❝ even the iron
still fears the rot ❞

31. please, can i sleep?

𝐃𝐀𝐘 29.

Or at least, that’s what Ingrid thinks.

Time bends strangely here, slipping through her fingers like ash. She has no real way of knowing how long it's been — only the unrelenting ache in her limbs and the ever-growing chill in her bones mark the passing of days. Or weeks. Or months.

She lies motionless on the blood-stained stone, her body a collection of bruises and lacerations that throb dully with each breath. Her wrists burn where the chains bite into them, raw and unrelenting, barely holding her upright against the damp wall. The air is thick, stagnant, carrying the metallic tang of rust and something else — something worse.

Her gaze shifts, sluggish, towards the sliver of sickly, yellow light seeping through the narrow window high above. It wavers, flickering like a dying heartbeat, just out of reach. She wants to crawl toward it, to feel warmth on her skin again, but the effort would be meaningless. The pain lacing through her veins — sharp and jagged, like shards of glass embedded beneath her flesh — ensures she stays exactly where she is.

Then — footsteps.

They echo beyond the heavy door, slow and deliberate. Ingrid hears them, but she does not react. Her hollow eyes, shadowed by deep purple bruises, remain fixed on the window.

The door groans open.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

A figure lingers in the doorway, framed against the faint orange light from the corridor. The glow barely reaches inside before the door closes again, sealing them in darkness once more. Ingrid knows who it is before he speaks.

Igor.

Her brother.

She hears the slight tremor in his breath, the faint clink of metal against his unsteady fingers. When he kneels beside her, his presence feels too close, yet still not close enough to be comforting. He carries a small metal cup, the contents sloshing slightly as he extends it toward her.

“Drink.” His voice is quiet, almost pleading. It is swallowed by the room, by the damp, by the emptiness pressing in on all sides.

Ingrid doesn’t react.

Her lips are cracked, split at the corners, the taste of iron lingering on her tongue. But her gaze remains fixed on the sliver of light above, distant and unreachable.

Igor exhales slowly, as if steeling himself. “Ingrid.”

Something about the way he says her name shifts something inside her. A fraction of movement. She turns her head — not to look at him, but to fully face the window.

The sharp sound of Igor’s breath catches. There is frustration in it. Maybe guilt. He shifts, adjusting his weight, the darkness pressing in around them. He tries again, firmer this time.

“Come on. I didn’t poison it.”

His attempt at humor is weak, brittle at the edges. Ingrid has learned that Igor never quite knows when to let a joke go. Even here.

No response. The silence stretched between them.

Igor’s jaw tightened. The muscles in his face twitched, but he said nothing. Instead, he leaned the cup closer until the cool metal almost brushed Ingrid’s lips. The water smelled stale, tinged with iron.

Her throat burned.

She hated him for being right.

For a moment, she resisted. But then, slowly, her gaze shifted — just enough to meet his. Her eyes, hollowed and rimmed with exhaustion, locked onto his face.

"You want me alive, huh?" Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw by silence and dehydration. The bitterness in it cut like a blade.

Igor nodded once. "Yeah. Preferably."

A beat of silence. Heavy. Stifling.

Then — Ingrid exhaled, slow and sharp, a sound halfway between exhaustion and surrender. With deliberate caution, she tilted forward just enough for the water to touch her lips. Then she drank. Slow, measured sips. Each one sent a cold shock through her parched throat, the relief immediate and almost unbearable. But her expression remained untouched. Blank. Distant.

Igor watched. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. He hesitated.

"You look awful," he muttered.

A dry, humorless sound slipped from Ingrid’s lips — something like laughter, but sharper, edged with something dark. "Really?" she rasped. "I thought I was glowing."

"I’m serious." His voice was clipped, carrying that low, muttered frustration he always had when muttering incoherently to himself. "Your body’s giving out. You don’t have much longer."

Ingrid tilted her head back against the wall, the chains rattling with the motion. "So just let me go."

Igor’s gaze dropped. He shook his head. "It’s not that simple."

Ingrid scoffed. "It never is."

The metal cuffs bit into her wrists as she shifted, adjusting her position against the damp stone. Igor leaned back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her like she was some unsolvable equation. Like she was the complicated one in this family. Like if he just stared long enough, he might figure her out.

A long silence stretched between them. The kind that wasn’t quite comfortable, but not entirely foreign either.

Then — Igor spoke again.

"There’s a way out."

His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. A determination. A weight meant specifically for her to hear.

Ingrid went rigid. Something about the way he said that sent a slow, creeping unease through her spine. Her breath hitched slightly, barely noticeable, but she knew he caught it.

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

Igor exhaled — slow, measured, and laced with something bitter.

"The only way off this planet…" He hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. Then— "is if she’s dead."

The words landed like a slap. A sharp, stinging blow that reverberated through Ingrid’s skull.

He didn’t need to say a name.

They both knew exactly who he was talking about.

Her breath caught, her body tensing against the chains as a slow, creeping coldness settled in her chest. The room had always been warm, too warm, but now it felt unbearably cold.

Ingrid shook her head, an instinctual rejection. "You’re joking."

But she knew. Even before he said anything else, she knew. A part of her had known the second those words left his mouth.

Igor didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. "I can get you out of this place," he said, his voice steady. "But only if you promise to end it. Her."

Silence again. Thick. Suffocating.

Ingrid scoffed, shifting against the metal digging into her wrists, her glare cutting through the darkness. "And I’m just supposed to believe you?"

Igor didn’t miss a beat. "No." His answer was calm. Unshaken. Another pause. Longer this time. Then — his voice softened, almost gentle. "But I do expect you to survive."

That word.

Survive.

Her stomach twisted.

Something cold curled in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She watched him closely, searching his face for a tell, a crack, something. But Igor had always been impossible to read. His expression gave away nothing — except maybe something raw, something unsure.

