Aeron didn't sleep that night.
He sat in front of the monitors, watching Liora through the camera's cold lens. Her body was still, curled up in the corner, but her eyes weren't closed. She was awake, just like him.
Not afraid.Not crying.Just… quiet.
He didn't like it.
Silence was supposed to be peaceful. But with her, it was maddening.
Why wouldn't she break?
Why wouldn't she lie?
Every woman before her had folded by now. Begged. Bargained. Cursed.
Liora… didn't even ask for anything.
He leaned forward and pressed the intercom button.
"Liora."
She turned her head slightly, eyes lifting to the small speaker.
"Yes?"
"Why didn't you scream?"
A pause.
"Why do you need me to?"
"It's part of the pattern," he said. "They always scream. Then they lie. Then I see the truth."
"Maybe I'm too tired to follow the pattern," she answered softly. "Or maybe I never had the energy to pretend."
He stared at the screen, teeth grinding.
"So you're different?"
"I didn't say that."
He shut the intercom off.
Two hours later, he walked into the room.
This time, he didn't carry a weapon. No wires. No blade.
He placed a small tray of food on the ground—a bit of rice, vegetables, and a cup of water.
She looked up, blinking slowly.
"Testing me again?" she asked.
"You could say that."
He sat down across from her. No distance now. Just space thick with tension.
"Tell me about your mother," he said suddenly.
Liora stiffened.
"Why?"
"Because I want to know what broke you."
She looked down at her lap. Silence hung in the air for several seconds.
Then she whispered:
"She loved my stepfather more than me."
Aeron tilted his head.
"Go on."
"He used to come into my room. Almost every night," she said without emotion. "When I told her, she said I was trying to ruin her happiness. She said it was my fault. That I wanted attention."
Aeron didn't blink.
"How old were you?"
"Ten."
A twitch formed in his jaw. His fingers dug into the floor, nails pressing into the wood.
"You're lying," he said sharply.
She looked him in the eye.
"You asked. I answered."
"No woman can survive that and still talk calmly."
"Then maybe I'm not a woman. Maybe I'm just what's left."
Those words sliced him deeper than any scream.
He stood up quickly, pacing the room. Every step louder than the last.
"You're trying to get sympathy," he said.
"Do you feel sympathy?" she asked quietly.
He stopped. Turned. Looked at her.
Her face wasn't tearful. It wasn't proud. It was… tired. Truthfully tired.
"No," he said at last. "I feel sick."
"Then maybe that's what makes you different too."
Aeron left the room without another word.
Back in his study, he opened an old folder. Inside was a photo. A woman with red lips and cold eyes. His mother.
She used to kiss his father goodbye each morning.
Then kiss another man in secret.
His father found out.
And one night, his mother shot him in the chest. Said it was "self-defense."
The courts believed her.
But Aeron had seen it. Seen the smirk on her lips when the gun smoked. She hadn't cried.
Not once.
Pretty women lie.Pretty women kill.
That was the truth he built his entire life on.
But now—Liora sat quietly in a cell… asking for nothing… and giving him no reason to hurt her anymore.
And it scared him more than any scream ever could.