Her voice warms as she speaks, and with it my chest tightens again. Not the chemical warmth. Real warmth, sparked by story, by specificity.
The room hums, attentive.
They are watching me claw my way back to empathy.
“Subject demonstrates resistance to suppression,” the voice notes, and for the first time there is something like irritation beneath the neutrality.
Good.
I keep my eyes on Lena. I keep my focus on Sam, on the imagined grass stains from playing football, on the ordinary bravery.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and this time the words carry weight again. Real weight. “I’m sorry they’re doing this to you.”
Lena’s face crumples. She presses her hands to her mouth. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to stop them.”
“You can’t stop them,” I say. “Not from in here. But you can refuse to perform.”
A chime sounds again, sharper than before.
The warm light flares and then steadies.
The voice returns, clipped. “Facilitator Lena. Session complete. Exit the room.”
Lena jerks as if yanked. She looks at the door, then back at me, panic blazing. “No— I can’t?—”
“You can,” I say, and the urge to soothe surges, powerful and dangerous, but now it’s mine, not theirs. “Listen to me, Lena. If you stay, they’ll use you more. They’ll make you beg. They’ll make you hurt. Go.”
Her eyes search mine, desperate. “What about Sam?”
I hold her gaze, forcing my voice to stay steady. “They’ve already threatened him. They will keep doing it whether you stay or go. But if you leave now, you deny them the ending they want.”
“What ending?” she whispers.
“The one where you cling to me and I comfort you,” I say. My throat tightens around the words. “The one where we become their story.”
Lena’s breath shakes. She stands slowly, like her limbs are made of water. She takes one step towards the door, then stops and turns back.
For a heartbeat, the urge to reach out almost destroys me.
I don’t.
I keep my hands to myself.
Lena swallows hard. “Thank you,” she whispers, and her voice is raw and real.
Then she turns and leaves.
The door closes softly behind her.
The room remains warm. The biscuits remain on their plate. The water remains cold and sweating.
But the comfort has rotted. Why did I care so much about Lena? Something in my gut says she’s not the one I care about at all.
But then who?
The silence presses in, thick and heavy until a soft hiss sounds from somewhere in the walls.
The faint honeyed scent returns in a thin thread, testing the air.
