Page 10 of Hallow’s Crown

Maybe it’s him. I imagine the man in the suit again, this time standing over me while I try to get up. Maybe he leans down and says something clever, but all I can think about is the distance between our faces. I imagine headbutting him, just to see what happens.

That thought cracks me up, and I snort, which makes me cough. I reach for the water, forget where I am, and end up on my knees.

The taste is sharp. Metallic. Not bleach, not antifreeze, but something close. I spit it out and immediately regret it, my mouth dry as old felt. The dizziness is worse, now. My left hand goes numb, then tingles back to life. I wonder how much of this is just panic and how much is the drug.

I try to crawl, but the floor is moving, tilting up to meet my cheek. The tile is cold, which helps.

I try to focus. Get to the door, get outside, yell for help. I try to drag myself, but my arms are wet noodles. My legs don’t answer.

It’s a sick joke.

My eyes close, and the memory is there again, but different this time. The man is not just standing over me—he’s kneeling, one hand on my head, thumb pressing into the base of my skull. It feels good, but I hate that it feels good. I try to say, “Fuck you,” but the words are lost inside. He presses down, harder, and I want to give in, just for a second, just to see what it feels like.

Forcing my eyes again I see only the ceiling. My breath is ragged. I feel the heat of shame and also, underneath it, something else.

The last thing I see before the lights go out is a shape—tall, dark, blocking the view of the entryway. The man in the suit is there, or maybe just my brain wants him to be. Either way, he kneels, his face close to mine, and the final pressure on my chest is not hands but the sound of his voice, low and soft.

“Sleep,” he says, and I do.

I wake to pain, though it’s not sharp. It’s the kind of deep, locked-in ache that comes from sleeping on concrete after a fight, only magnified by the fact that I can’t move at all. My head is pressed to cold metal, neck jammed forward, and every muscle in my back is screaming. My mouth tastes like copper and bile.

The light is the first thing I really notice. It’s too white—clean, clinical, so bright that I can’t keep my eyes open for more than a second at a time. The ceiling is just blank cement with a single grid of LEDs, the kind they use in surgery rooms. The light cycles on and off at random, plunging the world from blinding white to blackout with no warning. Each pulse resets the nausea building behind my eyes.

I try to sit up, but my wrists don’t budge. They’re held down, tight, the metal edge of the cuff digging straight through skin. Ankles, too; I can’t even flex my toes. My knees are locked with a bar. The only thing I can move is my jaw, and even that feels like someone packed it with cotton.

I try to shout, but my throat cracks. It comes out as a weak, gurgling cough.

For a minute, I just lay there, letting the panic cycle through the gears. I run a check of my body: everything is where it should be, except for a numb patch along my left arm and a deep, buzzing pressure at the base of my skull. My fingers clench, feeling the cold of the cuffs, and I start to test the range of motion. There’s none.

The room smells damp. A room I wasn’t authorized to enter because I don’t recall this stink. Somewhere in the background is a sound—high-pitched, a tone generator or monitor, cycling between notes every few seconds. Underneath that, a mechanical clicking, steady, and the occasional whirr of something spinning up and dying down.

I blink, and three figures appear at the edge of my vision.

They’re tall, all of them, dressed in matching black suits with matte gloves and shoes that make no sound on the floor. The first wears a full mask, smooth and featureless, the kind that would be at home on a riot cop or in a horror movie. The other two are identical. They take their places in a loose triangle around me, standing just at the boundary where the light becomes shadow. When the LEDs pulse, the masks catch and reflect it, like blank coins.

I try to swallow, but my mouth won’t cooperate.

The leftmost one speaks, voice flat and mechanical. The mask makes it impossible to read lips, and the filter gives every word a monotone edge. “State your name.”

“Samuel,” I say, voice rough as gravel. “Samuel Richards.”

“Date of birth.”

I want to ask where I am, what the fuck is going on, but the pressure in my head won’t let me. “March nineteenth, nineteen ninety-three.”

The middle figure steps forward a half-step. “You are here for evaluation.”

“What kind of evaluation?”

No answer. Instead, the rightmost one raises a tablet, holds it up so I can see the black screen. It flickers, then shows a blank form.

Middle mask: “You will answer. Failure to comply will result in penalty.”

I breathe deep, steadying my head. “Okay. What do you want?”

The light pulses again. The tablet changes screens.

“Have you ever committed a felony?”