“But first you have to stop looking at me like it means something.” He flinches, as if struck with the metal tip of a barbed whip. “You want a meaningless release?” I nod, jerking my hips. “Right.” Another flash of lightning, and I see his eyes have shuttered black. “Well . . . you won’t find that here, Prisoner Seventy-Three.” His voice is monotone. Detached. Severed from . . . whatever this is.
