' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

Perfection Like Always...

The first day is silence. I try to slow my breathing. Try to rationalize. Pierce won't leave me here long. This is a lesson. A power play.

By the second day, my throat's dry. My stomach aches. I count the cracks in the corner of the wall. I stretch. Push against the walls. Look for vents. Weak points. Nothing.

By the third, my hands are shaking.

My lips are split.

The shadows on the wall start to move. Just barely. Like they're breathing.

I rest my head back against the wall, closing my eyes.

You should've obeyed.
The thought loops endlessly. Like a heartbeat I can't silence.

I see his face when I blink. Pierce's. Calm, smug, unshaken. I hate that he knows I'm here. That he planned for this. That this is routine to him.

I try to tell myself I did the right thing. That some things should be refused. That if I followed the order, something in me would've cracked anyway.

But the silence keeps growing teeth.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————

By the fourth day, I'm not sure I'm awake.

I see movement in the corner of the room—sharp, jerking. I turn my head but nothing's there.

Except I heard it.

A whisper, like someone breathing behind me.

"...Sova..."

I spin around. There's no one there. Just the walls. The light above me flickers again.

I press my fingers into my scalp, forcing myself to stay grounded.

But my stomach is eating itself.

I hear footsteps sometimes. Just outside the door. I leap to my feet, ready to strike—ready to apologize—but no one comes.

I start whispering to myself. Things I remember. Mission debriefs. Song lyrics. The way my mother used to braid my hair. I don't even know if that memory's real.

I start to cry.

I hate that I'm crying. I hate that after all these years. This, is what tore me

But it's quiet. It's silent, like everything else here. Just the soft sound of my own breakdown echoing against steel.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————

By the end of the week, I stop feeling like a person.

I lie flat on the floor. My muscles feel like paper. I stare up at the bulb until it's burned into my eyes. Every so often, I think I hear Pierce's voice. Or footsteps. Or someone whispering my name from the ceiling.

I start laughing at nothing. It sounds strange in the stillness.

Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I'm on a mission again. I hear the wind, feel the snow against my face, hear comms in my ear. I imagine the sharp, clear world where I always knew who I was and what I was for.

But now?

Now I'm just a ghost locked in a metal coffin.

And Pierce is waiting.

Waiting for me to break enough to be rebuilt.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————

I don't know how long has passed. I don't know if I'm even real anymore but then the door hisses.

Light floods in—bright, too bright. My eyes sting as I flinch, arm raising on instinct. I can't move fast. Everything hurts.

Boots.

Sharp footsteps against tile.

And then him.

Pierce steps inside with the calm assurance of a man checking on one of his machines. He doesn't rush. He doesn't look angry. If anything, he looks... satisfied.

I blink hard. Try to sit up straighter. My limbs don't quite cooperate.

He stops in front of me, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sweeping over me like I'm a report that disappointed him—just slightly.

"What a mess..." he murmurs, crouching a little to meet my gaze. "You used to bounce back faster."

I don't answer. I can't.

Pierce clicks his tongue, then reaches forward. His gloved hand brushes a strand of hair from my face—gently, almost like a father tucking in a child. But there's no kindness behind the touch. Just scrutiny.

I jerk away from his touch. He pursed his lips in thought and disappointment but it doesn't last long.

"This is just a slight problem," he says, voice smooth and clinical. "But worry not—I'll tweak you to perfection in no time."

He straightens.

A pause.

Then, with a slow, amused tilt of his head, he adds—

"Like always."