There’s a pause.
I imagine the person behind the glass frowning.
“Subject exhibits compensatory adaptation,” the voice says. Not pleased.
Good.
Another injector hits, this one directly into my shoulder.
Fire.
My arm jerks violently, muscles seizing. The restraint holds. Something in my shoulder pops – not dislocation, but close enough that stars burst behind my eyes.
I snarl silently, breath tearing in and out through my nose.
They’re escalating.
Fine.
I focus inward again, deeper this time. I catalogue pain the way I catalogue weapons. Sharp. Dull. Radiating. Structural. Temporary.
The important thing is this: I am still here.
Still thinking. Still choosing.
They haven’t taken that.
Yet.
The voice speaks again, and now there’s a note beneath the calm. Interest sharpened into intent.
“You do not vocalise,” it says. “You do not plead. You do not respond as predicted.”
I open my eyes and stare at my own reflection on the screen.
My face is a mess – sweat, strain, jaw locked so tight the muscles stand out. But my eyes are clear.
Focused.
“Introduce fine-motor denial protocol,” the voice orders.
Something clicks in the walls.
I feel it before I understand it: a spreading numbness in my fingers, creeping inward from the tips. Not full numbness, but selective. They’re cutting signal resolution, not power.
My hands feel thick. Blunt. Like gloves I can’t take off.
This is worse than the tremor.
This makes everything imprecise.
I flex experimentally.
The movement lags.
Rage surges hot and fast, slamming into the inside of my skull. This time it takes real effort to contain it.
They’ve found the nerve.
