Jason slumped down beside me, his body trembling, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. His arms found me blindly, pulling me close. I didn't resist. I melted into him, the weight of everything crashing down harder now that the fight was over.
For a while, we just sat there—two broken people pressed into the cold wall, breathing the same stale air.
I buried my face into his chest, the steady thump of his heart grounding me. My body ached, my side burning where the wound lived, but the tears came anyway—hot, helpless, endless.
"I'm sorry," Jason whispered roughly into my hair. "I'm so damn sorry, Janica."
His arms tightened around me, as if he could somehow shield me from all of it—this room, this pain, this fear. But even he couldn't stop the way my shoulders shook.
When my sobs finally quieted, Jason shifted slightly, pulling the brown-wrapped package closer. He untied the rope with shaking fingers, revealing two sandwiches inside. They looked pitiful, but they smelled fresh.
"You have to eat," he murmured.
I shook my head weakly, my stomach knotting just at the thought.
Jason tore one sandwich in half and pressed a small piece to my lips. His voice softened, cracked. "Please, angel. Just a little. For me."
I let him feed me. Tiny bites. Slow. Like I was five years old again. Like if I stopped, everything would collapse.
Jason took a few bites himself, grimacing at the effort it took to chew.
When the food was gone, he leaned his forehead against mine. His breathing was ragged, but his voice, when it came, was steel wrapped in silk.
"When we get out of here," he said low, "they're going to pay. Every single one of them."
I closed my eyes, letting his promise sink deep into my bones.
For the first time since waking up in this hell, I believed it.
We would
get out.
And they would pay.
His hand found mine rough, trembling. He pulled me into his arms without a word. No promises. No lies. Just breath against my hair and arms that didn't let go.
I crumbled into him, my body too sore for the tears I needed to cry. Silent, shaking sobs soaked his shirt. His chin rested on my head. I felt him inhale, deep and slow, like he was trying to memorize the feel of me. Like he was afraid to breathe too loud.
After a long time, his voice broke the silence — hoarse, cracked.
"Jan…"
His hand cupped the back of my head, grounding me.
"How have you been. Imean… after I left. That night. After I—" He couldn't even say it. "After I didn't come back."
His voice broke on the last word. Like the guilt was bigger than the room we were trapped in.
I closed my eyes. The memories rose up fast — the ache, the endless waiting, the hollow days where hope had turned into anger, into sadness, into nothing at all.
"It broke me," I whispered.
Jason flinched.
"I kept waiting," I said, voice small, almost ashamed. "For a call. For a word. Even for a lie."
He squeezed me tighter, like he was trying to squeeze the past out of me.
"I thought you forgot," I added, and my throat burned. "I thought you just… left."
Jason pressed his forehead to mine, his breath shaking between us.
"I didn't forget you," he said fiercely. "Not for a single second."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to.
Maybe some part of me already did but the hurt was still there. Sitting between us, breathing with us.
Jason pulled back just enough to look at me. His hand brushed my cheek, so gently it almost hurt.
"I'm sorry," he said. And this time, it wasn't just words. It was a promise.
Jason leaned back just enough to study me, his thumb brushing the tear tracks down my cheeks.
"You need to eat ," he murmured. His voice was rough but so careful, like he thought I might break if he spoke too loud.
I shook my head weakly.
"Please," he whispered, almost begging. "For me?"
I didn't have the strength to fight him — and maybe, deep down, I didn't want to. He picked up another piece of sandwich. He fed me piece by piece, as if anything sudden might scare me.
The food was still warm. Bland, but it sat heavily in my stomach, anchoring me a little more to this terrifying reality.
Jason smiled faintly, relief flickering across his face.
"That's my girl," he whispered under his breath.
We sat there at the corner of the cold room, pressed together, breathing together. And for a moment it almost felt like we could survive this.
Then —
BANG.
A deafening slam against the door.
I jolted so hard the food fell from my hand. Jason was already moving — pushing me behind him instinctively, eyes burning with fury.
Another bang, louder this time, shaking the hinges.
Someone — or something — was trying to get in.
Jason grabbed the nearest thing he could find — a piece of broken metal from the floor — and stood between me and the door like a soldier preparing for war.
My heart hammered against my ribs, each thud screaming one truth
louder than the next:
They're not done with us yet.