hasn’t moved at all. My limbs are rubbery. My mouth tastes like pennies.

I lurch to my feet, staggering into the side table and sending the water bottle rolling. It spins across the tile, coming to rest at the baseboard. I track its motion and see double for a second. The hallway seems longer than before. I grab the wall for balance.

Now I know. They drugged me. It’s not a hard guess; I’ve had this flavor of out-of-body before, back in the days when anyone would share pills for a laugh. This is a lot like benzo—heavy, blank, but not sleepy.

Just slow.

So slow…

I hear footsteps, but they’re soft, like someone walking in thick grass. My hearing is jacked, every sound blurring into the next. I can’t tell if it’s real or just in my head.