“Explain,” I demand. The word comes out low and hard, a command I don’t usually give to anyone.
Valentine’s expression softens by a fraction. Not kindness. Certainty. “There is more you do not understand than you currently have language for,” he says.
Ghost’s head tilts, like he hates the sentence for being true. Hatchet writes quickly, then turns the pad toward Valentine.
Say it plain.
Valentine glancesat the pad and nods once, as if he respects Hatchet for insisting on clarity.
“Plain, then,” he says. He pauses. Not for drama. For precision. “You were raised by a foster family,” Valentine says.
The word hits wrong.Foster. A label that belongs to other people’s stories, other people’s paperwork, not mine.
“No,” I say, too quickly.
“Yes,” Valentine replies, gentle and immovable. “You were placed in care deliberately. With a mother, a father, and three brothers.Fosterbrothers. No blood relations.”
Placed. Like an object. Like a file moved from one cabinet to another.
“They loved me,” I say, and it comes out like an accusation. Like proof I can throw at him. Even though I know it’s a lie. What they did to me…what I remember…it isn’t love. Not even close. And I don’t rememberthreebrothers. Just the one.
Valentine nods. “I have no doubt. That was part of the design.”
So he doesn’t know the truth then? Or he’s lying too? Is this one giant game of Blind Man’s Bluff?
I can’t tell. And I hate that I can’t tell.
The room goes colder. Honey’s jaw tightens. Ghost’s gaze sharpens into something flat and dangerous. I feel something inside me tear, slow and quiet. Not a dramatic break. A steady rip of certainty.
“You’re saying my childhood was…what?” I ask, voice tight. “A set? Like something from the fucking Truman Show!”
“A variable,” Valentine corrects softly.
“A variable,” I repeat, numbness creeping in around the edges. I hate this scientific speak, like I’m a fucking experiment.
Hatchet’s pen scratches again. He turns the pad toward me.
All of us?
I didn’t consider that.
Valentine answers without hesitation. “All of you. Every ARK was raised outside the primary facility. Embedded into family structures. Different environments. Different pressures. Different attachments. Different catalysts. The data was collected. The outcomes were measured. Everything was controlled, planned, engineered and executed with expert precision. This whole operation was decades in the making. We’re talkinggenerations.”
He says it like he’s describing weather.
“So my parents were paid,” I spit.
Valentine’s gaze holds. “Vetted. Recruited. Selected.”
I hate the way he refuses to use words that let me aim my anger properly.
“They didn’t know?” I ask, and I don’t know whether it’s hope or accusation.
Valentine’s pause is slight, clinical. “Some knew more than others.”
My lungs refuse to expand properly. I take a shallow breath, then another.
“My brother,” I say. “The one I remember.”
