SubdueX

The night air bit through the thin fabric of the sheets, gnawing at my skin as I pressed myself against the bedroom door. My breath came in ragged gasps, my ear straining to catch every word of Christian’s hushed conversation.

“…and what if it doesn't work—” His voice was low, tense, carrying that same undercurrent of dread that had woven itself into every moment lately.

I couldn’t make out the reply, but Christian’s response cut through the air, sharp and almost desperate. “I don’t care about the schedule! She hasn’t been out of bed once; she's not well—”

A shiver, one that had nothing to do with the cold, raced through me. My pulse pounded in my temples, the pressure building until I felt like I might snap. My thoughts spiraled, memories and fears tangling into a suffocating knot. I couldn’t stay here. Why should I hand myself over so easily?

The floor was ice beneath my feet as I stumbled forward, my heart hammering against my ribs. My hands shook as I grabbed one of Christian’s shirts off the dresser, pulling it over my head with a trembling breath. My legs felt like lead, but I managed to step into a pair of shorts, the fabric clinging to my feverish skin.

I didn’t think. I just moved, propelled by sheer instinct and terror. Christian didn’t have time to react—if he did, I wasn’t sticking around to see his eyes flicker with whatever emotions he hid from me.

The hallway outside the bedroom was dark, the kind of darkness that makes shadows crawl along the walls. I had to get out—away from the suffocating walls, away from the voices that planned my future like I was nothing more than a pawn.

My footsteps echoed, too loud in the empty stairwell. I slammed into something solid, a gasp escaping me as I looked up into Eleven’s eyes, wide with surprise. His normally stoic face cracked with shock, his mouth opening to speak, but I didn’t give him the chance. I pushed past him, the sheer force of my panic driving me forward.

“Ana!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the hall, relentless. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. He was likely the one on the other side of the line with Christian, coming to check on me since he was informed of my chronic stillness. But here I was, unstill.

The front door was in sight when I heard him yell my name again, urgency now tinging his voice. I bolted through the door, the night air slicing into me like a knife as the rain began to pour. I stumbled down the steps, my bare feet slipping on the slick concrete, but I didn’t stop.

Christian’s car was parked at the end of the drive, a beacon in the downpour. I reached it with trembling hands, yanking open the door and throwing myself inside. The leather seat was cold, the smell of his cologne lingering in the confined space. My hands shook as I fumbled with the keys, glancing up just in time to see Eleven burst through the door, his eyes locked on me.

He was drenched, rain plastering his white lab coat to his body, the deluge not slowing him down. He reached the car just as I managed to start it, his fist pounding on the window. I screamed, slamming the locks down, but it didn’t stop him. His eyes darkened as he pulled something from his belt—a knife.

I froze, watching in horror as he slashed at the front tire, the blade cutting through the rubber with a sickening hiss. For a moment, I thought it was over, that I was trapped. But the car lurched forward, the tire wobbling, but holding. I floored the gas pedal, the car skidding as I pulled away, leaving Eleven behind in the rain, his fingers clawing into his bald head.

My heart pounded as the city lights blurred around me, my mind racing. Edmonton—far enough from the complex, far enough from Christian and Eleven and the twisted nightmare that had become my life.

I drove until the car sputtered to a stop, the shredded tire finally giving out. Panic surged through me again, but I forced myself to think. I had to keep moving. I had to disappear.

I flagged down a passing driver, a kind-faced woman who didn’t ask questions when I lied about being stranded. She dropped me off at a hotel on the outskirts of the city, and I mumbled my thanks, hoping she wouldn’t remember my face.

The hotel lobby was quiet, the night desk clerk barely glancing up as I approached. I slid Christian’s card across the counter, trying to steady my breath. The clerk swiped it, then frowned, trying again. My heart sank as he shook his head, “Card’s been canceled.”

The ground seemed to sway beneath me. Of course, they knew. They were always one step ahead. I mumbled something about a mistake and stumbled out into the cold, my mind racing. I was out of options. No money, no plan, and now the growing dread that they would find me before I could figure out what to do next.

I spotted a bench under a flickering streetlight and slumped onto it, my body trembling from the cold and fear. The rain was coming down in sheets now, soaking through Christian’s shirt, chilling me to the bone. I pulled my knees up to my chest, trying to hold onto what little warmth I had left.

