The basement was quiet, the weak light of dawn filtering through the narrow window. The others were still asleep, huddled on the cold floor, their breaths uneven and shallow. I sat up slowly, trembling, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to me. My cheeks were damp from tears I hadn't realized I'd shed, and my chest felt tight, like it might crack.
A shadow moved beside me.
"Are you okay?" His voice was low, cautious, just above a whisper. For a fleeting second, there was something in it—concern, maybe—but he masked it instantly with indifference.
I wiped at my cheeks quickly, embarrassed, glancing away. "Yeah…" I whispered, trying to make it sound casual, even though my hands shook.
His eyes lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary. He swallowed, shoulders straightening, expression unreadable. Then he shrugged lightly and said, "Mornin'."
I tilted my head faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Mornin'," I said back, keeping my voice light and calm, hiding the tremor in my chest.
He studied me for a moment, but the brief trace of worry vanished. He returned to his usual controlled, cold demeanor, as if my tears had never happened.
I let a small, almost sly smile tug at my lips. "Sleep well?" I asked softly, voice casual, letting it sound like idle chatter, though in reality I was testing him.
"Enough," he replied, voice clipped, neutral. His eyes flicked to the floor, scanning the room, but every so often they returned to me. He was keeping a careful distance, but I could feel the quiet tension, the faint spark of awareness that I was doing something he couldn't entirely ignore.
I leaned back against the wall, letting my posture appear relaxed, fingers brushing lazily over the hem of my sleeve. "Dreams?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, pretending to be idle. "Bad ones?"
He didn't answer immediately. I could feel the brief pause as he considered whether to respond, then finally: "I don't care about dreams," he said, voice even, almost dismissive. "I care about actions."
I smirked faintly. "Actions, huh? That's… specific," I murmured. My tone was casual, playful even, but my heart raced. The slight twitch in his jaw gave him away. That tiny reaction meant he heard me.
"I notice things," he added, still keeping his voice steady, eyes sharp. "Some people… reveal too much without realizing it."
I tilted my head, leaning slightly closer, letting my voice remain soft. "Oh? And have I revealed too much?" I asked, letting a faint trace of amusement slip in, just enough that he would notice but not enough that the others could.
His eyes narrowed, subtle, calculating. "You test me," he said finally. "Careful with that."
I let a quiet laugh escape, brushing my hair behind my ear, pretending to be brushing off the comment. "Maybe," I said lightly. "Or maybe I just like to watch people react."
He shifted slightly but didn't respond. Just watched me, carefully, evaluating. His hand brushed near the knife at his side—a small, unconscious movement—and I caught it. That was enough.
The others were still asleep, oblivious to the silent exchange between us. Clara's soft snores and James's uneven breathing filled the gaps, but their presence didn't matter. It was just him and me now, in this quiet, tense bubble.
I leaned back, pretending boredom, letting my voice drift casually. "You act like nothing surprises you," I said softly. "But maybe… maybe you're just very good at hiding it."
He didn't flinch, didn't give anything away. But the way his eyes lingered on me a fraction longer than necessary betrayed him. Not concern, not care… just interest. A flicker of something that I could work with.
I let the silence stretch, letting him stew in it for a moment, then added quietly, almost to myself: "Some people… react without knowing why."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, shoulders stiffening, and he glanced away. Perfect. I had nudged him. Subtle, invisible. No one else could notice, but I knew.
I shifted slightly on the floor, keeping my voice calm, pretending casual curiosity. "You could act differently," I said softly, "but you don't. Guess it's easier to watch than to intervene."
He finally met my gaze again, steady, unreadable. "Maybe," he said softly. And that was it—no concern, no care, no softness. Just the faintest acknowledgment of the game we were now playing.
I pressed my back against the wall, letting the quiet settle. My tears were gone, my breathing slower, controlled. I let my body relax, keeping my casual façade, while inside, my mind raced, planning my next move.
The room remained quiet. The others slept. And the game—silent, dangerous, invisible—had begun.