Short story👀 (Patreon)

The air in the interrogation room is thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale sweat, the kind that lingers in places where people are kept against their will. My wrists burn where the plastic ties cut into them, the edges digging deeper every time I shift against the metal chair. The room is small—just a table, two chairs, and a flickering fluorescent light that hums like a dying insect. The walls are bare concrete, the kind that absorbs sound instead of bouncing it back. I’ve been in rooms like this before, but never on this side of the table.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time blurs when you’re waiting for the inevitable. The door creaks open, and I don’t turn my head, but I hear the footsteps—measured, deliberate, the kind that belong to someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. A shadow stretches across the floor, long and imposing, before she steps into view. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black from her boots to her fitted tactical shirt, the fabric clinging just enough to outline the muscle beneath. Her hair is pulled back so tight it looks like it’s straining against her scalp, not a strand out of place. Military. Definitely military.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just circles the chair, her boots making no sound on the concrete. I can feel her studying me, weighing me, deciding how much pressure to apply before I break. I’ve been in her position before—interrogating some poor bastard who thought he could outlast the pain. But now the roles are reversed, and the weight of that realization sits heavy in my chest.

She stops behind me. The chair groans as she leans in, her breath warm against the back of my neck. I can smell the faintest trace of mint, like she’s been chewing gum to mask the scent of something else—coffee, maybe, or the metallic tang of adrenaline. Her fingers brush against my shoulder, not quite a touch, more like a promise. Then her arm slides under my chin, her forearm pressing against my throat just enough to make me swallow hard. The other arm wraps around the back of my neck, her bicep flexing as she locks her hands together.

I don’t have time to react.

Her grip tightens, and the world tilts. The pressure on my carotid is immediate, a rush of darkness at the edges of my vision. I try to gasp, but there’s no air, just the crushing weight of her arm cutting off my windpipe. My pulse hammers in my ears, loud and frantic, like a trapped animal throwing itself against a cage. The last thing I see is the flicker of the fluorescent light, a dying star in a room that’s suddenly too small.

Then—nothing.

I wake to the taste of copper in my mouth. My head throbs, a dull, insistent ache that radiates from the base of my skull. The world is upside down. No—I’mupside down. My shoulders scream in protest as I realize my arms are still tied behind my back, the plastic digging deeper now that my weight is suspended. My face is pressed against something warm, something solid. Her thighs.

She’s got me in a reverse headscissor, her legs locked around my neck, my head trapped between her calves. The muscles in her thighs are like steel cables, unyielding. I try to lift my head, but the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my skull. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, each inhale burning like I’ve been swallowing shards of glass.

“Tell me who you work for.”

Her voice is low, rough, the kind of voice that’s used to giving orders and expecting them to be followed. I can feel the vibration of it in her thighs, the words rumbling through her muscles and into my bones. I don’t answer. Not yet. I need to think, to get my bearings, but the pain is a white-hot brand searing into my neck, making it hard to focus.

Her legs tighten.

The pressure is immediate, a vise closing around my windpipe. My vision swims, dark spots blooming at the edges. I claw at her calves, my fingers digging into the fabric of her pants, but it’s like trying to bend iron. A sound tears out of me—half gasp, half groan—and she eases up just enough to let me drag in a ragged breath.

“Wrong answer,” she murmurs.

I can feel the heat of her body, the way her thighs flex as she adjusts her grip. She’s not even breathing hard. This isn’t effort for her. It’s control. Precision. She knows exactly how much pressure to apply, how long to hold it, how to keep me on the edge of consciousness without letting me slip under. My pulse roars in my ears, my body screaming for air, for release, for anything.

“Last chance,” she says, her voice calm, almost conversational. “Who sent you?”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My throat is raw, my lips cracked. The words are there, right on the tip of my tongue—the name of the unit, the code phrase, the truth that would make this stop. But something holds me back. Pride? Stubbornness? The knowledge that if I give in now, there’s no going back?

Her legs tighten again.

This time, the pain is worse. It’s not just the lack of air—it’s the way my vertebrae grind together, the way my muscles scream in protest. My vision tunnels, the edges bleeding into black. I can see her face above me, upside down, her expression unreadable. She’s not even sweating.

“Fine,” she says, and for a second, I think she’s going to let me go.

Then her thighs clamp down like a hydraulic press.

The world explodes in a burst of white-hot agony. My hands fly to her legs, nails raking against the fabric, but it’s useless. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The only thing that exists is the crushing weight of her, the unrelenting pressure, the knowledge that if I don’t give her what she wants, she’ll keep squeezing until there’s nothing left.

My fingers twitch. My lungs burn.

And then—

A voice cuts through the haze.

“Stand down.”

The words are sharp, authoritative. Her legs loosen just enough for me to drag in a gasp, my chest heaving like I’ve been drowning. I blink, tears stinging my eyes, and see a new figure in the doorway—another woman, this one in a crisp uniform, her posture rigid. The interrogator doesn’t move, but I can feel the shift in her body, the way her muscles tense.

“Ma’am,” she says, her voice tight.

The woman in the doorway steps forward, her boots clicking against the concrete. “That’s enough. We need him alive.”

The interrogator hesitates. Then, slowly, her legs unwind from around my neck. I collapse forward, my forehead hitting the floor with a dull thud. The world spins, my body trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline. I can still feel the ghost of her grip around my throat, the way my pulse stutters in protest.

The uniformed woman crouches beside me, her fingers brushing against my wrist. “Can you hear me?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Above me, the interrogator exhales sharply, her breath warm against the back of my neck. “He’ll talk,” she says, her voice a low growl. “Eventually.”

The woman in the uniform stands, her shadow falling over me like a verdict. “See that he does.”

And then the door closes, leaving me alone with the woman who nearly snapped my neck like a twig.

Her hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back just enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes are cold, calculating. “You’re not getting out of here until you tell me what I want to know.”

I swallow, my throat clicking dryly.

She smiles.

It’s not a kind smile.