Darkness moved like water. Thick. Viscous. Every breath Matthew took felt like it dragged tar into his lungs.
He couldn't see the room. But he could feel it—concrete under his knees, mildew in the walls, and a low hum that vibrated in his teeth. Maybe a generator. Maybe just the sound his mind made when it finally cracked.
He'd stopped counting the days. That's what Bishop wanted. Not time—disorientation. Strip the body down to bone. Strip the soul down to apology.
A speaker crackled. Somewhere above.
Then a voice.
Soft. Patient. Bishop.
> "You remember the chapel, Matthew? Where you first tried to get clean?"
Matthew flinched. That voice didn't echo. It pierced.
> "You cried for three hours in that pew. Told God you didn't want to die a junkie. Told Him you wanted to be a man again."
Silence.
Matthew's fingers trembled against the floor. He hadn't spoken in days. His throat was raw, but the words scraped out anyway.
"Why are you doing this?"
> "Because you believed, Matthew. You believed you could change. That makes you... interesting."
The speaker clicked off. A different sound replaced it.
A child's laugh.
High. Familiar.
Matthew's heart cracked against his ribs.
> "Mia?" he whispered.
The room lit up for half a second—just enough for the photo on the wall to sear into his brain.
His daughter. Ten years ago. That red scarf he bought her for Christmas.
Then darkness again.
And Bishop's voice, back in his ear. Closer now.
> "Every addict has a god. You just haven't decided who yours is yet."
Matthew curled in on himself.
He wasn't broken.
But he could hear the cracks forming.
And Bishop—he was listening for them. With a smile.
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