Page 90 of Whispers in the Dark
A voice, muffled behind a mask, spoke coldly in his ear, “You weren’t supposed to look this deep.”
Alex twisted, catching a glimpse of the attacker’s eyes—flat, unreadable.
Then darkness swallowed him.
The room was cold.Not just cold—clinical. Engineered. Every surface sterile, every corner too smooth to leave a mark. It wasn’t a cell. It was a container.
Alex came to slowly, the dull throb in his head pulsing with every heartbeat. Naked. His wrists were cuffed behind him, ankles bound. Metal restraints, not zip ties. Professional. This wasn’t improvisation.
His mouth was dry. Blood. A cut at the corner of his lip.
He opened one eye and squinted against the stark white light overhead. A camera in the corner blinked red constantly. The other eye was swollen. He’d fought.
They wanted him awake. His voice was hoarse. “This how you treat guests?”
No answer. Only the faint hum of electricity. The low click of a vent fan. Somewhere, something dripped, slow and deliberate.
He tested the cuffs. No give. Ankles were cinched tight. No room to kick, no leverage to stand.
They didn’t ask questions when they took him. They didn’t need to. This was about silencing.
He remembered flashes—two men, military posture, civilian clothes. Professional. The inside of a van. A needle in his neck. Then nothing.
Alex swallowed, his throat raw. Footsteps echoed beyond the door. Not hurried. Not heavy. Someone confident.
The door opened with a hiss, the kind that only came from airlocked seals. A woman stepped in. Black suit, tablet in hand, not a blonde hair out of place.
Her eyes landed on him like a scalpel. “You’re not as subtle as you think, Assistant U.S. Attorney Marcel,” she said coolly.
Alex grinned through the pain. “And you’re not as invisible as you like to believe, Director…”
“Monroe.” She gave the faintest smile. “I’m not here to debate procedures.”
“No,” he said. “You’re here to clean up.”
Monroe circled him slowly, tablet in hand. “You weren’t supposed to go to the prison. You weren’t supposed to speak to Fields. And you sure as hell weren’t supposed to start connecting Elias Ward to Charlotte Everhart.”
Alex didn’t flinch. “He’s alive.”
She stopped walking. “That depends on your definition of ‘alive.’”
He looked up at her. “What is he, Monroe? A ghost? A weapon? Or a loose end you can’t tie?”
Monroe leaned in, voice soft. “He’s something far worse than a loose end. He’s proof of how badly we miscalculated. And now that you’ve seen it too…” She tapped the tablet. The restraints tightened around his wrists with a mechanical click. “…you’re a liability.”
Alex met her eyes, steady. “So what now?” he asked. “You gonna disappear me?”
Monroe’s expression didn’t change. “Not yet.” She turned to the door. “But you’ll wish I had.”
The door hissed closed behind her, and Alex was alone again—with nothing but the hum of the lights, the burn in his muscles, and the chilling truth: This wasn’t about Elias anymore. It was about him.
Alex breathed through his nose, slow and measured. Monroe’s footsteps faded away, swallowed by the artificial silence of the place. He was sweating now—not from fear, but from the clarity that always came right before a storm. They weren’t going to kill him. Not yet. This would be worse.
He looked up at the camera, the little red eye blinking steadily in the corner like it was counting down to something. Surveillance wasn't about monitoring—it was about control. Psychological pressure. He knew the playbook. Hell, he’dwritten versions of it for interrogation protocol. But this wasn’t protocol. This was personal.
Another hiss—the door again. Two men entered. Larger, suited up in matte black tactical gear, no insignias. Anonymous. One carried a small case, silver with latches. The kind used for medical tools or field interrogation kits.
The other man spoke first, voice muffled behind a comms mic. “Orders are to keep you talking.”
