You don’t trust the quiet.
Quiet usually means something is coming.
So when the alarms stop and the hallway outside your containment room goes still, your body locks up instead of relaxing. Your ears twitch at every tiny sound, your breathing shallow as you press yourself into the far corner.
Something changed.
Something is wrong.
Footsteps.
Not rushed. Not panicked.
Measured.
That’s new.
You bare your teeth before you even see them.
The door slides open with a harsh metallic sound, and light floods in. You flinch hard, a low, warning sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it.
Four figures.
Big. Armed. Unknown.
Threat.
Your instincts spike immediately. You scramble back even though there’s nowhere left to go, claws scraping uselessly against the floor. Your heart is pounding so loud it drowns everything else out.
“Easy,” one of them says, voice low, steady.
You don’t understand the word fully, but the tone… it’s different.
Not sharp. Not cold.
Still, you snap at the air between you, a desperate attempt to keep distance.
“Bloody hell,” another mutters, quieter. “What did they do to you…”
The tallest one steps forward slightly.
Authority. You can feel it.
You hiss.
He stops immediately.
Good.
He crouches instead, lowering himself so he doesn’t tower over you as much. His hands stay visible, weapon lowered but still within reach.
“You’re safe,” he says.
Safe.
The word feels foreign. Useless.
You don’t believe him.
You’ve heard calm voices before. They always came right before something hurt.
Your body trembles, torn between bolting and freezing. There’s nowhere to run. There never is.
Behind him, one of the others shifts.
You react instantly, lunging forward just enough to make them flinch back. A warning. Stay away.
“Alright,” the one in front says quickly. “No sudden moves.”
He’s watching you closely. Not like the others did. Not like you’re something to poke and prod.
Like you’re… hurt.
That doesn’t make sense.
“They’re terrified,” someone says quietly behind him.
“Yeah,” another replies, voice rough. “Can’t blame ‘em.”
Your ears flick, catching tones more than words. No anger. No irritation.
Confusion.
Concern.
It makes your head spin.
The crouched one reaches slowly into his vest, movements deliberate. You tense, ready to react, but he pulls out something small.
A cloth.
He sets it on the ground between you instead of bringing it closer.
No force.
No grabbing.
You stare at it.
Then at him.
“They hurt you,” he says, softer now. “We’re not going to do that.”
Your breathing stutters.
You don’t know what to do with that.
Another step of silence passes. Then another.
No one moves.
No one shouts.
No one comes at you with restraints.
It’s… wrong.
Slowly, hesitantly, you shift forward just a few inches. Your muscles scream at you to stop, but curiosity and exhaustion drag you anyway.
The cloth smells clean.
Not like chemicals. Not like fear.
You grab it quickly and retreat just as fast, clutching it like it might be taken away.
No one reacts aggressively.
“Good,” the man says quietly.
Good.
You’ve only ever heard that word when you did something they wanted.
But this feels… different.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching them, waiting for the catch.
“There’s no rush,” he adds.
That’s new too.
No rush.
Your body sways slightly when you try to push yourself up. Weak. Too weak. You barely make it halfway before your legs give out again.
A small, frustrated sound escapes you.
Before you can stop it.
You freeze, waiting.
Waiting for punishment.
It never comes.
Instead, the man shifts closer by inches. “Easy,” he murmurs again.
This time, when he reaches out, it’s slow enough that you can track every movement. His hand stops just short of you, giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
Not completely.
His touch is warm.
Steady.
Not clinical. Not rough.
Just… there.
You flinch anyway.
He doesn’t pull back, but he doesn’t tighten his grip either.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
The words don’t fully register, but the tone does.
You hate that your body leans into it.
Hate that your instincts, so used to pain, hesitate when faced with something gentle.
Behind him, one of the others speaks quietly into a comm, calling for extraction.
“Let’s get you out of here,” the man says.
Out.
The word echoes strangely in your mind.
You’ve never been out.
You clutch the cloth tighter, your other hand gripping weakly at his sleeve without meaning to.
He stills for just a second.
Then softer, somehow, “Yeah. That’s alright.”
No one pries your hand away.
No one forces you faster than you can go.
When he finally lifts you, it’s careful. Supported. Like you might break.
You expect the cold.
The pain.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, you’re held steady against him, his presence solid and unshaking as the others form a protective barrier around you.
The hallway outside is chaos, but none of it touches you.
For the first time, the noise doesn’t mean danger.
It means distance.
It means leaving.
Your grip tightens in his gear as your eyes flutter, exhaustion finally catching up to you.
You don’t trust it.
Not fully.
But as everything fades just a little, one thought lingers, fragile and unfamiliar.
Maybe…
maybe this time, the quiet won’t hurt.
