I exhale shakily and shift my focus inward once more. My empathy is a delicate thread; something to be drawn taut or loosened as needed. But if left untouched or coiled too tight, the fabric of it weakens, like a neglected muscle. So I practice wrapping it tightly around myself, muting its influence. I imagine constructing a wall between myself and thesurrounding emotions—something impermeable and unyielding. Then, as slow as I can manage, I loosen its hold until it flutters about aimlessly.
Control is everything.
My hands flex as I concentrate, sending the power out in different directions, expanding and thinning the tendrils at will. The process drains me further than I care to acknowledge, and my control slips more often than I’d prefer.
A flash of something—distant but sharp—jolts through me, and I jerk forward. The rage burns so potent it makes my skin flush with instant heat. This is not my anger. I flinch, pulling back hard, and the sudden emotional emptiness dizzies my senses.
“What the fuck was that?” I whisper.
My temples ache, a familiar pain of overextending my power. I’ve been here for hours now, pushing my limits, and while I’m pleased with the progress, I know it’s not enough.
Faint voices echo from the corridor outside—must be breakfast hour already. My stomach twists at the thought of food, but it will have to deal. I need to eat.
I stand even as my legs protest, and ensure my mask is secure. My reflection in nearby glass catches me off guard. Expressive, revealing eyes stare back at me, wide and uncertain. I shove the feelings away, suck in a deep breath, and empty the life from my gaze before leaving the room.
As I approach the dining hall, the cacophony makes me pause at the threshold, utterly shocked.
Are these the same disciplined men from yesterday’s training? Enforcers crowd the long rectangular tables that fill the room, their masks either off or tipped up enough to reveal their mouths. But that’s not what stopped me. The noise and behavior is overwhelming—they shout across tables, laugh withmouths full of food, spray crumbs as they argue and joke. I grimace at the display.
How does one prioritize which aspect of this chaos to process first? The sheer volume assaults my ears as much as the lack of discipline confounds me. Do men always act so childish when not on duty?
They exhibit none of the rigid control shown during training. Fists slam on tables for emphasis as they throw bits of food at each other and belch without apology. The energy in this room is so frenetic that if I could bottle it up and consume it, I’d never need to eat or sleep again.
Then there’s the revelation that they’re showing their faces to one another—something I knew they were permitted to do, but hadn’t anticipated. Did they do the same last night?
I wouldn’t be able to identify who is who just yet, but that’s not the issue.
I didn’t consider how I’m supposed to eat meals outside dinner.
I can’t just tip up my mask…I’ll have to take everything back to my room, which is unfortunate, assuming that is even admissible during the day. It would also help to become accustomed to this wild, unfiltered behavior. I’m already too stiff and formal by comparison, though I see no other choice.
I study them as I walk, vowing I’ll never act in such a manner. There are far more men here than just our team; this must be the central hub for all Enforcers, not just recruits in training. This knowledge pushes me to focus on my walk, placing each foot with deliberate heaviness, allowing my shoulders the slightest swing. I have to push through the center of the room to reach the food stations, and though no one is actually looking at me, a hundredweight of eyes track my movement.
I’ve never felt so damn self-conscious. Not from embarrassment,but hyperawareness. Every breath and small gesture becomes a calculation, and I have to wonder if I’m the only Enforcer to ever feel this way.
Eventually, I grab a tray and gather what my body needs, down to specific vegetables for micronutrients that will aid in muscle recovery.
Whirling to the exit, my shoulders dip as I confirm not a single person has paid me any attention. Just a short walk and I can eat in peace, without the terror of removing my mask.
I’m mere feet from the door when a voice cuts through the din.
“Ashford!”
I recognize the commanding tone immediately and pivot to address Arayik, flanked by Elias and Kellen, seated at their own table near the entrance. Elias beckons me over with a casual wave. Their masks are firmly in place, no food lingering in front of them. Do they not eat? Or perhaps they’re like me and prefer privacy for their meals.
I approach reluctantly, stopping before their table with my tray clutched in tight fingers.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” the Commander demands, his shadowed eyes narrowing.
“To my room,” I answer, keeping my voice low and steady.
“You can’t eat here with everyone else?” His head tilts. “Or is this part of yourmedical issueagain?”
The condescending bite in his tone ignites something hot and dangerous in my chest. Why does he have to be such a dickhead? I’ve done nothing to warrant this targeted harassment, except use my power exactly how he instructed me to.
“It isn’t,” I reply, unable to keep the edge from my tone. “But would it matter if it was? Do you have something against those with health conditions,Commander?”
The title is a joke. Of course he has problems with anyonedifferent from himself. This man and his kind use women for pleasure and stock, stripping away their humanity, reducing them to reproductive vessels. They’re no better than farm animals, and the parallel is sickening. Women are selected for their fertility, kept in rusty cages, made to produce children until their bodies wear out and are disposed of. At least cattle are fed properly and given basic care. From what I’ve gathered in my mother’s careful words, women in those places are treated only as resources, not living beings.
