Sentinel wasn’t testing systems anymore.
He was testingme.
They shoved me into a smaller room—bare concrete, a single drain in the floor, cuffs finally removed with sharp efficiency.
The door sealed.
I stood there, listening.
Counting.
Seconds between screams.
Footsteps moving away.
Footsteps returning.
He was staging proximity.
I pressed my palm flat against the wall—not for escape.
For grounding.
This is the shift, I told myself.
He’s removing options.
He wants me to choose.
The lights flickered—not fully dimming this time, just enough to cast uneven shadows.
Sentinel’s voice came through the speaker overhead, smooth as ever.
“You feel it now,” he said. “The cost of influence.”
“Yes,” I replied, steady.
“You could stop this,” he continued. “One adjustment. One correction.”
I closed my eyes for a heartbeat.
Not to surrender.
To picture Logan.
Not his face—hismethod. The way he waited. The way he listened for what wasn’t there.
“He’s close,” Sentinel said softly. “I can tell.”
So could I.
That was the dangerous part.
“If you don’t comply,” Sentinel went on, “someone else suffers.”
Another scream—this one longer.
My nails bit into my palm.
