Will We Make It?

Eyes Everywhere

The moment Missy leaves, the silence folds over me like a lid. Heavy. Sealed. The kind of quiet that feels engineered—like someone wants to hear what I’ll do without witnesses.

I stand frozen for a few seconds, hand still hovering where Missy’s shoulder used to be, the tray of food untouched on the tile, and a cold, oily panic sliding through my ribs.

“Wow,” I whisper, voice shaking, “this place is absolutely screwed up.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the wrongness sharpen, clearer and closer, like I’ve acknowledged something the room was waiting for me to notice.

Marked.

Marked like livestock.

Marked like property.

Marked like something claimed.

And somehow, hearing it from Missy—a girl who looked terrified even saying it—makes the truth sink colder.

I sink onto the edge of the bathtub, pulling my knees up, curling my arms around them. My whole body trembles—tiny, erratic shivers like my nerves are warning me of something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

The marks on my neck throb with a low, pulsing ache.

Like bruises with a heartbeat.

I don’t remember getting them. I don’t remember much of anything after that… warmth. That sudden, overwhelming heat that swallowed me up like a wave and then—

Darkness.

But my skin remembers something.

Someone.

I close my eyes and inhale, but breathing only makes it worse. The scent that lingers in this room—her scent—floods my senses. Warm and sweet, like perfume mixed with something sharp underneath. Not acidic. Not metallic.

Just… wrong.

A wrong that smells beautiful.

I shove my face into my knees to break the sensation.

Think.

Think before you panic.

I need to understand this place.

I need to understand these people.

I need to get out.

I look at the tray. The food looks normal enough, but the smell is off—like porridge tinged with something sour or spoiled underneath. Something that isn’t meant to be eaten. I nudge the bowl with my foot, stomach twisting.

Missy said not to refuse food.

Missy said I’d get them in trouble.

Missy said to stay strong.

Which means the punishment for not eating isn’t mine alone.

I swallow hard.

A soft click sounds outside the door.

I freeze.

Not a footstep.

Not a knock.

A deliberate metal click, like something being unlocked.

Then nothing.

I stay perfectly still, listening so hard my ears hurt. The building hums faintly, like machinery deep inside the walls. But there’s no footsteps. No voices. No warmth approaching.

Which means it isn’t her.

Not yet.

I let out a slow, shaky breath and force myself to stand. I move to the sink. My gaze drifts to the cabinet drawer.

The mirror shard inside it has been calling to me since I found it. But I haven’t had the nerve to look at myself again. Not because I’m afraid of the bruises or dirt.

I’m afraid I’ll see something I can’t explain.

Something worse.

My fingers brush the drawer handle—but I stop myself.

Not yet. Focus.

I try to piece together the pattern—the visits, the strange warmth, the way people here look at me like I’m already halfway gone. Everything about this place feels orchestrated. Controlled.

Drugged?

Is that what the warmth was? Some kind of sedative? A gas? Something airborne?

If that’s true…

Then maybe I can learn to resist it.

Not fully.

But long enough to pretend.

Pretending, at least, is something I can do.

I press my fingers to my cheek—the place she kissed me. Her “mark,” Missy called it.

When I touch the spot, it burns.

Not physically.

But the memory of it does. The phantom sensation. Her breath. Her mouth. Her whisper.

“My precious.”

My stomach knots.

The air in the room chills, as if responding to my disgust.

I push away from the sink and start pacing, bare feet cold on the tile. My wet clothes stick to my skin, heavy and uncomfortable. Every muscle aches—my neck, my shoulders, my back—as if I’ve been handled too roughly.

Maybe I have.

Pain is grounding, though.

Pain is something I understand.

I crouch by the tray again, staring at the food like it’s a trap.

Which it probably is.

But starving myself will just make me weaker.

Weaker is dangerous.

A faint scraping breaks the silence.

Above me.

I look up sharply.

A small vent sits near the ceiling. Too small to crawl through, but big enough for sound. The scraping continues—soft and rhythmic, like nails or metal dragging lightly on the inside.

Not animal nails.

Not human, either.

A violent shiver shoots through me.

Something is moving in the vent. Listening. Testing.

Watching?

I back into the sink, pulse thundering.

“Nope,” I whisper, shaking. “Absolutely not.”

The scraping stops instantly.

As if I startled it.

Silence follows—a strange, expectant stillness, like the quiet before someone speaks.

I wait.

Nothing.

My heart refuses to slow.

Maybe it was a rat.

Maybe I imagined it.

Maybe—

Footsteps.

Slow.

Too slow.

Too smooth.

Not Missy’s quick steps.

Not Ma'am's brisk stride.

These are soundless glides, like the person walking isn’t touching the ground.

Who moves like that?

The air chills—sharp, metallic, biting.

Someone inhales on the other side of the door, long and slow, like they’re smelling the room.

Smelling me.

I scramble backward into the bathtub, sliding down until the rim shields half my body.

The lock clicks.

No.

The door opens a few inches.

She doesn’t come in.

All I see is a sliver of black clothing, pale fingers curled around the frame, and the faintest edge of her face—razor-sharp features, dark eyes, and a smile that looks hungry even without teeth.

“Awake,” she murmurs, voice cool and slick as poured oil. “Good.”

My breath stutters.

Madame scans the room without entering, eyes sharp and predatory.

“Mistress says you’re adjusting.” Her voice holds disappointment. “We shall see.”

Her gaze cuts to the tray.

“You haven’t eaten.”

My throat closes. I can’t answer.

She smiles wider, like she likes the fear.

“Defiance is… entertaining.”

Her fingers curl slightly, and the cold deepens, almost painful.

I clutch the bathtub edge until my knuckles ache.

“Eat,” she whispers.

It isn’t a suggestion.

It isn’t even a threat.

It’s a command.

Something in her voice presses against my thoughts, trying to slide inside. I grind my teeth and dig my nails into my palm to resist.

Her expression shifts—intrigue, maybe even satisfaction.

“Marking always makes them stubborn,” she says softly, eyes flicking to my neck. “She should be gentler. Fresh ones bruise so easily.”

I choke on a breath.

What does that even mean?

But before I can think, something changes in the hall—another presence, heavier, warmer, like someone stepping into her shadow.

Her expression darkens into a scowl.

She leans in just enough for her smile to sharpen.

“Enjoy your dinner, little one.”

She closes the door.

Locks it.

The cold bleeds out of the room slowly.

I sit in the bathtub, shaking so hard my teeth chatter.

Footsteps again.

Light. Nervous.

Missy.

“Please,” she whispers through the door, voice trembling, “just eat something. You don’t understand what they do when someone… resists.”

I close my eyes.

I think I do understand.

If I don’t start playing along—

If I don’t pretend—

If I don’t survive long enough to escape—

I’ll end up like Missy.

Or worse.

I crawl out of the bathtub and stare at the tray.

Maybe it’s poison.

Maybe it’s drugged.

Maybe it’s something entirely different.

But I need strength.

“I’m sorry, Missy,” I whisper.

And I take a bite.