“Hey,” a voice broke through the haze of panic, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I looked up to see a man leaning against the wall, his brown eyes scanning me with a mixture of concern and curiosity. His presence only made my heart race faster, suspicion gnawing at me. He looked harmless enough, waiting for a bus or a taxi.

I glanced down at the only things I had left—Christian’s card and my phone. Neither of them would save me now.

The rain kept falling, and I watched the traffic move past, nearly hysterical inside. Every face that passed seemed like a threat, every shadow another potential pursuer. My mind raced, trying to come up with a plan, but all I could think of was how utterly hopeless this was.

A car pulled up to the curb, its headlights cutting through the rain. The man beside me straightened, his eyes narrowing as he watched the vehicle. Something about the way he moved, so deliberate, so controlled, sent a chill down my spine.

The door opened, and another man stepped out, his expression calm, almost friendly. But there was something in his eyes—something that told me he wasn’t here to help.

“Need a ride?” he asked, his voice smooth, too smooth.

I shook my head, backing away, but he took a step closer, his smile widening. “It’s cold out here, and you look like you could use some help.”

Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my body was frozen, caught between the fear of staying and the terror of what would happen if I went with him. The man beside me didn’t move, his eyes flicking between me and the car, waiting.

I was trapped, the rain pounding down, the world closing in around me. The stranger who stood beside me scoffed, “Beat it."

I glanced up at him horrified. It was heroic of him to step in like that but stupid. He lit a cigarette in the rain, somehow.

The man in front of me ignored his fleeting comment and gazed down, “Ana,” he warned softly. He wore a gray dress shirt with black jeans, his gold watch sparkling in the golden lamplight. He was intimidating.

“Did you expect me to make any of this easy?" I whispered through the rainstorm.

The man sighed and scratched behind his ear, uncomfortable, impatience eating away at him. I stood up calmly but the stranger took my wrist, “I don’t know what's going on," he mumbled, glancing around to see if anyone else was around to back him up, “but she’s not going anywhere with you."

A sob caught in my throat as the passenger continued to keep his attention locked on me, showing me the man who had my wrist in his hand was absolutely no threat.

I carefully pulled my arm away gently, "It's alright, it’s not a big deal—"

“—hell yeah it is," he argued stepping towards, "who is this—do you even know him?”

The passenger placed an arm between us and opened the back door for me. I met the stranger's eyes and held them for as long as I could. He knew he was useless in this situation. Absolutely powerless. I could see his thoughts stuttering, stuck in fast forward. Then the door slammed shut, and he took a quick step towards the vehicle, dropping his cigarette to the puddle below. His figure in the night disappeared in the storm.

The passenger in the front seat sighed and ran his jacket over his jet-black hair. He muttered to the driver, and they shared a few short words with each other. I couldn't make them out. It sounded Russian.

As their conversation dissipated, the passenger swiveled his head and peeked back at me. “You have Christian concerned. What is the point of running?”

I shivered, dripping from the storm, my eyes locked on his forehead, "Why make it easy for everyone?”

His thick eyebrows bounced up, "I suppose…" he looked back through the windshield, “but it always ends up hurting you more than anyone else."

“Either way it's going to hurt."

“So you’d rather double the hurt over accepting the one."

His thick accent was unmistakably Russian. Thunder growled overhead, matching the turmoil inside me. I was exasperated, leaning my forehead against the cold window pane. "I really don’t expect anyone to understand," I muttered under my breath.

The driver’s sharp, intimidating glare met mine through the rearview mirror. I shifted uncomfortably, pressing deeper into the leather seat, realizing with a start that I didn’t recognize the road we were on. We were heading out towards the city limits. “Where are we going?” I asked, my voice wavering slightly. This wasn't quite towards the complex.

The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pink and gold hue over the buildings as we sped past them. The driver leaned back into his seat, his spine rigid against the cushion. "Just the driver," he growled.

“You are the driver,” I agreed quietly, trying to keep my tone even. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

His eyes flickered with annoyance. “You don’t give the orders.”

