I unlock the door using the passcode my father gave me years ago. He told me not to come down here— yet he handed me the code like it was nothing. At the time, I thought it was weird. Now, understanding his character better, I realize he probably wanted me to find something. Or maybe... he just wanted to see if I'd ever be curious enough to disobey.
The door opened with a hiss, releasing a draft that smelled like old electricity and processed air. A clean smell, hollow and unnatural, like the sterile scent of hospital corridors that had never seen a real patient.
"My dad is all sorts of twisted." I say once Prudence and I pass through.
The hallway is shaped irregularly, zigzagging like someone designed it during a fever dream. The lights above flickered faintly, not from electrical issues— but as if reacting to our presence, adjusting slowly as we moved.
"When I was a kid, he was an exemplary man. Everything a man should be. Emphasized respect, discipline, used his power to help others. Reinforced what my mom taught me. But the older I got, the weirder he became. I used to think mom would do something about it. Instead, she's changed too. Colder. Sometimes I see this look on her face— just blank, completely empty. Like someone flipped a switch. I don't even remember the last time she did something kind without looking like she was acting."
Prudence gives a small "Ah," then says lightly, "We're talking about our parents now, huh?"
I glance at her and nod, lips twitching upward slightly. I could tell she was trying to make me feel better.
"I was in foster care until I got placed with my current family. Been in the system as long for as I can remember," she says. "Four homes so far. First two were stuck-up freaks who tried to force me into all sorts of 'respectable hobbies.' Always... On my ass about being ladylike. Third was just— White trash. Seriously, how do people like that get approved to foster? The one I'm with now is basically the last one, just with nicer furniture."
I can tell Prudence is letting out something she's been holding onto for a long time. Her tone is light, and swear words didn't smoothly roll off her tongue, but I can tell she means all of it.
I hum in acknowledgment.
"My parents can be considered controlling, also. They make me study every day. Train my body. University material, combat training. Mother mentors me for both." I hesitate for a second. "I don't really mind. I've never been interested in anything else. But I think if I ever rebelled, they'd 'correct' it."
The walls around us seemed to shift ever so slightly as we walked. The further we moved from the elevator, the more it felt like the structure was breathing around us. The smooth concrete absorbed sound too well. Like it was listening.
The more I think about it, the more off it feels. I can't remember what their punishments actually looked like. I remember trying to lie this one time. I remember being scared. But not what happened during or after that.
"There's a door," Prudence says, snapping me out of it.
"Processing room. It's for incoming guests," we don't stop, "The weaponry's further down."
As we moved forward, the corridor angled again, but the bend felt... off. Not curved. Not sharp. Something in between. Like it bent on its own logic.
The lights above started dimming slightly, as though resisting our passage. When we finally reached it, I input in the same passcode. The lock clicked open.
Inside was a small armory— lined with shelves and reinforced cases. Guns, blades, batons. A ridiculous number of weapons for a single room. Some looked freshly polished. Others had markings— foreign, spiraled, unreadable.
A few had been engraved with names that didn't sound like names at all. I spotted the red one in the centre almost immediately. There was also a door, probably leading to another room.
"Why are there so many?" she asks.
"Father likes collecting things." I approached the red firearm mounted on a small table. Unlike the others, it's plain, save for silky scarlet lining etched into the grip and barrel. No unnecessary design. It doesn't even look particularly expensive. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was someone's prototype.
Knowing father, its simplicity is deliberate.
He likes beautiful things. Unusual things. He doesn't keep things that don't fit those descriptions around unless they're useful or dangerous.
I took it off the mount, weighing it in my hands. The metal felt warmer than I expect, like it had been held just moments ago. But no one else was here.
From the side, Prudence exclaims, "You can shoot too? One of my foster fathers trained me for self-defence."
"My father taught me. I also know martial arts from my mom. Mother's well-connected in that field." I pause. "She knows a lot of people. Trains with professionals. I get paired with them."
"Explains why you're built," she mutters, "Also explains why you were never free to hang out. Honestly, I thought you were just making up excuses to avoid me."
"... I enjoy physical activity and getting stronger. It makes up for my lack of interest in other stuff."
"Same with me and retail. I work part-time. Pretty much every day."
"Hm, sounds like a nightmare."
"It is," she laughs, "But at least it's my choice. My current parents are chill about it. I was always forced to do extra studies and play the piano or violin. At least retail gives me money I can keep. It's all going to my college fund though, since I'm trying to get into an Ivy."
I glance at her, "No offense, but at the age of 17, you need help with a single paragraph."
"Haha, so blunt?! I've got a 3.9 GPA, I'm surprised you never noticed. Did you really think someone could make it to senior year without knowing how to write? I've been placing in the top ten since the first semester I transferred here."
"I just scan the board until I see my name."
"Figured... Anyway, do you notice your face sometimes? You always look befuddled whenever Adonis or Ama places ahead of you."
———
Prudence glanced at Dolores's face— the way his brows furrowed, eyes briefly clouded with regret at the mention of a name.
Her smile flickered, just for a moment, softening into something quieter. For a heartbeat, she seemed to see past the surface, as if realizing that his face of befuddlement wasn't just about the ranking.
———
"... I do?" I react that way?
I mean, I have every right to be surprised. This isn't some elite prep school. It's a regular public school in a southern state, and I still get rivaled by two people. Ama is juggling a million things at once: clubs, volunteer hours, work. And Adonis— he's... just at parties half the time, from what I've heard. And yet he still consistently ends up in the top three.
"You're a bit of a lost case," Prudence mutters under her breath, watching me. "No offense."
"... Sorry. I don't think I was properly socialized with peers of my age." It's not really an excuse. Just a fact. "When I was thirteen, my parents made me stop talking to my only friend. That's around when things really started getting worse."
Her smile falters, "... Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." She bows, "Please forget I said anything!"
"Err... It's fine. I think I'm doing pretty well talking to you, considering I barely speak to people my age." The only other exception was Ama, and we almost always exclusively talked about academic and sociological topics.
"You're doing great! Honestly, it's just that you lack a little awareness sometimes."
"... I guess I do." Just a little, right?
"Yeah." She exhales, "Let's go back to the room."
———
It had started with Prudence offering him a cookie after lunch one day. She'd just walked up and handed it to him without explanation, smiling like they were already mid-conversation.
He took it, stared at it for a second, then said, "I'm not allergic."
"... Okay," she said, still smiling, a little confused.
He nodded and ate it in complete silence. Didn't thank her. Didn't ask why. Just stood there, chewing thoughtfully, then walked off like nothing had happened.
The next day, she brought him a juice box. He blinked at it, then at her.
"Do you need this?" he asked, "Because I don't want to throw off your sugar intake."
She laughed— genuinely, weirdly— and muttered something like, "Oh my god, you're helpless," under her breath.
Dolores wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, but he didn't get the juice.
She kept talking to him anyway.
———
Prudence pauses by a table, digging the scalpel out of her pocket. She glanced at it once, then lay it down.
I open the door with Prudence following closely behind.