“Yes. Prior to confrontation, you observe for an average of forty-seven seconds.”
One of the screens zooms in, showing exactly that. Me, still. Watching someone I don’t recognise anymore.
“You adjust your breathing to minimise sound,” the voice continues. “You angle your body to preserve exit routes. You catalogue weapons unconsciously.”
Another screen. Another memory. They are undressing me without touching my skin and it makes my nerve endings crawl.
“You believe yourself unreadable,” the voice says.
I meet my own eyes on the nearest screen. They are calm. Focused. Empty in the way people mistake for depth.
“I am,” I say.
There is a pause. “No,” the voice replies. “You are consistent.”
That lands harder than any blow. Consistency is pattern. Pattern is predictability. Predictability is death.
The screens shift. Now they show projections. Simulations. I see myself entering the room. I see myself choosing where to stand. I see three possible futures branching out, colour-coded and annotated.
Probability curves bloom beside them.
I feel something tighten low in my gut.
“You anticipate threats,” the voice says. “We anticipate you.”
The screens change again. Now they show responses. What I do when surprised. When angered. When cornered. How my stillness sharpens under pressure. How my silence lengthens.
They have named my weapons.
And now they are taking them apart.
“Begin narration protocol,” the voice says.
A new screen lights, displaying a prompt.
STATE YOUR INTENT.
I don’t move.
“Narration protocol is mandatory,” the voice continues. “Verbalise your current objective.”
“No,” I say. “Tell me what’s happened to Kayla. Have you found her?”
The word is calm. Clean. The room doesn’t punish me.
Instead, the screens flicker. The prompt changes. SUBJECT WILL EXPERIENCE IDENTITY FEEDBACK.
I frown despite myself.
The screens now show other people. The others. Snow. Honey. Hatchet. Bones. Ghost.
Moments from their containment. Not everything. Just enough. Enough for context. Enough for leverage.
“You observe even those you care about,” the voice says. “Distance preserves clarity.”
My jaw tightens a fraction.
“You call this control,” the voice continues. “We call it delay.”