I sighed in frustration, glancing down at my phone. "I suppose when the storm blows over, things might get easier to understand," I whispered to no one in particular, my fingers nervously tapping against the black screen. The storm wasn’t just outside—it was inside me, too, a swirling mass of fear and uncertainty.

The driver chuckled, the sound flat and humorless. "Very stupid assumption. Why would you ever think that?"

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, trying to ease the knots forming in my stomach. Christian’s drenched, heavy sweatpants clung to my legs, a hole in the right knee. Being in denial that things were alright had a false sweetness, and for a moment, I let myself sink into that fading flavor, the radio’s chatter filling the silence like white noise.

We pulled over by an empty bus stop. The man in the passenger seat glanced at his golden watch, his expression unreadable. "Alright, get out," he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

Disoriented, I stared at him. “What?”

His bloodshot eyes locked onto mine, and something inside me told me not to argue. I forced my damp, exhausted body out of the car, and before I could gather my thoughts, they were peeling off into traffic, leaving me standing alone.

I wrung out the front of Christian’s shirt, the fabric stretching under the pressure of my hands. The sweatpants clung to my legs like wet paper, I bent over, trying to wring out some of the water from the heavy fabric. The world around me felt distant, unreal, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of crushing suspense that hung over me. The outskirts of Edmonton was small and the opposite of pleasing to the eye.

A dark brown SUV pulled up beside me, the window rolling down slowly. 

“What is this, a shift switch?” My lips moved, but I barely recognized my own voice as I spoke. The attitude was folding over my tone of voice. My fingers and toes were numb, and I suddenly realized I was standing in my bare feet.

The man exited the passenger side, opening the back door without a word. I didn’t move, knowing instinctively that this could be my last ride. He was dressed in a plain long-sleeve navy blue shirt and dark black jeans. His eyes were dead and unwavering. “Don’t make this a scene,” he spoke in a low, lethargic voice.

I pulled my head back slightly, feeling a rush of defiance. “And what if I do?”

He didn’t flinch, his expression unchanged. “We’re pretty good at finding you,” he replied casually. His soft confidence and lack of concern were alarming. He flicked his head toward the open door. “Get in.”

I hesitated, but a hand flattened on my back, jolting me forward. I glanced over my shoulder to see an older man with golden skin and dark facial hair, dressed in dark crimson sweats and a black t-shirt, matching my own drenched clothing but his being dry. He was tall and built like a football player, his presence daunting as he shuffled me into the back seat and gently closed the door behind me. The locks clicked down with an eerie finality.

“The other vehicle didn’t have the key to the door,” the driver remarked, tapping a button on his sun visor. His expression was subdued, but I caught a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, quickly replaced by relief. He swiped a hand over his buzz-cut hair before starting the engine. I sat rooted to the leather seat, fighting the urge to show my uneasiness.

I knew what that key opened—the inescapable underground street.

The driver’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t respond to the explanation of the vehicle switch up. Instead, I felt the ghost of my switchblade digging into my hip, like a phantom vibration from a phone that should have been in my pocket. The reality of it being gone taunted me, and shame flooded my chest—I knew better. I noticed a revolver resting between the passenger’s knees. I knew I couldn’t obtain it without serious consequences.

As we sped down the highway, one intrusive, repetitive thought echoed in my mind:

I’ll jump

.

But there was no loophole in this situation, and they both knew I wasn’t foolish enough to start anything under these conditions.

A phone ringing interrupted the stifling stillness. I strained to listen, hoping to gather some useful information, but the driver began speaking in Arabic. The conversation started smooth, almost calm, but quickly escalated into shouting. The atmosphere grew even more suffocating, pressing down on me until I felt paralyzed, claustrophobic.

I took out my phone, instinctively thinking to call Christian. But then I remembered—he was just as guilty as Eleven. That’s why they let me keep my phone; it was useless.

I stared at the screen with wide eyes, contemplating whether jumping would be a more merciful option. A part of me felt that jumping had a higher survival rate than reaching our destination.

As we turned into a driveway surrounded by trees, I looked up and saw a concrete building with an opening in the ground—a massive underground garage, almost identical to the one at our complex, but much larger. There would be no jumping, and there would be no fight.

There was only the inevitable, the inescapable descent into whatever awaited me below.