Waits.
That patience again.
It does something to me every time.
“My mom didn’t like noise,” I say, the words coming out quieter than I intend.
His expression doesn’t change.
But his attention sharpens.
“What kind of noise?” he asks.
“Any,” I reply. “Talking too much. Laughing too loud. Asking questions at the wrong time.”
A small pause.
“She didn’t yell,” I add. “She didn’t have to.”
Logan’s jaw tightens slightly.
I notice.
Of course I do.
“She just looked at me,” I continue. “And that was enough.”
The room feels different now.
Not heavier.
Just… more honest.
“So I learned,” I say, “to keep everything controlled. My voice. My reactions. Even my breathing.”
“That’s not a small thing to learn as a kid,” Logan says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “But it worked.”
“It kept you safe.”
“Yes.”
His gaze holds mine.
“And now?”
That question lands deeper than the others.
I think about it.
About the facility.
About Sentinel.
About the way I stayed present.
“I think it made me stronger,” I say slowly. “But not in the way people expect.”
