The head game wasn’t his. It never had been.

He left the sentence unfinished.

He walked to the empty chair, the one she’d assumed was for her. He sat down in it, facing her. Then, with excruciating slowness, he began to tie the rope around his own wrists.

He stood and moved behind her. She heard the snip of scissors, then the deliberate snick of a knife blade unfolding. He cut the ropes binding her wrists. The blood rushed back into her fingers in a painful, prickling wave. But she didn’t move. She kept her eyes forward.

Marina looked at her trembling hands. Then at the rope on her chest, the knot on her neck. Then at the man who had just handed her the key to her own cage.

The first head game began.