I don’t move.
Silence stretches.
“Subject Hatchet,” the voice continues, unperturbed. “This is not a test of compliance. It is a test of capability.”
I meet my own eyes on the screen.
I know what they want. They want to see how hard I push. How much damage I’ll do to myself trying to reach what I can’t hold.
They want to see me fail.
I move my hand.
Slowly. Carefully. Every fraction of an inch is a negotiation between muscle and nerve. The tremor fights me the whole way, my fingers jittering like they belong to someone else.
I get close enough that the blade’s cold radiates against my skin.
Closer.
My fingers brush the hilt.
The tremor spikes violently.
The blade slips.
It clatters to the floor, loud in the quiet room.
I still don’t make a sound.
But something inside me snaps anyway.
Not explosively. Precisely.
The machine retracts. The blade is gone. The opportunity is removed.
“Noted,” the voice says. “Precision failure at current dosage.”
I bare my teeth without smiling.
They think this is about the blade.
It isn’t.
It’s about taking away the one thing I trust - my ability to act decisively. To end things cleanly. To rely on my hands.
They want me helpless without needing to break me.
The restraints tighten.
Just a fraction. Enough to remind me they can.
Another injector hits.
This one burns.
The tremor becomes a shudder, running up my arms into my shoulders, down my spine. My muscles fight each other, conflicting signals turning strength into chaos.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
