Chapter 224
The darkness in my cell is absolute, save for the sickly glow of the Darklite veins laced into the walls. Their presence hums, low and constant, an unnatural vibration that keeps my power pressed down, muffled like a voice behind thick glass.
Enigma has learned. They’ve prepared for me. It’s terrifying how much more competent they’ve become in just a few short months.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Hours? Days? My stomach is hollow, twisted in on itself from hunger. My throat burns, dry and raw. The cold seeps into my bones, an unrelenting chill that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the gnawing dread I refuse to let take hold.
I’m angry.
So when the heavy metal door screeches open, I don’t react. I stay exactly where I am—hunched against the farthest wall, arms wrapped loosely around my knees, posture limp. Still. Waiting.
Stan steps inside, filling the doorway with his broad frame, dragging in the harsh, sterile light from the hall. His shadow stretches long across the floor, cutting a path toward me. Then, with a deliberate click, he flicks on the overhead light.
A blinding, burning, searing flood of brightness explodes across my retinas.
I flinch, barely able to contain the wince that shudders through me. Damn it.
“Poor little thing,” Stan croons, striding forward, hands in his pockets. “Didn’t think I’d just leave you to rot in the dark forever, did you?” He tilts his head, smirking. “Although, if you keep acting like this, I might reconsider.”
I don’t respond.
He doesn’t deserve my words.
He’d left me here to stew after showing me that footage, expecting me to crack under the weight of my own mind. It was a calculated move. Psychological warfare. Classic Enigma tactics.
But he’d made a grave mistake.
One thing I learned from Wake? How to compartmentalize.
Another? Always have a plan.
Stan saunters closer, stopping just in front of me. He crouches, balancing his elbows on his knees, studying me like I’m some intriguing specimen under a microscope. “So,” he says, voice almost conversational. “Ready to talk yet?”
I let my silence hang between us.
His smirk sharpens. “Not feeling chatty? That’s fine. I’ll just do the talking for both of us.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sleek black flask, unscrewing the cap with slow, deliberate movements. He takes a long swig, exaggerated, before lowering it just enough to let the scent of actual, clean water drift toward me.
I don’t move.
“Bet you’re thirsty,” he muses. “Bet your mouth feels like sandpaper, huh?”
He waits, watches, waits.
Then, as casually as if he were flicking a cigarette, he pours the water onto the floor.
It splashes against the cold metal, wasted.
I clench my jaw.
Stan clicks his tongue. “Shame. You could’ve had that. You could have food, comfort, hell, you could be in a real room instead of this shithole.” He leans in, voice low. “All you gotta do is tell me where you ran off to after that little stunt on the island. Who helped you? Where can we find more of your fish friends?”
I stare at the wall behind him.
His jaw ticks.
Still, he smooths over his frustration, leaning back on his heels. “You know, Phoebe, I’ve been thinking… and I just don’t get it.” He gestures vaguely. “All this loyalty. All this silence. For them? Really? You’re a scientist, aren’t you? A woman of logic.” He shakes his head. “And yet, you let yourself be dragged into some fairy tale about gods and lost kingdoms, all for a couple of overgrown guppies?”
I stare at the floor.
His patience thins. I can feel it in the way the air tightens.
Then he switches tactics.
“You wanna know what’s happening to your friends?” he asks, voice lilting, teasing. “To your precious fishman?”
I say nothing. But my nails bite into my palm.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is full of mock sympathy. “He’s done for. And it’s your fault. If you’d cooperated, maybe we could’ve spared him, but…” He shrugs. “At this rate, he’s not gonna last much longer.”
I focus on the sound of my breathing.
Inhale. Exhale. Do not react.
Stan hates being ignored.
He shifts, pacing now. His movements grow sharper, more erratic. His control is slipping.
"You think this little silent treatment is going to save you?" His voice cracks against the small room like a whip. “You think you can just ignore me?”
I say nothing.
His hand strikes fast—a vicious slap that whips my head to the side, rattling my skull.
Pain bursts across my cheek, but I keep my breathing steady.
Then—almost in the same breath—his fingers graze my skin, a sick mockery of tenderness as he traces the place he just hit.
I don’t react to that either.
He lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "You’re really testing my patience."
I lift my chin slightly, just enough to look at him. My first acknowledgment of him this whole time.
It’s barely anything.
But it infuriates him.
He snaps.
"You should be kissing the fucking ground I walk on!" he roars, slamming his fist against the metal wall. "I could make you rich, famous—queen of the fucking fish people, since you love them so much!"
My lip curls.
“Even Lily St. Cloud can’t boss me around anymore,” he sneers. “That’s how useful I am. I proved myself. I brought them the key to everything! None of this would be here without me!”
My pulse pounds. Lily St. Cloud. It’s strange that I haven’t seen her since being brought in. I’d assumed it was on her orders. But for Stan to be flexing like this—to be claiming control… could Lily be on the outs?
They’ve let him deeper in. Too deep.
They trust him.
That means they don’t trust each other.
And that’s the opening I need.
I drop my voice, soft, measured. "You really think they’re gonna let you keep all this power?"
Stan stills.
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. "Come on, Stan. You’re not that stupid."
He scowls.
And in that moment, his guard drops.
I strike.
I yank the scalpel from his belt and drive it into his thigh with every ounce of strength I have left.
Stan screams, stumbling back as blood blooms, dark and thick, against his pants. He clutches his leg, eyes wide in disbelief.
I rise slowly, towering over him as he crumples to the floor.
"You talk too much," I mutter.
Stan gasps, still stunned.
I smile.
Then I grab the scalpel again—and twist.
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