# Chapter 7
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The scream cut through the silence.
Max's eyes snapped open.
Black. Still black.
But the sound—
High-pitched. Desperate. Human.
Coming from somewhere. Not in this room. Somewhere else. Through walls. Through floors. He couldn't tell.
The scream continued. Rose higher. Broke into sobs.
Max sat up. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Another scream. Wordless. Pure terror.
His hands moved without thinking. Fingers curled. Nails pressed into his forearms.
The screaming wouldn't stop.
Max's nails dug deeper. Dragged down his skin. He felt the resistance. Then the give. Skin breaking.
It hurt.
He did it again.
The screaming rose. Became something inhuman. Something animal.
Max clawed at his arms. Both hands now. Scratching. Digging. His nails finding purchase and pulling. The pain sharp and immediate but distant somehow. Not enough to stop him.
Blood welled up. He could feel it. Warm. Wet. Running down to his wrists.
The screaming continued.
Max scratched harder. His breathing came in gasps. Short. Panicked.
He couldn't stop.
His nails caught on something. Tore. The pain spiked but he kept going. Had to keep going. Had to—
The screaming stopped.
Complete silence.
Max froze.
His hands hovered over his arms. Nails still pressed against broken skin.
Nothing.
No sound at all.
He waited. Listened.
Silence pressed against his ears like cotton.
Slowly, his hands dropped to his lap.
The pain registered properly now. His arms burned. Multiple lines of fire across both forearms. He touched one carefully. Felt the raised edges. The wetness.
Blood.
His blood.
What had he—
Max's breathing was still too fast. He tried to slow it. Couldn't quite manage.
The scratches throbbed. All of them. A dozen small wounds pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He lifted his hands to his face. Sniffed. The metallic smell of blood.
Why had he done that?
The screaming. The fear. His body had moved on its own.
Max lowered his hands. Pressed them against the cold floor. The temperature helped somehow. Grounding.
He tried to remember.
Yesterday. What had happened yesterday?
The door had opened. Food on the floor. He'd eaten. And then...
Nothing.
He'd fallen asleep, hadn't he?
Must have.
But when?
How long ago?
Max searched his memory. Tried to find anything. Any detail. Any sense of time passing.
Just the gap. Clean and empty.
He'd eaten. And then this. Waking to the screaming.
But between those moments—nothing.
His head throbbed. The stitches pulled when he moved. And now his arms burned with fresh pain.
Everything hurt.
Max sat in the darkness, trying to piece it together. Time didn't work here. Memory didn't work here.
What day was it?
He didn't know.
How long had he been in this room?
He didn't know that either.
The silence continued. Thick. Heavy.
Whoever had been screaming—
Max didn't let himself finish the thought.
He touched his arms again. The blood was already drying slightly. Sticky. The scratches weren't deep. Surface wounds. They'd heal.
Probably.
If he—
The sound came then.
That mechanical click.
The door.
Max's head turned toward it. Somewhere to his left. The scraping of metal on metal.
Opening.
He pushed himself to his feet. Swayed slightly. His legs felt weak.
He moved toward the sound. Hands outstretched. Found the wall. Followed it.
The door had to be close. Had to be right—
His hand hit smooth wall.
No opening.
Max pressed against it. Felt along the surface. Looking for the seam. The edge.
Nothing.
It was closed again.
Already.
His hands dropped.
How long had it been open? Seconds?
He stood there, breathing hard, trying to understand.
Then he remembered.
Food.
He crouched down. Felt along the floor. His fingers found it immediately.
The tray. Metal. Still warm.
A plate. Something soft on it. Bread maybe. And something else. He couldn't tell what.
A cup. Liquid inside.
Max picked up the tray carefully. Stood.
His arms stung where the scratches were. Blood still wet in places.
He carried the tray back to where he thought he'd been sitting. Set it down. Lowered himself to the floor beside it.
The food smelled normal. Like before. Generic. Institutional.
He touched the bread. His fingers left small smears of blood on it.
Max pulled his hand back. Wiped it on his pants.
His stomach felt hollow. Empty. How long since he'd eaten?
He didn't know.
The gap in his memory sat there. Unexplained. Wrong.
He'd eaten before. And then nothing. And now this.
What had happened in between?
The stitches on his head throbbed. The scratches on his arms burned. His throat was dry.
Max reached for the cup. Brought it to his lips.
The liquid tasted the same as before. Water. Or close enough.
He drank half of it.
Set it down.
His hands were shaking.
The screaming had stopped. Whoever it was—wherever they were—they'd gone silent.
Max sat in the darkness with the tray of food beside him.
Blood drying on his arms.
Memory gone.
Time meaningless.
His stomach cramped with hunger.
But his hands wouldn't move.
Last time he'd eaten, he'd lost time. Woken up with new stitches. With pieces missing.
Would it happen again?
Max stared into the black.
The food sat beside him. Waiting.
His stomach cramped again.
He didn't move.
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