The Vanish Pact / 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 (𝘊𝘙𝘔)

I: Freckles

[ Cass's POV - present]

The flimsy styrofoam squeaks underneath my sweating palms, tendrils of steam rising from the white rim, taunting me. My fingers absentmindedly toy with the teabag string, my gaze dropping to the small tab at the end marked by the triple-circle symbol the Civic Republic has claimed.

The once-meaningless logo has become a haunting reminder, painfully etched into my mind for the past six years.

With no control of my own, it's woven itself into every facet of my existence from the patches on the uniforms of the soldiers who took us, the paint on the vehicles that brought us here, to the universal mark on every structure, flag, pen, ration box, water bottle, and even the goddamn needles I use daily at the hospital.

I can't escape it.

I can't escape them.

And every time I see those three maddening circles, a rage ignites in my chest before being quickly snuffed out by a bitter swell of cruel helplessness. A suffocating helplessness meticulously cultivated by those in power here to keep us subdued.

Suddenly nauseous, I release the steaming cup, pushing it away with a heavy sigh, cringing at the harsh squeak of the styrofoam against the metal table.

Fuck them and their goddamn tea.

Leaning back, I draw in a steady breath through my nose, attempting to fill my lungs with the stale air of this grimy yet somehow sterile interrogation room.

The oppressive silence hangs thick, a weight on my eardrums as I let my gaze drift upward, tracing the lines of the humming fluorescent lights before counting the white-speckled ceiling tiles.

By the time the door finally clicks open, I've counted the frustratingly uneven 27 ceiling tiles four times, my eyes heavy from the mundane task.

My attention snaps to the doorway, suspicion narrowing my eyes as the man I haven't seen in four years strides in with unsettling ease, his dark gaze locking onto mine.

He carefully shuts the door behind him, the weight of his presence inescapable as he settles into the chair across from me, its squeaky protests echoing loudly. Simultaneously, he tosses a thin manila folder onto the table with a faded slap, sending a barely disguised flinch through me.

Straightening my posture, I raise my eyebrows expectantly, my handcuffed hands clenched tightly enough to turn my knuckles white.

"Ms. Adams- correct?" Okafor questions me, his deep rumbling voice adding a startling new noise. After so long in silence, it's jarring, to say the least.