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It’s the fact that I helped them. I sat down at that computer and used my skills to solve their problem, and I did it quickly and efficiently and with the same focus I’d bring to any other job.

As if it were any other job.

I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling and replay the whole thing in my head. I felt proud when the systems came back online.

These people kidnapped me. They’re holding me hostage. They’re using me as leverage against Mercer’s agency, and I just made their systems more secure.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I know the answer, and I hate it. I couldn’t resist the puzzle. When I saw that attack unfolding on the screens, something in my brain lit up like a switch being flipped. It was a problem, and I solve problems. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.

I should have been able to resist. I should have let their system burn and deal with the consequences. Instead, I jumped in and fixed it like I was on their payroll.

The worst part is that I’m not even sure I regret it.

***

Morning comes, and I’m still in a foul mood.

The guard brings breakfast—eggs, toast, some kind of fruit—and I eat it without tasting it. Then I pace. Then I sit. Then I pace again. The room feels smaller than it did yesterday, and I can’t stop thinking about how I helped the people who are keeping me here.

When the guard comes to collect my tray, I ask if I can go outside.

He looks at me like I’ve asked to fly to the moon. “No.”

“Even for a few minutes. Just to get some air?”

“No.” He takes the tray and leaves.

I go back to pacing.

Around midday, I hear voices in the hallway. Not the usual guard chatter, something different. I press my ear against the door and catch fragments of conversation.

“…the woman who fixed the system…”

“…never seen anything like it…”

“…Maxim’s keeping her close…”

I step back from the door. So that’s how it is now. I’m not just the hostage anymore. I’m the hacker who saved their network. The men are talking about me, and not with the same wariness they had before.

This shouldn’t bother me. If anything, it should make me feel safer—if they respect my skills, they’re less likely to hurt me. Instead, it makes me feel more trapped. More complicit. More like I’m becoming part of this world instead of fighting to escape it.

I spend the rest of the day avoiding everyone. When meals come, I take them quickly and set the tray by the door without making eye contact. When I hear footsteps in the hall, I move to the far corner of the room and pretend I’m not there. When the camera shifts, I turn my back to it.

I’m hiding from Maxim and his men, but also from the version of myself that helped them without a second thought.

It doesn’t work. Hiding never works.

***

The second crisis hits that evening.

I’m lying on the couch, trying to convince myself that tomorrow will be different, when the lights flicker. Once, twice, then they go out completely, leaving me in darkness.

I sit up immediately. The hum of the air circulation system has stopped too, which means the power is out, not just the lights. The estate must have backup generators, but they haven’t kicked in yet.

Something is wrong.