Fear

29

My bare feet on the floor didn't sound like footsteps anymore. More like a body being dragged.

I barely remembered standing. Tyler had hauled me up so quickly my knees gave out, and now I was stumbling beside him, half-supported by the iron grip around my upper arm. His fingers dug into my skin, not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to say, 'You have no choice.'

I was still soaked in blood. My arms dripped steadily, leaving a red trail behind us, the only proof I was still moving. My breathing was shallow, rapid and I was trembling like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Part of me knew what was happening, even if I didn't want to admit it. I knew where I was going, where he was taking me, and I had to brace myself.

I tried to remember the way I'd asked for it.

"I want Dylan dead."

I'd been so determined, I'd lost sight of who I was actually dealing with — a man who was always three steps ahead, according to James.

Tyler didn't speak, and I didn't ask him to. His silence was the worst part. We turned a corner into a corridor I didn't recognise. My legs buckled again, but he didn't slow down. He just tightened his grip, yanked me upright like I weighed nothing. I felt the tendons in my shoulder pull taut, a flare of pain slicing through the numbness.

This was the price, wasn't it? The cost of asking someone like Tyler to do what I couldn't. I hadn't thought he'd say yes. I hadn't thought past the rage, the hate, the blind need to make Dylan stop breathing.

And now here I was — not in control, not in charge, not even in the room where decisions were made. I was just being moved.

I hadn't walked into a trap; I had built one, step by step, with my own damn hands, and now Tyler was dragging me through it.

The hallway blurred, lights overhead blinking in and out of my periphery. The walls pulsed — not literally, but my eyes were so unfocused it all breathed. Every few seconds, the pain flared back up, cutting through the haze.

The words echoed in my head like they came from someone else. Someone colder. Someone who didn't shake like this. I'd said it like a threat, like a command, like I meant it. But saying it and surviving the fallout were two very different things.

He didn't look at me. He hadn't said a word since the Act room. Just held my arm like he was moving furniture, not a person. Not me.

I tried to ask, 'Where are we going? What are you going to do to me?' But my mouth didn't move. My jaw locked. The words stuck to the back of my throat like phlegm does when you're trying not to choke on it.

I wanted Dylan dead. But I hadn't understood the cost at the time, too focused on Tom.

And now I understood.

I was being taken to pay it.

The lights overhead flickered faintly as we passed beneath them, one by one. Long, wide, clinical hallways gave way to narrower, colder ones. The air changed. Less filtered. Stale.

Down a flight of stairs, and another.

With each step, my heart climbed higher into my throat. My pulse throbbed behind my eyes. My body trembled.

Suddenly, we stopped.

I looked up, or tried to. My head lolled weakly on my shoulders until I forced it upright.

The door was simple, metal, painted grey. There was a single word on it, stencilled in black:

ISOLATION