Red Hour, Twenty-Three
He told her it would be twenty-three hours.
A clean window. A cycle. The kind of number engineers worship—neat, symmetrical, controllable.
“Twenty-three hours, Mara,” he’d said, voice calm and careful. “Just a test. I’ll bring you back before sunrise.”
That was twenty-three days ago.
The room he left her in wasn’t a dungeon. Dungeons are honest. This was worse.
It was designed. Intentional.
The kind of place built by someone who wanted to feel like god but didn’t want the guilt.
Lights never turned off. Just dimmed to a sick blue that made her skin look bruised. The air was too clean—like hospitals. The walls had no seams. One drain. One camera. One door. No handle on her side.
Every day the speaker in the ceiling crackled to life:
“Good day, Mara. Today’s the last test.”
It was always the last test.
Said like a lullaby, like he thought repetition made it comforting.
Day 23. Her limbs still ached from yesterday’s trial—cold water and a countdown, shock to the ribs if she surfaced early. She was off by three seconds. Three seconds, and her skin still buzzed from where the current caught her.
The click came again.
“I’m coming in.”
She flinched. Always flinched.
The door unsealed with a hiss.
He entered like a surgeon stepping into the theater. Pressed clothes. Soap. That faint scent of solder that made her think of wires and wounds. He smiled, soft, like this was a reunion.
“You’ve adapted better than expected,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
He set a black case down on the floor. Opened it slowly. Inside sat a small disc, black and smooth. Humming.
“The last test,” he said, almost reverent. “Calibrated it this morning. It’s ready.”
“What is it?” Her voice cracked.
“An interval monitor,” he said. “It measures fear. Specifically, how fast you go from baseline to panic. I want to see if I can predict it now. Before you feel it.”
She backed away, pressing into the wall.
“I’ll be gentle,” he added, like that made this better.
He stepped close, peeled back her shirt collar, and pressed the device to her chest. She gasped. It didn’t pierce—but it latched. Cold teeth gripped her sternum, just tight enough to own her.
The thing vibrated once, like it was waking up inside her.
“Perfect seal,” he said, tapping the screen on the wall.
Numbers flickered to life.
12%. 17%.
Her chest heaved.
“Today’s test is simple,” he said. “You’ll encounter a new variable. No explanation. No prep. Just you and your reactions.”
The door clicked again. Opened a fraction.
Something moved.
She didn’t see it yet. But she heard it.
A metallic scrape. Then another. Something dragging. Something breathing in segments.
“What is that?” she whispered.
42%
“A feedback model,” he said calmly. “Tracks your breathing, position, vocal tone. It adapts. But don’t panic. Panic scrambles its readings. And we wouldn’t want that.”
The thing stepped in.
Not tall. Not big. Just wrong.
It moved like a dying animal trying to fake confidence—too smooth in the joints, too slow in the pauses. No eyes. Just a shell of dark metal stitched with seams like scars.
59%
“You promised me twenty-three hours,” she whispered.
His head tilted.
“I did,” he said. “And I kept that promise. But now it’s Day Twenty-Three. That has weight. That has poetry.”
The machine took another step. The floor’s drain gurgled like something far below was listening.
She stepped back. The device on her chest pulsed harder.
74%
“Don't look away,” he said. “It logs avoidance as spike activity.”
She forced her eyes up. The thing clicked once. Then again. Matching her heartbeat.
One limb raised. Long. Hooked. Shaped like something meant to separate flesh from bone.
86%
She choked back a scream.
90%
The monitor chirped. Green light.
He exhaled like he’d just heard a symphony’s final note.
“Perfect,” he whispered. “A flawless curve.”
Her knees hit the floor.
He crouched beside her. Gently lifted her chin.
“You did so well, Mara. I’m proud of you.”
His thumb brushed her jaw. His breath touched her ear.
“Now rest. Tomorrow… we begin the real work.”