I hum.
“I give it three days,” Vale says cheerfully.
I don’t answer that. Because I don’t like picturing Caelum’s mouth on Ember’s split lip. I don’t like picturing Caelum’s hands on Ember’s throat where mine aren’t. Because there’s a cold, ugly static building in my chest I haven’t felt in years.
Vale watches me for a second like he smelled it. His grin widens, slow. “Oh,” he croons. “Oh, nowthatis interesting.”
“Fuck off,” I say mildly.
He laughs, low, dark, satisfied. “My favorite song.”
He rises from the chair in that violence-slow way of his — all loose muscle and rolling hips, like he’s never in a hurry until he’s already got a knife in your ribs. He saunters for the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame.
“You’ll tell him?” he asks without looking back.
It takes me a beat to process the question, because he shifts tone when he says it. He means Caelum.
“Tell him what,” I ask, though I already know what he’s asking.
“That she’s trained,” he says. “That she’s not just some street rat who got sticky fingers and bad timing. That she’s…this.”
I study Ember on the screen. She’s still sitting on the bed, shoulders relaxed, face calm. And it’s beautiful, how she’s doing it.
The posture is saying I’m resigned. The eyes are sayingtry me.
That is deliberately crafted.
Beside me, Vale shifts — restless, a man with too much heat in his blood and no target left to bleed it on. His reflection flares across the monitors, tattoos flickering like scripture losing faith.
He sees a girl who got lucky. I see conditioning.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “She’s trained alright.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” he snaps. “You gonna tell Caelum, or should I?”
I don’t answer. My focus stays on the feed — on the precise way Ember’s fingers flex once against her knee, then still again. It’s too measured to be nerves. Too even to be random. She’s checking herself, the way field agents do after shock.
“Christ,” Vale mutters, laughing low. “You almost sound impressed.”
“I am,” I murmur.
He turns, ready to argue, but stops when he sees my face. Whatever he reads there makes him exhale through his teeth and head for the door. “You’re a strange bastard, Ghost.”
The door shuts behind him, and I’m alone again. I turn back to the monitor. The silence in the room deepens until all I can hear is the low hum of the machines and my own heartbeat trying to sync with the feed.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t blink more than necessary. She’s conserving energy, letting her body lie while her mind runs. That’s not instinct. That’s design.
She’s dismantling herself cleanly, piece by piece, without the mess.
That’s not grief. That’s control. The kind you only learn when someone trains you to survive interrogation.
The feed flickers, and she lifts her head just enough for her eyes to meet the camera. Not defiance. Not plea.
Awareness.
She knows she’s being watched. And she wants me to know that she knows.
I should tell Caelum. I should flag the file, log the assessment:subject demonstrates conditioning consistent with field training.
