The Human Among Wolves (Aurora) novel Chapter 354

Chapter 354

Aurora

It’s been two days.

No-three. I’m almost certain of it now.

63%

Time doesn’t move normally in a room without windows. It stretches and plds in on itself, becomes something thick and unreliable. I measure it by trays of food. By the ache in my back when I wake up. By the way the light from the small chandelier above me never changes-always the same dull yellow glow, never brighter, never dimmer.

They bring me food three times a day. Always at the same intervals, I think. A knock. The metallic scrape of the door unlocking. A masked man stepping inside without a word.

He never speaks.

He never looks at me for long either, at least not that I can tell. His face is always hidden behind a black mask that covers everything except his eyes. Cold eyes. Empty ones. He sets the tray down on the floor near the bed and leaves as quickly as he came.

No conversation. No threats. No explanation.

No one has entered this room since him.

Since the King.

And somehow that silence feels worse than his presence.

Once a day, the masked man returns for something else.

A shower.

The first time it happened, I didn’t understand what was happening. He came in without the tray, carrying nothing. He gestured sharply for me to stand. When I didn’t move fast enough, his hand closed around my arm-tight, impersonal-and he pulled me to my feet.

Then the blindfold.

Every time.

The fabric is rough and smells faintly of something chemical, like it’s bee washed too many times in harsh detergent. He ties it firmly behind my head, tight enough that I can’t peek even if I try,

And then we walk.

I’ve memorized it.

Two steps forward. The door opens.

Out into a hallway that smells colder than my room.

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11:40 Fri, Feb 13 DAG.

Chapter 354

Two right turns.

One left.

63%

The sound changes slightly after the second turn-more echo, less hollow. count every footstep. Every shift in air. Every change in sound. If this is the only control I have left, I will hold onto it.

Two rights. One left.

Always.

Then we stop.

The blindfold comes off only when we’re already inside.

The bathroom is larger than my cell but not by much. White tiles. Too clean. Too sterile. The fluorescent light above hums faintly. There’s a single shower head built into the wall and a drain in the center of the floor. No curtains. No doors.

No privacy.

He stands near the entrance while I shower.

Watching.

At first, I tried to argue. Tried to demand he turn around. Tried to pretend dignity could still exist here.

It doesn’t.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He just stands there like a guard watching a prisoner rinse away dirt she can’t see.

The water is always lukewarm. Never warm enough to soothe, never cold enough to shock. Just enough to clean me.

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