Two anomalies.
First: a surveillance node on floor six that wasn't there yesterday. Ministry signature, but not one I recognize. Someone planted it between 2200 and 0100, while I was focused on Elliot.
Second: an inspection manifest flagging my apartment for "welfare compliance check" within 48 hours. Standard form, standard language, but the timestamp is wrong. It was logged before Jagger's intervention at the Tribunal, which means someone anticipated my brother coming to my aid.
I stare at the screen. The data is clean, verifiable, damning.
The Ministry of Acquisition is watching. They knew I would take him before I knew it myself.
I disable the surveillance node remotely. Burn the access log. Calculate that this buys me approximately nineteen hours before they notice the gap and install a replacement.
Nineteen hours. Forty-one until the Director meeting. About 24 until the welfare check.
The math doesn't work in my favor.
At 0503, Elliot screams again.
I'm through the door before the sound finishes, moving on muscle memory. The room is dark, the only light a thin strip from the hallway behind me.
He’s sitting up in bed, hands wrapped around his own throat, fingers digging into the skin where the bruises are still fading.His eyes are open but not seeing. He's somewhere else.Somewhenelse.
I've seen this before. In assets who survived extended interrogation. In operatives who came back from jobs that went wrong. The body is here, but the mind is trapped in a loop, replaying whatever broke it.
The protocol for handling compromised assets is sedation, restraint, and transport to Medical for evaluation. If the damage is too severe, they're marked for disposal.
Right now, I’m being considered for reconditioning. It all depends on value.
I don't reach for the sedative kit.
Instead, I crouch at the foot of the bed. Close enough to be seen, far enough that I'm not a threat. I keep my hands visible, palms up, fingers spread.
"Elliot."
His name. Spoken flat, no inflection. The same tone I use when giving operational commands.
He doesn't respond. His nails are leaving marks on his throat, red crescents that will bruise by morning.
"Elliot. Count the corners."
His fingers pause. A micro-hesitation. Data point: verbal cues can penetrate the dissociative state.
"Four corners," I continue. "Count them."
His eyes move. Left wall, right wall, the two points where ceiling meets floor behind me. He's not tracking consciously, but his brain is processing.
"Four," he whispers. His voice is raw, scraped out.
"Count the windows."
His gaze shifts to the glass. