They bring me out without ceremony.
No corridor, no escort I can see. A door that wasn’t there opens as if it’s always been there and I’ve only just earned the right to notice it. Light spills through, too bright after the steady grey of my chamber. My eyes adjust fast. Too fast. That makes me angry, because my body is still trying to be efficient for them.
I force my blink to slow.
When I step through, the air changes. It tastes of metal and old disinfectant, like a room that’s been cleaned too many times to hide what it’s used for.
The space is larger than any of the individual containment rooms. Circular again – of course it is. Symmetry is control. The floor is smooth, slightly textured for grip. The lighting is neutral but harsh enough to leave nowhere to disappear. There are divisions – transparent panels, low barriers, restraints embedded at intervals like punctuation marks.
And there are people.
Not guards. Not staff.
Them.
I stop, breath catching despite my intention.
Honey sits on the floor with his back against one of the panels. His posture is too still for comfort. His eyes track movement like he’s afraid the room will punish him for looking in the wrong direction.
Hatchet is standing, wrists cuffed to a bar at chest height, body held in the taut line of someone who has already tried every angle. His hands tremble in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
Bones is on a bench, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor as if he can see through it. His knuckles are swollen, hand wrapped crudely with gauze that’s already stained. He looks…measured. Like he’s counting damage.
Ghost is seated in a corner space that isn’t a corner – an illusion created by barriers. He’s staring at nothing. His mouth moves occasionally as if he’s speaking, but there’s no sound. When his eyes flick towards me, they don’t quite settle, as if he’s looking through two realities at once.
Nightshade is not here. That absence is a weight all by itself.
My body wants to scan for exits. I try to rein in that desire. It does it anyway, because habit is deeper than choice. No doors visible. Panels that can slide, maybe. Ceiling fixtures that are too smooth to offer purchase. Cameras I can’t count, but I can feel.
They want the group dynamic. They want the system of us.
A voice speaks overhead, neutral and neat, as if addressing a classroom. “Convergence protocol initiated.”
No explanation. No welcome. No threat. Just a label.
I step into the space assigned to me – marked not with a number but with an empty restraint bar and a circle on the floor. The bar is at my shoulder height. If I lean into it, it will keep me upright when my legs fail. Practical.
They’ve planned for failure.
“Please remain within your designated zones,” the voice says.
Hatchet’s head snaps up. His jaw clenches. He tests the cuffs again, a small movement, controlled. The metal doesn’t give. Honey’s gaze flicks to Hatchet, then away, as if looking too long might pull him into something he can’t afford.
I look at Ghost. Ghost looks back, and for a second there are two different expressions in his face – one sharp, one distant – before they settle into blankness.
Bones lifts his eyes briefly, meets mine, then lowers them again. Not defeat. Calculation.
I inhale slowly and let my pulse settle. The instinct in me is to become still, to conserve, to reduce variables. But even stillness is data. Instead, I choose a different posture: relaxed enough not to signal panic, alert enough not to invite escalation. The middle line.
The overhead lights shift. Slightly. A fraction. They notice everything.
A hatch opens in the wall and a tray slides into the centre of the room, stopping exactly on a marked point. No person delivers it. No footsteps. Just mechanics.
On the tray: food. Water.
Not much. Enough to be seen. Enough to be desired. Enough to create arithmetic.
My throat tightens.
