Valentine studies me for a moment, like he’s recalibrating how much truth I can withstand.
“I should be clear,” he says finally. “If the Director wanted you retrieved, you would already be on a plane. Sedated. Separated. Your child catalogued as a future variable.”
My stomach turns, sharp and immediate.
“That hasn’t happened,” Valentine continues, unruffled. “Because force would destroy the data he’s interested in now.”
“What data?” I ask.
“Choice,” he says simply. “Volition. Whether an ARK – knowing what she is – will still return.”
The room goes very still.
“The island isn’t a prison anymore,” Valentine says. “It’s a filter. You don’t get taken there. You earn your way back. And if you do, you’re not returned as an asset.”
My pulse hammers. “Then as what?”
“As someone worth an audience,” Valentine replies. “With the Director.”
The silence is weighted.
“You won’t get near him from the outside,” he adds. “Not ever. The asylum is the only place where hierarchy still matters, where proximity is earned, not seized. Where answers are given to those who survive long enough – and strategically enough – to ask the right questions.”
“And if I don’t go back?” I ask.
Valentine doesn’t hesitate. “Then eventually you’ll be retrieved anyway,” he says. “Only then, the terms won’t be negotiable. Your child won’t stay with you. And whatever you still think you’re owed – truth, agency, revenge – that will no longer be relevant.”
He meets my gaze, steady and unapologetic.
“This is the last moment where returning is something you choose,” he says. “And choice, Kayla, is the only thing left that still belongs to you.”
My jaw tightens. “So going back is the only way I ever get near him?”
Valentine’s gaze sharpens, just slightly. Not interest. Precision. “It’s the only way,” he says, “you stay intact long enough to matter.”
The words slot into place with sickening ease.
“You didn’t explain everything,” I say finally.
“No,” Valentine agrees. “That would be counterproductive.”
“To what?” Ghost asks quietly.
Valentine turns to him. “To autonomy.”
The word hangs there, obscene in its irony.
“You want me to choose,” I say.
“I want you to understand the choice you’re already making,” Valentine replies. “There is a difference.”
Hatchet’s pen moves at last. Slow. Controlled. He writes three words and turns the pad so only I can see.
He’s not finished.
I know.
“You kept things from me,” I say, voice steady despite the static running through my veins.
