I nod at the couch.
He sits, careful to keep his knees together, hands flat on his thighs. I recognize the posture. It’s the one they teach you when you’re being inspected for flaws.
I join him, but not too close.
There is nothing to say. I could tell him the truth—that I took him because I wanted him, because he’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted outside the protocol. That his existence disrupts the pattern in a way that makes me feel something like real. But that’s not language he would understand, or trust.
So I say nothing.
It makes no sense, not even to me.
Perhaps Idoneed reconditioning. Something assets go through when we start to develop… feelings.
He sips the coffee, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
Something about him reminds me of who I would have been if I had been weaker.
If the Foundry had broken me…
If I were a lesser man.
And that same something recognizes the haunting look in his eyes, and for whatever reason, the beast I keep locked away has decided to ensure he never looks like that again.
Chapter Four: Elliot
There’sasound.Somethingdistant, but not—maybe the slap of a door somewhere up the stairwell, maybe the brittle impact of glass dropped on tile. It cracks the air, sharp and wrong, and my body answers before my mind can name it: every muscle coils, lungs snap shut, blood slams my ears. My vision narrows to a single pinhole.
This is the first warning.
I sit on the floor, pressed into the corner between couch and wall. The surface is too cold, the carpet thinned and scratchy against my feet, but I don’t move. Not even to rub at the bumps running up my arms. I hold still, keep my eyes open, because closing them would be worse.
The next warning comes in the back of my mouth.
Metallic, oily, like the aftertaste of a nosebleed. My jaw locks. I try to breathe but my tongue is a stone in my throat. The world goes white and silent, like someone’s set a pillow over my head.
I blink.
And I’m gone. Back in time.
Back tohim.
The walls are closer here. Not just close—crushing. The air is so dense with bleach and sweat and old, dried blood that I can taste it even when I try to breathe through my mouth.
Basement, I remember. Senator Moore’s basement.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t REAL.
And yet…
The overhead lights are white, set in rows. There are no shadows anywhere, which means there’s nowhere to hide.
I try to move but my wrists are already strapped in. Not rough straps, not the rope or zip-ties they sometimes used in the pens. This is something custom, kink-grade: black leather, padded on the inside, with heavy silver buckles. The cuffs cinch my wrists to the arms of a chair. My ankles are already locked down, and there’s a third strap at the waist.
The chair is cold steel, welded to the floor. No give. No escape.
I don’t remember how I got here, but that doesn’t matter. It never matters.
There’s a table in front of me. Polished steel. On it: a row of implements. Lined up in order, smallest to largest, each on its own white cloth square. There are scalpels, bone saws, something that looks like a dental drill, rows of needles, even a handful of things I can’t name. Tools for taking apart a human, piece by piece, without ever making a mess.
