But my fingers move before my brain catches up. The logpad is warm from where I’ve been sleeping near it. The screen flickers once, then glows steady, waiting for words.
I start typing:
08:14 | Civilian Log– Unsecured
Subject: Psychological manipulation patterns in short-term detainment. Early indicators suggest subtle conditioning through procedural repetition. Standard. Expected. But I’vestarted noticing irregularities in my reactions to the observation officer.
Tatek.
That’s his name.
Commander Tatek.
Vakutan, obviously. High-rank, high-discipline. Quiet. Measured. But there’s something else. Somethingnotregulation. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching. The fact that Iamwatching.
I keep writing his name.
That’s not data collection.
That’s something else.
I slam the pad shut and shove it under my mattress like someone’s going to burst in and confiscate it. My cheeks are hot. My palms are sweating.
Gods, what am Idoing?
I pace for a while. It helps me think. Sort of. The space is small, and I know every centimeter of it now. The weak hinge in the storage alcove. The light flicker at the left corner near the ceiling. The scuff mark on the floor where I dragged the chair too hard on the first day.
This isn’t a room. It’s a memory trap. And right now, every square inch of it is soaked inhim.
His voice echoing low and certain.
The way his mouth moves around syllables that don’t exist in Standard.
The way he didn’t look away when I asked too much.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull my knees up, hugging them. My chest tightens in that all-too-familiar way, like grief is trying to claw its way out again. But it’s not grief this time. Not exactly.
It’swant.
That horrible, clumsy, uncontrollable ache.
Not just for him.
Forsomething.
Something real. Something unfiltered. Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m still a ghost in my own skin.
My fingers twitch.
I pull the journal back out.
This is not protocol.
This is not survival instinct.
This is not tactical curiosity.
This is me wanting to know the shape of his thoughts when he’s not on duty. This is me wondering what his laugh would sound like if it weren’t cut off halfway. This is me remembering the way his shoulders relaxed for asingle secondwhen I said his name right.
