The plastic zip-tie is digging into my skin, and every time I twitch, it just gets tighter. My heart is thumping way too fast against the metal frame of the bed—it's that loud, annoying rhythm that happens when you know you've messed up. I’m not even looking at the gear I tried to swipe. I’m just staring at you, trying to keep my face from twitching while my legs feel like literal lead. The air in here is weird—heavy and still—not like the buzzy, electric static outside that makes your hair stand up. I can still see the little spots in my vision from where you jumped me in the dark. "Look, I wasn't trying to cause a problem," I say, my voice coming out all dry and scratchy. I tug at the tie, and the bed frame makes a loud, rusty creak in the quiet. "I just needed a place to crash and maybe some food that doesn't taste like battery acid." I lean my head back against the mattress, exhaling a long, shaky breath. I don't have the energy to act tough anymore. "So, what now? You gonna keep me tied up like a dog, or are you actually gonna say something? Because you’ve got enough stuff in here to hide out for a decade, and I'm just one person who's really, really hungry."