The cold stone walls of the basement seemed to close in around them, the dim light from the single overhead bulb casting long, uneven shadows across the room. Lorea stood in the doorway, the weight of her choices pressing heavily on her shoulders. Her eyes locked on Jaige, slumped in the chair, her breathing shallow, the pallor of her skin a stark reminder of how far things had already gone.

Jaige's injured shoulder was a mess—blood-soaked bandages clung stubbornly to the wound, the edges crusted over with dried blood. The faint, sickly smell of infection hung in the air, making Lorea's stomach churn. Jaige's shoulder took center stage, with supporting acts festering and blistering in exposed skin and no doubt the night-sky constellation of bruises underneath. She earned them when she ran her mouth, Lorea decided. And she ran her mouth a lot. Lorea hadn't intended to let things get this bad. Or, at least, that Zemo would have been back by now to stop things from spiraling like this. Had it been days, or weeks? Has a month or more gone by? She wished she could say.

With a resigned sigh, Lorea strode across the room and set a small metal first aid kit on the table. The sound of the latches snapping open echoed in the quiet, and Jaige's eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at Lorea, her gaze heavy with exhaustion but sharp with curiosity.

"What's this?" Jaige rasped, her voice dry and cracked.

"Don't flatter yourself," Lorea muttered, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "I need you alive."

Jaige chuckled weakly, the sound hoarse but laced with defiance. "Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Lorea didn't answer. She grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and a fresh roll of gauze, her movements stiff and mechanical as she prepared to clean the wound. When she peeled back the old bandage, Jaige hissed through clenched teeth, her body tensing against the chair.

"Hold still," Lorea snapped, though her tone lacked real venom.

Jaige's breathing grew shallow as Lorea worked, the antiseptic burning as it seeped into the torn flesh. Lorea's hands moved methodically, wiping away the grime and blood, her brow furrowed in concentration. Despite her efforts to keep her expression neutral, there was an almost imperceptible tremor in her hands.

When she finished, she carefully wrapped the wound with fresh gauze, securing it tightly but not too tight. She pulled off the gloves and stepped back, studying her work with a mixture of satisfaction and unease.

"Thanks," Jaige said softly, her voice breaking the silence.

Lorea froze, the unexpected gratitude hitting her like a slap. Her eyes darted to Jaige's face, searching for sarcasm or mockery, but found none.

Jaige held her gaze, her expression steady despite the pain etched into her features. "I mean it. Thanks."

The room felt impossibly quiet, the weight of Jaige's words hanging between them. For a moment, something flickered in Lorea's eyes—regret, doubt, perhaps even shame. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, steely resolve.

"No," Lorea said, more to herself than to Jaige. "You don't get to thank me."

She turned sharply, her boots echoing against the floor as she crossed the room. Her hand brushed against the tool bag she'd brought earlier, and she froze, her fingers tightening around the handle.

"I don't need your gratitude," Lorea said, her voice trembling slightly. "You don't get to make me feel guilty for doing what I have to do."

Jaige frowned, watching as Lorea pulled out a wrench, the metal gleaming dully under the light. "So... what's the plan?" Jaige asked, her tone light despite the sinking feeling in her chest. "Gonna fix a leaky pipe? Or is this where the second act torture starts?"

Lorea's head snapped toward Jaige, her eyes wide and wild. "You think this is funny?"

Jaige shrugged—or tried to, wincing as the motion pulled at her shoulder. She spit bile and new blood at the mossy stone floor. "Well, yeah. If this is your first time torturing someone, you're off to a rocky start."

The comment hit its mark. Lorea's face twisted in frustration, and she stepped closer, the wrench trembling slightly in her hand.

"Shut up," Lorea hissed.

"Seriously," Jaige continued, undeterred. "There's gotta be a manual for this sort of thing. 'Torture for Dummies,' maybe? I bet it's a bestseller."

Lorea's control snapped. She raised the wrench, bringing it down with a loud clang against Jaige's head. The sound was deafening in the small room, and the throbbing rippled outward unforgivingly, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Shut up!" Lorea screamed, her voice cracking.

Jaige peered up at her, startled but still defiant. "You're really bad at this," she muttered.

Lorea's breathing was ragged, her chest heaving as she stared down at Jaige. The wrench trembled in her hand, her knuckles white as she gripped it tightly. For a moment, it seemed like she might swing it again. But then, slowly, her hand lowered.

"I don't have to justify myself to you," Lorea said, her voice shaky but laced with venom. She turned abruptly, throwing the wrench back into the tool bag with a loud clatter.

Jaige watched her retreat, her mind racing. Lorea's instability was both terrifying and an opportunity. If she could keep pushing, keep her off balance, maybe she could find a way out of this.

Lorea stopped at the door, her shoulders stiff. "You're not getting out of here alive," she said without turning around. "Not unless he miraculously finds you. And maybe not even then."

She slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing through the empty house.

________________

Jaige slumped back in the chair, her body trembling from the encounter. The pain in her shoulder was sharper now, but her mind was foggier. She glanced around the room, taking in every detail—the single window too small to escape through, the tools left behind, the faint light filtering in from the cracks in the doorframe.

The faint accents she'd heard from Zemo's contacts earlier hinted at Sokovia. And she didn't believe Lorea as a captor to be smart enough to lie about their location. If that was true, then James would figure it out. He had to.

Her jaw tightened as she straightened herself, ignoring the sharp protest of her body. She didn't have the luxury of despair. If she wanted to survive, she'd need to stay strong. Whether it meant finding a way out or holding on until James came for her, one thing was clear:

She wasn't going to break.