Ghost makes a small sound. Not a word. A crack. My eyes flick to him despite myself. He’s too still now, eyes bright and unfocused, like he’s listening to something inside his head that the rest of us can’t hear.
Snow stands like a statue that learned how to breathe. Controlled. Brittle. I catch the moment his focus slips – just a hair – when he looks at Bones’s hand and then away again.
We are all failing in inches.
The room does nothing.
That’s worse than punishment.
My hands start to cramp. The tremor changes frequency, faster now, finer. Hypoglycaemia. I know the signs even if I don’t have Bones’s language for it. The body starts eating itself when it has nothing else.
I tilt my head back and close my eyes for one second to reset.
When I open them, the floor feels farther away.
Not dizzy. Light.
I plant my heels and bend my knees a fraction, lowering my centre of gravity. It helps. A little.
Honey shifts again, restless. He keeps looking at me, then away, like he’s afraid to make eye contact too long. His guilt hangs in the air. I don’t want it. I don’t need it.
I need him to stop giving them data. I catch his eye and shake my head once. Sharp. Clear.
Stop.
He flinches and looks down, hugging himself smaller.
Good.
The hunger surges again, angry at being ignored. My stomach tightens hard enough that I grunt silently, breath forced out between clenched teeth. My vision pulses.
I count breaths again. In for four. Hold for two. Out for six. The tremor spikes on the exhale.
I adapt. I change the count. In for three. No hold. Out for five.
Better.
The room hums, irritated.
I feel it then – a subtle shift in the cuffs, a micro-adjustment that tightens the angle by a fraction. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to increase strain. They’re escalating quietly.
Fine. I stop fighting the tremor. I let my hands shake. Not wildly. Not dramatically. Just enough that it’s no longer something I’m trying to hide. The effort drops. The burn eases a notch. Energy conserved.
The data they get changes.
Across the room, Bones notices. His eyes flick to my hands, then to the ceiling, then back to me. Understanding passes between us without words.
Snow’s jaw tightens.
Ghost blinks rapidly, grounding himself on the movement.
Honey looks like he wants to apologise again. I won’t let him.
I keep my gaze steady and my body still, letting the tremor exist without feeding it rage. It feels wrong – like surrender – but it isn’t. It’s selection.
I choose where the energy goes.
Minutes later – or hours – the room offers nothing. No food. No water. No command.
