"Nothing. Because it doesn't matter what you want. I'm here regardless."
"Are you?" He stood, and I fought the urge to step back. "The door's been unlocked for three days."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"The main door. The one I use." He moved closer, casual as a prowling cat. "Unlocked. No guards. You could have left anytime."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He pulled out his phone, showed me security footage. The hallway beyond my room, empty. A clear path to what looked like an exit. "But you haven't even tried the handle. Why is that, Bunny?"
"Because—" The words tangled in my throat. Because I hadn't thought to. Because I'd accepted my cage so completely I'd stopped testing its boundaries. Because some sick part of me didn't want to leave.
"Because Bunny knows where she belongs," he finished softly. "Even if she won't admit it."
"Shut up." My hands curled into fists. "You don't know anything."
"I know you've been sleeping with the pacifier."
Heat flooded my face. I had been, and hated myself for it. But it helped with the nightmares, gave me something to focus on besides the weight of what I was becoming.
"I know you've named the stuffed rabbit on your shelf." He moved closer still. "Mr. Hoppy, wasn't it? Charming."
"Stop."
"I know you touch yourself to the recording of me calling you a good girl, even though you could ask the AI to stop playing it."
"Stop!"
"I knowyou—"
"STOP!" I shoved him, both hands against his chest. He didn't budge. "Just stop knowing things! Stop watching! Stop making notes about every fucking thing I do!"
"No."
"Yes!"
"No." He caught my wrists as I tried to shove him again. "This is what you signed up for, Bunny. Complete observation. Total documentation. I will not stop watching. I will not stop knowing. I will not stop until you're perfect."
"I don't want to be perfect!" I tried to wrench free. "I want to be left alone!"
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do!"
"No." His grip tightened. "You don't."
"Yes! Yes, I fucking do!"
"No."
"YES!"
We stood there, locked in the stupidest argument in the world, his hands around my wrists and my fury building with each repetition. This was what we'd been reduced to—a bratty call and response that belonged on a playground, not in a research facility.
"You're acting like a child," he observed.
"You're treating me like one!"
