Back in South Africa, Pretoria—C-Max Prison.
Contratino opened his eyes, the dim overhead light casting eerie shadows across the cramped cell. The same four soldiers stood at their posts, their expressions unreadable beneath the weight of duty. He had long stopped trying to decipher their thoughts—their silence spoke louder than words.
Something was wrong. He didn't know how or why, but the air felt heavier, charged with an unseen threat. The instinct gnawed at him, a warning buried deep in his gut. He had learned to trust that feeling—it had saved his life before.
But how could he communicate this unease to the people who held him captive? Even if he tried, would they listen? Or would they dismiss it as the paranoia of a man confined and in chains?
The air was stale, thick with sweat and old concrete. My throat burned as I forced my voice through the silence.
"Excuse me!" I shouted, the hoarseness making my words crack like brittle glass.
"Shut up!" One of them shot back instantly, his voice sharp, dismissive—as if my existence alone offended him.
I clenched my fists. "Excuse me!" I said again, louder this time.
The same soldier slammed his boot against the floor, taking a step toward me, fists twitching at his sides. "I said shut up, you worthless piece of shit!" His tone had sharpened, his anger barely contained.
I swallowed hard. The feeling in my gut twisted tighter. It was happening.
"Look," I said, forcing calm into my voice, "I need to pee. Just untie me so I can get to the toilet."
Silence. Then a scoff.
"You can pee yourself," the soldier sneered, his grin cruel, spreading like an open wound. The others chuckled, entertained by my humiliation.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself. And then I did exactly what he said.
The laughter stopped.
The sharp *drip drip drip* of my urine hitting the cold floor cut through the silence. The soldier's smirk dropped, replaced by something resembling disgust—or was it doubt?
"Shit, he's serious," he muttered, the amusement vanishing from his voice.
I saw the hesitation in his stance, the slight shift in weight, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He took a step forward, faster now—anger replacing hesitation.
"Hey, hold it! Stop!" He barked, his voice strained, unsure.
But it was too late.
I had made a choice, a small act of rebellion, and in that moment, the power in the room shifted. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their amusement shattered, their control—if only for a second—fractured.
I sat there, bound, helpless. But for the first time, I didn't feel powerless.
I increased the pressure, letting the stream hit the floor with deliberate force. Then, I laughed—a low, coy chuckle that grew louder, more unhinged.
"Goddamnit!" the soldier roared, his face twisting in fury. "You're a despicable bastard!"
He stepped closer, the cold steel of his rifle's nozzle pressing against my temple. The chill bit into my skin, but I didn't flinch.
"I told you to stop!" he spat, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with the kind of rage that teeters on the edge of control. "But you just don't listen, do you? Hah! Aha!" His laugh was sharp, bitter, almost mocking.
I met his gaze, my own laughter bubbling up again, defiant and unyielding. "Go ahead," I said, my voice steady, almost taunting. "Pull the trigger. You won't."
His grip on the rifle tightened, his knuckles whitening. The room felt heavier, the air thick with the unspoken truth: he couldn't shoot me. Not here. Not now.
My case was special. Complicated. I was more valuable alive than dead, and we both knew it.
The other soldiers shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between us. The tension was a live wire, sparking and crackling, threatening to explode.
"You think you're untouchable?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous.
I leaned forward as much as my restraints allowed, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I don't think," I said. "I know."
"You're bloody insane!" he roared, his voice cracking under the weight of his fury.
The other soldiers erupted into laughter, their mockery cutting through the tension like shards of glass. Their amusement wasn't just at me—it was at him, their comrade, losing control.
I didn't care. The cold steel of the gun's muzzle pressed harder against my temple, but I didn't flinch. My heart pounded, but my face remained calm, defiant.
He could shoot. Maybe by mistake, maybe out of sheer frustration. I wasn't sure if he knew who I was—or who my family was. That uncertainty gnawed at me, but I buried it deep.
"Shut up!" he barked, his voice trembling now, his grip on the gun unsteady. The laughter behind him only grew louder, feeding his rage.
I tilted my head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. "Go on, then," I said, my voice low, steady. "Prove them right."
His jaw tightened, his finger twitching on the trigger. The room felt like it was holding its breath, the air thick with the weight of unspoken truths and unacknowledged fears.
"Sargent Siyabonga!"
The voice cut through the charged atmosphere like a whip. Sharp. Urgent.
I barely had time to register the name before the woman burst into the cell, her footsteps quick, her presence an undeniable force. It was her—the doctor. The one who had treated me earlier, who had seen me at my weakest.
She came to a sudden halt, eyes locking onto the scene—me, bound, defiant. Siyabonga, rifle pressed to my head. The other soldiers, some still chuckling, some uneasy, all frozen in a moment that could tip into disaster at any second.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the haze of adrenaline.
The soldier's grip tightened around his weapon, but his stance faltered. His rage met resistance—not just from me, but from her, from the expectation that he should know better.
For a split second, no one spoke. The only sound was the dripping urine still pooling on the floor, the scent of sweat and tension thick in the air.
Then, slowly, he pulled the rifle away from my head, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might shatter.
Would the doctor be my ally, my adversary? Would her interruption make things better—or worse?