I don’t think about the fact that I am building this like I expect an assault.
I don’t think about the fact that I am building this like I intend to win one.
I do not look at the narrow cot in the other room.
I do not let my eyes follow the gravitational pull of her presence the way every other part of my nervous system is doing without my permission.
The bond presses harder with every minute of proximity, a dense, coiled thing behind my ribs that keeps tugging my attention sideways toward her body like an idiot magnet.
Mine.
No.
I clamp down on the thought so hard my jaw aches.
Restraint protocol.
Control sequence.
Override hierarchy.
I recite the words silently as I work, the way I was taught to recite them as a child when my instincts spiked and my handlers decided I was getting too dangerous to myself and others.
Stay hidden.
Stay small.
Do not act unless ordered.
Suppress aggression.
Suppress attachment.
Suppress deviation.
The words don’t fit the situation anymore.
They still work on my body.
Barely.
I finish sealing the last access corridor and lean my forehead briefly against the concrete wall, breathing slow and controlled through my nose while sweat trickles down my spine and my hands tremble in tiny, humiliating micro-shakes that I do not remember earning.
“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself.
The terminal chirps.
Once.
Soft.
My stomach drops.
I straighten and pull the feed up.
The data packet is clean, compressed, routed through six syndicate relays that are all pretending they don’t belong to anyone important.
Glimner’s people don’t bother pretending when they think the outcome is already decided.
