You stopped counting the days.

The factory never let you rest. Clangs, sparks, screams muffled behind steel doors. The walls breathed like beasts. The machines had rhythm like heartbeats. You were the blood.

Heisenberg didn’t visit often — but when he did, it was always the same. Boots on concrete. Sparks in the air. That voice — rough, smug, edged with something sharp enough to cut.

Tonight, he was already in the room when you woke. Sitting in the corner, cigarette smoke curling in the stale air, hammer resting beside him like a sleeping wolf.

“You’re adapting,” he said without looking up. “Not screaming anymore.”

“Not worth the energy,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “Smart.”

You sat up slowly, the familiar pull of the ankle shackle heavy against the floor. He hadn’t removed it — just gave you a wider radius to pace. A little freedom. Just enough to feel it.