Page 137 of Inferno

I offer my wrist. He clips the strap onto the cuff, right over the scars. They’re raw and aching. The metal irritates them, but I ignore it.

He leads me down the corridor. My eyes dart over the floor, the walls. No blood. Clean. Sanitized. That doesn’t mean it’s safe.

Where do they take the bodies?

I don’t want to know. But I do have an educated guess.

Incinerators. It’s a fucking factory.

Clever.

Adrenaline surges, but it’s cold. Not the kind that sharpens. The kind that tightens your chest and clogs your lungs.

We enter the room. The door slams shut behind us.

Pitch black is what I’m greeted with.

My breath hitches. I can hear the girl next to me breathing, sharp and shallow.

“Welcome to hell,” the distorted voice crackles through the speaker.

Blinding lights slam on. I blink, then I freeze.

The walls are black. Splattered with red. Thick, dark paint, or blood? I’m not sure. I don’t want to be.

Three benches sit in the center. Each with a mounted saddle. A dildo rises from the middle—large, slick, and of course, purple.

Chains dangle from the ceiling.

The back wall is a gallery of torment. Whips, paddles, floggers. I want to throw up.

This isn’t just another game.

It’s a violation waiting to happen.

The girl beside me gasps. I want to comfort her. Tell her to breathe. But I can’t afford that right now.

Empathy gets you killed in here.

They made it this far for a reason. They’re survivors too. Sweet faces can still hide steel.

Tara should’ve been one of them. She was strong, extremely annoying, but strong. And now she’s gone.

The voice cuts through the heavy silence again.

“This room is your nightmares brought to life. A test of resilience in many forms. You will be pushed to your very limit. Over and over again. How much can you endure?”

My stomach knots. I swallow back the bile.

“This game has no set time. It goes on for as long as it takes for one of you to tap out.”

A tremor racks my body. My chest tightens. Breathe, Charlotte.

I force myself to remember my training. My instincts. But that old, soft version of me—she’s clawing at the edges.

I need the ruthless one now.

The one who killed to survive.

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