“Only when it stops.”
That earns a flicker of eye contact. She doesn’t like ambiguity; it’s harder to quantify. I stretch, catlike, just to make her look away first.
She recovers fast. “You’ve been isolated for seventy-two hours. Standard reintegration period.”
“Reintegration,” I echo, tasting the word like it’s sour. “Into what?”
“Routine,” she says. “Structure.”
“Ah. Domestic bliss.”
She exhales through her nose. “You’ll be allowed limited movement soon. Common areas. Therapy sessions. Supervised, of course.”
“Supervised.” I tilt my head. “Because you still think I’m dangerous.”
Her pen stills. “Because we both know you are.”
I like her for that – no fake sympathy. No handholding. Just the cold honesty of someone who’s seen what I can do and decided to stand close anyway.
“What do I have to do?” I ask.
“For what?”
“To get out of this room before I start peeling the wallpaper off with my teeth.” Which is ironic because there is no wallpaper.
“You follow the schedule. You engage. You cooperate.”
I laugh. “Cooperate. Christ. You sound like Seytan.”
Her eyes flick up sharply, just once. “I’m not Seytan.”
“No,” I say, stretching the word until it snaps. “You’re softer. Less blood under your nails. For now. But give it time.”
She ignores that. “Would you like to talk about why you’re here?”
“Because I’m fun at parties.”
“Because you made a deal,” she corrects.
I sit up straighter. “Ah, deals. I remember those. You keep me breathing, I play nice. Except the terms were never clear, were they? How nice, how long, how much of me you get to poke and prod before I break again?”
“Kayla—”
“No.” I stand. Her pen freezes mid-note. “You want honesty, fine. I’m bored. I’m trapped. And the only thing keeping me from redecorating these walls with my own blood is the fact that I know boredom kills slower than bullets.”
Silence. The kind that hums.
Then she nods. “Good. You’re aware of your impulses. That’s progress.”
I bark a laugh. “Progress. That’s what we’re calling survival now?”
“It’s a start.” She closes the folder, finally stepping closer. “You’re clever. You know the difference between acting out and acting smart. You act smart, and we’ll see about your privileges.”
“Privileges.” I roll the word in my mouth like a sweet that’s gone off. “Sounds kinky.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Would you like to stretch your legs tomorrow?”
I pause. She means it. I can tell by the angle of her body, the way her voice softens half a note.
