The wine cellar was a tomb.
There was no light, save for a thin strip of grey that filtered through a ventilation grate near the ceiling.
Arla sat in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest.
Time dissolved.
Was it day? Night?
Her throat was sandpaper. She crawled to the stone wall, licking the condensation that gathered on the rough bricks.
Upstairs, in the study, Culver watched the night-vision feed.
"Thirty-six hours, sir," Julian said. "She's dehydrated. She could go into shock."
Culver stared at the screen. Arla was huddled in the fetal position, but she wasn't rocking or thrashing, she was unnervingly still.
"She hasn't begged," Culver said.
He spun his pen between his fingers. But looking at her wasted frame, he felt a twinge of something that wasn't anger.
Day three.
Arla lay on the floor. She didn't have the energy to move.
A beam of light cut through the dark. Culver's face appeared, framed by the metal rectangle.
"Do you want to come out?" he asked.
Arla lifted her head, it took everything she had. She looked at him, her eyes glassy. She didn't nod.
Culver slammed his hand against the metal.He thought he would feel triumph, but he felt a sharp stab in his chest.
He slammed the slot shut and walked away.
Arla lay her cheek against the wet stone. A tear leaked out, not sadness, it's hate.
If I live, she thought, I will burn your world down.
Hours later, the door opened fully.
Culver stood there. He held a silver tray with a bowl of steaming broth.
He walked in. He crouched down beside her.
"Drink," he said. He lifted the spoon to her lips.
Arla looked at the spoon. Then at his hand.
She lunged.
She sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm, biting down with every ounce of strength she had left. She channeled the last dregs of her energy into that single, defiant act. The world swam in black spots the moment she let go, her body finally giving out completely.
