"That's a pretty broad definition of unusual," I say. "I grew up in the foster system. Disproportionate aggression is a survival skill."
Something almost moves in his face. Not quite a smile. Recognition, maybe. Like I just confirmed something he suspected.
"Last question." He sets the tablet down. Folds his hands again. "The night of the incident. The four hours you can't account for. Is there anything — any sensation, any fragment, any physical memory — that you've never told anyone?"
I go back there. I always go back there when they ask. The basement stairs. The dark at the bottom. The smell hitting me before my feet found the floor — blood, hot and copper-bright, so thick I could taste it. My hands wet. My shirt heavy with it. And underneath all of it, the thing I never say: It smelled familiar.
The blood. The violence. The raw physical aftermath of something I should not have been capable of. It didn't feel new. It felt like something I'd done before. Something my body knew.
"No," I say.
Gavin nods. Writes one final thing on the tablet. Turns it face-down on the desk.
He studies me for a moment. Not my face — my hands. My wrists. The way I'm sitting. Like he's reading a second set of answers in my body that my mouth didn't provide.
"Do you know anything about your biological parents?" he asks. Casual. Like an afterthought.
It's not an afterthought. Nothing this man does is an afterthought.
"No. I was surrendered as an infant. No records."
"No records," he repeats. Writes nothing. Which means either it doesn't matter or it matters so much he already knew the answer. "Your schedule starts tomorrow. Cal will assess cognitive function and baseline physiology. Stone will begin outdoor regulation programming. Lumi's sessions are weekly — you'll be notified of timing. Meals are on Sven's schedule. All movement is escorted."
He stands.
"One more thing." He picks up the red-tagged file. Holds it where I can see the tab on the front, the one stamped Death on record — unresolved. "I don't need you to tell me the truth. Your file, your blood work, and your behavior will do that. The Review Panel isn't interested in what you say. They're interested in what you are."
He says what you are — not who. Like the distinction matters. Like they're two different questions and only one of them is relevant to the people who put me here.
"Sven," he says.
Sven is in the doorway. He's been there the whole time, I realize. Not inside the room — in the hall, listening. His face is blank but his posture is tight. Something about this interview made him tense, and I don't think it was me.
"Take her back the long way," Gavin says. "The yard is in transition."
Sven nods. His hand finds my arm — not as hard as before, but firm. We walk.
I'm still running Gavin's questions through my head. He started with blackouts. Ended with my parents. Every question in between was a breadcrumb leading somewhere he'd already been.
He wasn't recording my answers. He was recording the distance between what I said and what my file already told him. Every lie confirmed his theory faster than the truth would have.
We're at my door. Sven opens it. I step in. He stands in the doorway and for the first time since I've met him, he looks at me like I'm not an item on his checklist. He looks at me like I'm a problem he doesn't have a protocol for.
He looks at my left hand. I realize I'm pressing my thumb into my wrist. I stop.
"Your schedule starts at seven tomorrow. Don't be late." He pulls the door. Pauses. "And don't stop walking when you cross the yard."
The bolt turns.
I sit on the bed. Pull my knees up. Close my eyes.
Your evaluation file starts now. Everything you do, say, and refuse to say will be documented.
They're not helping me. They're not rehabilitating me. They're not even punishing me.
They're building a case.
He knew before I sat down. The file, the blood work, whatever "Frosthaven Review Panel Authorization" actually means — someone, somewhere, already decided what I am. Gavin's evaluation isn't discovery. It's documentation.
