They took me down more stairs.
Deeper than the work floor. Deeper than the sleeping quarters. Down to a level where the walls were wet and the air smelled like rust and something else I didn't want to think about.
The two supervisors didn't talk. Just walked on either side of me, hands on my arms, like I might try to run. Which was stupid because where would I run to?
We stopped at a door. No number, no markings. Just metal and rust stains. One of them used a key to open it.
Inside was concrete. Walls, floor, ceiling. All concrete. And a drain in the middle of the floor with dark stains around it.
"Sit," one of them said.
There was nothing to sit on.
"On the floor."
I sat on the concrete. It was cold and damp.
One of them pulled out a strip of black cloth. Before I could ask what it was for, they tied it around my eyes. Tight enough that I couldn't see anything. Not even shapes or light.
They left.
I sat there in the dark, listening to the sound of water dripping somewhere I couldn't see. Listening to the hum of machinery through the walls. Listening to my own breathing, which sounded too loud in the silence.
My legs started going numb. I shifted position and felt something wet under my hand. Something that had soaked into the concrete. I pulled my hand away fast and wiped it on my coveralls, but I could still smell it. Metallic. Wrong.
Time felt broken. Could have been an hour. Could have been a day. There was no way to tell in the dark.
The door opened. Footsteps. Heavy boots on concrete.
Hands grabbed my arms and pulled me up. I stumbled because my legs had gone to sleep, but they didn't let me fall. Just dragged me somewhere else in the room.
My hands were pulled behind my back and tied. Not with rope. Something thinner. Wire maybe. It cut into my wrists when I tried to move.
"Second warning," a voice said. Man's voice. Flat. Bored. "Quota violation."
That was all the explanation I got.
Something hit my stomach. Hard. Knocked all the air out of me. I doubled over but the hands holding my arms kept me upright.
Another hit. This time my ribs. I heard something crack.
I tried to say something. Tried to explain that I'd been helping someone, that Lily was sick, that I was just trying to...
Something hit my face. Split my lip. Filled my mouth with blood.
"No talking," the voice said.
More hits. My back. My legs. My stomach again. Each one precise, controlled. Not random violence. Something practiced. Professional.
They knew exactly where to hit to cause the most pain without doing permanent damage. This wasn't anger. This was work.
I stopped trying to stand up straight. Stopped trying to explain. Just tried to breathe between the hits.
After a while, they stopped. Footsteps walked away. The door closed.
I was alone again, tied up and blindfolded on a concrete floor that felt warm and sticky under my face.
Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Not moving hurt.
I thought about Lily. About her smile when I'd helped her make quota. About mouthing "I'll be back" as they dragged me away.
The thought made me feel... something. Something warm in my chest despite the pain. Something that reminded me I was still human.
The door opened again.
This time there were more footsteps. More voices. Quiet voices, talking about me like I was an object.
"...second warning cases usually need extended processing..."
"...neural pathways are still too active..."
"...try the stress positions first..."
Hands pulled me up again. My legs wouldn't hold me, so they dragged me to another part of the room. My arms were untied, then retied above my head to something I couldn't see. Something that held them high enough that I had to stand on my toes to keep my weight off my shoulders.
They left me like that.
At first it wasn't so bad. Just uncomfortable. But as time passed, my shoulders started to ache. Then burn. Then scream. My legs cramped from trying to stay on my toes. My wrists went numb where the wire cut off circulation.
I couldn't tell how long I hung there. Long enough for the pain to become everything. Long enough for my legs to give out completely, leaving my full weight hanging from my wrists. Long enough for me to stop thinking about anything except making it stop.
When they came back, I couldn't stand anymore. They had to hold me up to untie my hands.
"Better," one of them said. "But not finished."
They tied me to something else. Something that kept me bent over, unable to straighten up or sit down. They put things on my back. Heavy things that made my muscles cramp and spasm.
Then they left again.
This time I stopped thinking about Lily. Stopped thinking about helping her or caring about her or anyone else. The pain was too big for other thoughts. It filled up all the space in my head where feelings used to be.
When they came back, they asked me questions.
"What is your function?"
"Sort... sort pieces," I gasped.
"What is your quota?"
"Five hundred."
"What happens when you fail to meet quota?"
"This."
"What is more important? Your quota or another worker's quota?"
I knew the answer they wanted. The only answer that would make this stop.
"Mine."
"Why?"
"Because... because I'm responsible for mine."
"That's right. You are not responsible for anyone else. You are not required to help anyone else. You are required to meet your quota. Nothing else matters."
Nothing else matters.
They kept asking questions. The same questions over and over. Until the answers came automatically. Until I stopped thinking about them and just responded.
Until the answers felt true.
Days passed. I think. It was hard to tell in the dark. They brought me water sometimes. A little food. Just enough to keep me alive.
But mostly they brought pain.
Different kinds each day. Always something new. Always something that made the day before seem easy by comparison.
And always the questions.
What is your function? What is your quota? What happens when you fail? What is more important than your quota?
My answers got weaker. My voice stopped working right. But they kept asking.
The questions mixed together with the pain until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Function. Quota. Pain. Function. Quota. Pain.
Over and over until the words didn't mean anything anymore. Until nothing meant anything anymore.
I stopped trying to remember who I was before this room. Stopped trying to hold onto thoughts that hurt too much to think.
It was easier to just... let go.
Let the pain wash everything else away.
Let the questions fill up all the empty spaces where other thoughts used to be.
Function. Quota. Pain.
That was all there was now.
That was all there had ever been.