Not quite regret.

Not quite cruelty.

Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. "She’s your mother too." The words barely made it past her lips, quiet and thin.

Igor didn’t look away. Didn’t waver. His expression remained eerily steady. "I know." He said it simply. Too simply. That calm, resigned certainty unsettled her more than anything else.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, pressing against her ribs. Then — Igor sighed, shifting as he moved to stand.

"Just think about it."

His voice was distant now, already retreating. He turned toward the door, one hand gripping the rusted metal handle. He muttered something under his breath — sharp, critical, just like he always did.

Then — he hesitated.

His gaze flickered back to her, expression unreadable, lips parting as if he might say something — but he didn’t. Instead, he lifted a hand in a gesture that was almost a wave. Almost not.

Ingrid didn't have time to dwell on it, though. Because she felt something.

A hand — light, barely there — ghosting over her shoulder. Familiar. Unwelcome. Her grandfather.

Ingrid’s body went rigid. A sharp breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering beneath her bruised skin. Her mind screamed at her to move, to lash out, but her limbs — heavy — refused to obey.

Igor didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe he lingered for a fraction of a second too long. Then, without another word, he stepped out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

And then—

She’s sinking.

The weight in her limbs grew unbearable, dragging her down into herself. Her muscles felt like lead, her body foreign, detached. The raw, aching burn of the chains against her wrists should have grounded her, but even pain felt distant now. Like it belonged to someone else.

Like she belonged to someone else.

The air in the room had shifted.

The dim, sickly glow from the window barely touched the floor, swallowed by the thick, crawling darkness pooling in the corners. It pressed in, suffocating, watching. She blinked slowly, her head lolling forward as exhaustion dragged at her bones.

Then she heard it.

A whisper. Soft. Almost distant. A murmur threading through the dark.

Then closer. Right behind her ear.

“I see you.”

Her spine locked, breath shuddering to a stop. No one was here. She knew that. She had to know that.

"I’ve always seen you."

The voice coiled around her like cold fingers, slipping through the fractures in her mind. It didn’t echo. It didn’t come from a direction. It simply was.

A flicker — just at the edge of her vision. A shifting blur, a shadow stretching across the stone. Wrong. Too long.

The chains rattled as she shifted, instinct screaming at her to move back, but there was nowhere to go.

"Little thing. Pretty thing. What a waste."

Her lungs seized. The thin light filtering through the window flickered — like something had passed in front of it. A shape. Tall. Broad. No. No, no, no—

"You thought you could forget me?"

The voice was closer now, curling around her like smoke. It was inside her, under her skin, settling into the spaces between her ribs.

"I never forgot you."

Her vision swims, the room twisting, shifting. She knows she’s here — here — but it doesn’t feel real anymore. Her hands tremble against the chains. Her breath comes fast, shallow, useless.

The shadow moved. Not closer, not farther. Just there. Looming. Watching. Smiling. She squeezed her eyes shut. It isn’t real. It isn’t real.

But then something brushed against her shoulder. Light. Barely there.

And the voice hummef.

"I missed you."

A shuddering breath slipped past her lips, but it didn’t feel like hers.

Nothing did.

The shadow still stretched across the floor, spilling into the corners, swallowing the dim light whole. It pulsed — shifting, stretching, breathing.

The chains rattled as she tried to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her limbs were leaden, pinned by exhaustion, by fear. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs, a frantic, stuttering rhythm in her ears.

"So weak," the voice murmured. It isn’t mocking — just fascinated. Amused. Cruel.

A chuckle followed, low and knowing, curling around her spine like a hand pressed against the nape of her neck.

"Not the little fighter I remember."

Her breathing faltered. The walls inched closer. The window — small, useless, meaningless — offered no escape.

The voice shifted, moving, circling, pressing in from behind.

"You used to cry."

A cold sweat broke across her skin.

"Do you remember?"

She shook her head, frantic, jerky, breath coming too fast. No, no, no, no—

"I do."

The chains bit deep into her wrists as she jerked against them, her entire body trembling. The air pressed in, thick and cloying, wrapping around her lungs like a vice.

She couldn’t breathe.

"Sweet girl," the voice cooed. Too close. Too warm.

"What are you so afraid of?"

The room twisted, distorting at the edges. The floor tilted beneath her, sending her stomach lurching. She sucked in a sharp breath, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Her pulse pounded against her skull, drowning out everything but that voice.

"You were always mine."

A hand — not real, not real, not real — trailed lightly down her arm.

Ingrid broke.

A ragged sound tore from her throat as she flinched, recoiling, yanking at the chains, struggling even though there was nothing to fight — nothing but air, nothing but shadows, nothing but the echoes of a past she thought she had buried.

Her vision blurred. Her lungs burned. The shadows moved, swelling, twisting, reaching

And then—

Nothing.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 !!!

ingrid has childhood trauma she has buried and refused to acknowledge???? literally no one is surprised...

brian banner is the worst marvel father (and grandfather, in this case) and i will forever mourn that we didn't get him in the mcu. now i feel like whenever i talk about him i'm screaming into the void and yelling at the wall.

anyways i am a very big fan of disturbing themes in books and movies plus the psychological horror genre so i tried to add a little bit ofboth of those things... idk what i think about it but i am lowkey disturbed. i think that's why this chapter is wayyy shorter than the others. i was getting overwhelmed with ideas i wasn't sure how to express so i just... stopped...

the title is from ethel cain's song "hard times" (also the name of the whole act) which is the saddest song i have ever heard, probably. and i feel like with the theme of the song, it just fit this chapter so well i couldn't resist the urge 😔

anyways tell me what you think and please tell me you don't hate me for ruining ingrid's life even more!!!