12 👣 The Runaway

12 5 14

Ece's in her one of her thief personalities.

How is she supposed to deliver terror to these strangers, thus freeing herself out?

Think, Ece, think. How to paralyze those people and gain your dominance back? Or better, earn a name and the location of the traitor, or the spy?

She retraces the events she has come across within this crucial week only.

There was nothing remarkable from her five heists across the city's sites. Besides obtaining her fellow thieves a handful of jewelry to craze over.

The final heist, which stole the onyx from Kirminai, brought nothing but the target itself and resulted in a permanent wound around her neck after being chased by the cave's natural inhabitants...which she better not think of.

Shortly afterward, she extracted Tayana from the hospital's Intensive Care Unit. Tayana was convulsing. The medics injected something into her veins, urging her to stop without any agreements.

That thing, was it anesthesia? Or does the medical world recognize it differently?

An idea arrives inside her head, resembling a lantern after eons without any warmth. That is the key. If the top suspect experiences convulsions, they'll do anything to stabilize her without any usages of violence.

The silencer, once again, is the key.

I need a fake stunt to attract their attention. Then paralyzing them with the anesthesia will be an easy piece.

So what can cause convulsions besides the dysfunction of one's brain cells?

This darkness won't result in her epilepsy, it'll drive her blind instead. The lack of sounds in the room can't trigger any convulsions. But there's this stifling atmosphere, which indicates the room's size isn't any larger than the usual prison cell.

Can the deficiency of oxygen result in a convulsion?

Three harsh raps against steel resound from the door. A hollow voice, deeper than a crater, follows suit. "Lunchtime in five minutes."

Five minutes to set up the stage.

Ece scrambles back to the metallic bed. Her back lands firmly on the cool tray. With both hands around her throat to dramatize. Both her jaws and teeth will clash with their opposite halves once her stunt begins.

Hopefully, her scheme dashes on a smooth satin, not on a coarse asphalt.

Three seconds; the walls seem to squeeze on her sides, increasing her heartbeat. Twenty seconds; sweat starts to flood over her. Thirty-five seconds; another set of footsteps approach her cell.

The foreign scream sourcing from her thinnest cords begins on second fifty-three.

She gasps; like a fish out of water, like a vulnerable astronaut on a stranded planet. The tight air burns her nostrils. Her back aches after constantly clashing with the board. The muscles in her arms beg for a pause.

The door breaks open, the hinges bent. Several arms reach for her help. Her scream drowns their pleas of silence. A fallen object hits the ground with a twang; possibly her future lunch. Light streams from the outside, stabbing her unprepared pupils.

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