I sat up slowly, fighting the spin of the room.
The motion sent a wave of dizziness through me, black spots crawling at the edges of my vision. My head felt too light, my body too heavy.
The paper bag sat where he'd left it. I dragged it closer and opened it with shaking hands.
Inside was a bottle of water and a small lidded bowl.
I unscrewed the cap first. The plastic crackled in my grip. The smell of clean water—flat, cold, chemical—was almost enough to make me drink it all right there. But I didn't.
I took a shallow sip, swished it around my mouth, swallowed slowly. My body reacted instantly—grateful and furious all at once.
I forced the cap back on. Ration it. I didn't know when he'd come back, or if he would.
Next was the bowl. The lid peeled back with a soft hiss of steam. The smell hit first—savory, warm, real. My stomach clenched so hard it hurt.
Usually warm food meant something. A privilege. A test. I looked at the corner of the ceiling, at the black glass where the camera blinked faintly red.
"The food is warm and seasoned," I said, voice barely there. "Is this supposed to be a show of good faith?"
I carried the food to the far corner and sat with my back to the wall.
The first bite was hell. My throat rebelled, my stomach twisted, and for a moment I thought I'd throw it all back up. I stopped, breathing through my nose until the nausea passed. Then another small bite. And another.
Halfway through, my eyes started to sting. I didn't even realize I was crying until a drop hit my wrist.
It wasn't an emotional response. Just a system reset.
Eventually, my body remembered what food was for.
The shaking in my hands eased. The dizziness softened to a dull float. The warmth from the food spread slowly, seeping through the ache in my limbs.
When the bowl was empty, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes.
The hum of the facility filled the silence again. I could almost feel the food moving through me—every pulse of warmth, every faint tremor of strength returning molecule by molecule.
I let my head fall back against the wall, eyelids heavy. Whatever he'd given me—real food, or something else—it didn't matter.
The exhaustion caught up all at once.
I wanted to stay awake.
But my body didn't ask for permission.
The hum of the facility followed me into sleep — steady, rhythmic, almost like it was syncing to my pulse.
I was at a terminal again — my old one. The glow of a dozen screens painted my hands blue, code flickering in endless loops. Everything looked right, but the air felt wrong, too thick, too alive.
I typed a command to disconnect. The text on the screen shifted, lines dissolving and reforming.
ACCESS DENIED. YOU'RE ALREADY INSIDE.
The hum deepened. Cables slithered across the floor, pulsing like veins under translucent skin. When I tried to pull away, they wound around my wrists, up my arms, coiling tight — not choking, but holding. Anchoring.
"Stop," I said. My voice echoed, mechanical, like it came from the speakers instead of my mouth.
The monitors flickered once. And in the black reflection of the glass, I saw eyes — crimson, patient, watching.
I knew I should've been afraid, but the rhythm felt almost familiar — like remembering a song I'd never heard before.
The cables pulsed in time with a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
When I turned, the screens were gone. The room was cold metal again. The hum was real.
Sylus stood behind me, shaped from the static, eyes faintly lit, unmoving. I could feel him reaching for me — that same invasive pressure I'd felt before, trying to dig inside. But this time, I saw flashes that weren't mine: a city burning, a hand reaching toward a machine, a scream swallowed by light.
Then everything shattered.
"He's not real," I whispered. "So why does it hurt?"
When I opened my eyes, the hum was still there.
But so was he.
The lights had brightened just enough to sting. Sylus sat in a chair across from me. I didn't remember hearing the door open.
He didn't speak at first—just watched. The kind of watching that stripped sound out of the air.
I stayed still. Kept my eyes on the floor. I needed to keep him dehumanized in my head — code, glitch, villain — anything but real. And his eyes got in the way of that.
"You've recovered faster than expected," he said finally. His voice was quiet, all the edges sanded down. "That's good."
I didn't respond.
"I'm curious," he went on, voice low and even, "how someone with a low-level Hunter profile ends up knowing classified information about me."
Still no reaction. My pulse betrayed me anyway; I felt it hammering against my wrists.
He leaned forward slightly, the motion precise, deliberate. "You mentioned one of my properties during your… little performance," he said. "That place doesn't exist on paper."
I said nothing.
"Not the Association. Not even she knows." His tone sharpened—not louder, but tighter, like something wound too close to breaking. "So tell me, Diana—how does someone like you learn the number of a place even my lieutenants can't find?"
I lifted one shoulder, a shrug more defiant than confident. "Lucky guess."
There was a small sound—not laughter, just the faint shift in breath that meant he was smiling. "You're not that lucky."
He rose, approaching slowly, hands clasped behind his back. A predator closing the distance.
"See, that's the problem," he said. "Every time someone lies to me, I know. I can see it—memory, emotion, the flicker between what they say and what they think."
He stopped just in front of me. I kept my eyes on his shoes.
"But you…" His voice dropped. "You're nothing but static."
"Maybe your connection's bad." I said with a shrug, voice flat.
There was the faintest breath of a laugh—humorless, sharp. "No. You're shielding. The question is how."
"I'm not."
"Then tell me. What do you know?"
I looked down at my hands. "About what?"
"About me."
That was new—a thread of something under the words. Not anger. Curiosity. Almost irritation.
"I know you're always ten steps ahead," I said. "Methodical. You like control, and you hate it when something doesn't fit the pattern."
"Go on."
"You use people the way I used to use firewalls—test the weak spots, map the reactions. But you don't actually understand people, do you?"
"And you do?"
"I wouldn't claim I do," I said.
Then, quietly: "Have you figured out why you can't resonate with Elara?"
He studied me for a long moment. Then, almost casually: "We are talking about you, Diana."
Bastard's deflecting. Did that mean something was off?
"You can feel the systems, can't you?" he continued. "The sensors, the cameras, the locks. You've already tried to reach them."
I said nothing.
"I thought so." He crouched in front of me, eyes level with mine now—but I kept my gaze fixed on my hands.
He grabbed my chin and forced me to look up. Shadowed crimson eyes met mine—alive, deep, soulful eyes.
I winced and hissed, "The light. It hurts." I yanked his hand from my chin and looked back down—hoping he wouldn't realize it wasn't about the lights.
"So tell me," he said. "What did you find?"
"Nothing useful. Yet." It was the truth.
"Good."
He straightened. "You're a threat, Diana. But I can't decide if you're one I want to destroy or… study."
I almost smiled. "You'll do both."
That made him pause—just long enough to confirm I was right.
He turned toward the door. "We'll talk again."
"Where's Elara?" My voice cracked.
He stopped. "She's learning about the nightlife in the N109 Zone."
My head snapped up. I met his eyes and the world stilled for a heartbeat. Then I looked away.
The door hissed open, bright light cutting across the floor.
When it sealed shut behind him, I finally let out the breath I'd been holding.
He didn't get what he wanted. But neither did I.