He’s already losing control.
10
Scout
The room wasn’t a room anymore.
It was a workspace.
That’s how I knew Sentinel had crossed his own line.
The walls were no longer blank. Screens glowed softly now—data streams, psychological models, live biometric overlays scrolling at a pace meant to overwhelm. A single chair sat at the center of it all, bolted to the floor. Not restraint.
Invitation.
They wanted my mind engaged.
They wanted me useful.
Sentinel stood behind the glass this time. Watching. Not hiding it anymore.
“You feel it, don’t you?” his voice came through the speaker overhead. “The shift.”
“Yes,” I said, walking to the chair but not sitting. “You’ve stopped studying me.”
“And started testing you.”
“No,” I corrected calmly. “You’ve starteddependingon me.”
Silence.
Good.
On the center screen, a model resolved into focus—cognitive degradation curves, trauma-loop reinforcement, behavioral fracture points.
My own work.
Refined. Weaponized.
“You took my research,” I said quietly.
“I improved it,” Sentinel replied. “You built recovery frameworks. I built exploitation.”
I didn’t look away from the screen.
“You’re running live simulations,” I said. “Real subjects.”
“Yes.”
“People in custody.”
“Assets,” he corrected.
My jaw tightened just enough for him to see.
There it was.
He leaned into the mic.
