She finally looks at me then. Not guilty. Not frightened. Just…steady. Like she’s braced herself for the moment someone else catches up.
“I am,” she says gently. “I just didn’t want to say it that way.”
I run a hand over my face, scrubbing at my mouth like I can wipe the thought away if I try hard enough. “Fuck,” I mutter. Then, quieter, “You already know.”
She nods once. Not dramatic. Not apologetic.
“I didn’t at first,” she says. “I thought it was just damage. Aftershocks. But it keeps lining up too neatly.”
I exhale through my nose. “You’re the variable.”
“Yes.”
“And you know it.”
“Yes.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that this is paranoia wearing clever shoes. But the problem is it fits. Too well. The ease. The gaps. The way things keep just barely working.
I look at her stomach before I mean to.
She notices.
“They don’t have to touch the baby to use it,” she says quietly. “I think that’s the point. I think they’re watching whatIdo when everything I care about is on the line.”
I swallow.
“That’s not bait,” I say. “That’s…conditioning.”
A faint, humourless smile curves her mouth. “You said they’d offer certainty. Space. Time.”
I don’t answer. Because I did say that. Because I walked straight into it.
“You didn’t tell the others,” I say.
“No.”
“Why?”
She considers me for a moment. Then: “Because I wanted to see if you’d hear it without being told.”
I drop my gaze to my hands, flexing my fingers like they belong to someone else. “I’m supposed to be the one who keeps this light,” I say. “I’m meant to be good for morale. Food runs. Jokes. Normal.”
“You are,” she says immediately. “That’s why I asked you.”
I look up at her again, chest tight.
“You trust me.”
“Yes.”
“And you still didn’t ask me to fix it.”
“No,” she agrees. “I asked you to see it.”
Silence stretches. Not hostile. Not awkward. Just heavy with the shape of what comes next.
“You’re not wrong,” I say finally. “They’re not pushing. They’re waiting. Which means we’re already inside the experiment.”
