She's good at waiting. Not the aggressive silence Gavin uses — the kind that pressures you into filling the space. This is different. Patient. Like she has nowhere to be and nothing to prove and whatever I do next is fine.
I don't trust it. But my shoulders drop about half an inch, which annoys me.
"How are you settling in?" she asks.
"Great. Love the decor. Very serial-killer-chic."
Her mouth twitches. Not a full smile. An acknowledgment. "Red House isn't designed for comfort."
"Red House isn't designed for humans."
She holds my gaze. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't correct me. Just lets that sentence sit in the room between us like I placed it on the table.
"What makes you say that?" she asks. Curious. Not clinical.
I think about Torres on the floor. The sound of his bones. The wolf.
"I've been in a lot of facilities. None of them electrified the fences."
"No. They wouldn't."
She says it simply. No denial. No deflection. Nolet's talk about how that made you feel. Just confirmation. Yes, this place is different. Yes, there's a reason.
It's the most honest anyone's been with me since I got here.
"I'd like to try something," Lumi says. "A settling exercise. It helps new placements — your system is running hot from the transfer and the new environment. I can help bring it down."
"Transition from what?"
"From wherever you were to wherever you are." She says it easily but her eyes do something quick. A flicker. Not down to her notes — she doesn't have notes. Down to my hands. My wrists. Back up. Fast enough that I almost miss it.
"It's simple," she continues. "Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing. I'll walk you through it."
I've done grounding exercises in every placement since I was fifteen. The psychological equivalent of turning it off and turning it back on again.
"Fine," I say. Because refusing would tell her more than complying.
I close my eyes.
"Breathe in through your nose," Lumi says. Her voice is different now — lower, slower, with a steadiness that I feel in my chest before I process the words. It's not a therapist voice. It's something else. Something that my body responds to before my brain decides whether to let it. "Hold it. Let it fill you up. Now out through your mouth. Slow."
I breathe. In. Hold. Out.
"Again. Slower this time. Let it settle."
In. Hold. Out. My heartbeat drops. Not by much — I can still feel it in my throat — but it drops. Which pisses me off, because I didn't give it permission to cooperate.
"Good. And this time, as you breathe, I want you to notice where you feel tension in your body. Don't try to fix it. Don't try to relax it. Just notice where it lives."
I notice. My shoulders — always. My jaw, which I've been clenching since the common room and probably since birth. The small of my back where I've been sleeping on a shit mattress for three nights. Standard places. Standard damage. I could list these in my sleep.
And my left wrist.
It's not tension. It's warmth. The same warmth that's been sitting under my skin since I walked through those gates, the one that flares when I'm near him and won't go away no matter how hard I press into it. Quiet now. Like a pilot light.
"Where do you feel it?" Lumi asks.
"Shoulders. Jaw."
