Future
The silence in the room was suffocating, stretching into something heavier than mere quiet. Four adults sat across from a young woman, their gazes fixed on her as though sheer willpower might force words from her lips. The walls, sterile and cold, were punctuated only by white boards covered in childish drawings–mocking splashes of color in an otherwise lifeless space. A table and a few chairs completed the setting, but it was the tension between its occupants that defined the atmosphere.
The girl, August, remained unmoved. She had mastered silence, and the patience of her interrogators was fraying.
Mr. Barth, a bald, heavyset man whose face seemed carved from hostility, broke first. His appearance was so unpleasant that even a fleeting glance felt like a health hazard. A ring on his finger suggested marriage, though whether his wife had chosen him for courage or for wealth was anyone's guess. His voice, sharp and boiling with anger, cut through the stillness.
"Young lady, I would appreciate it if you stopped wasting my time and told us what you know. Your test results show you're better now, thinking properly. Unless you'd prefer to be sent back to prison."
The psychiatrist, Miss Chelle, leaned forward, her eyes soft with pity. She had once resented August, but over months of sessions had come to understand her complexity. August spoke rarely–twenty to thirty words a day at most–and trusted no one. Yet Chelle had glimpsed the fractured brilliance beneath the silence, the multiple personalities that lurked like shadows. Each one was dangerous. Each one had left scars.
"August, just tell them," Chelle pleaded. "They promised to leave you alone. You won't have to go back to prison."
But prison was no threat to August. At twenty, she had already carved her name into the ranks of the most dangerous criminals, surviving in a private facility designed to contain the worst of humanity. She thrived there. The asylum was confinement; prison was freedom.
"I have nothing to say," she replied at last, her face unreadable.
Mr. Barth's fury deepened. He was not merely a man but an empire–owner of the largest news company, master of journalists who fed his hunger for power. He wanted her story, her secrets, her darkness.
"My company has stopped paying your bills here," he spat. "So it's either you tell me everything, or you're going back to prison."
August's lips curved into a smirk. "What time is the prison truck arriving? It's Friday. I can't afford to miss another dungeon fight."
The adults exchanged stunned glances. Prison was her sanctuary, her battleground, her playground.
"You are pathetic," Mattise, a plump woman who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. Her hatred for August was palpable. She did not see a young woman before her, but a monster who deserved death. Yet even that, she thought bitterly, would be too merciful.
August's patience snapped. "Mattise, save your breath. Please take me back to my room. I want to pack. I'm going home."
The words hung in the air. More than forty of them–an unprecedented outpouring from the girl who rationed speech like oxygen. Miss Chelle's shock was immediate. Perhaps a new approach was needed. Perhaps August's silence had been a test all along.
"Go and pack," Chelle said carefully. "I'll contact the prison."
For the first time in four months, August smiled. She rose and walked out, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.
"Time for plan B," Mattise muttered, defeated. But someone else, listening with sharp ears, caught the words and scoffed as they passed through the corridor.
The game was far from over.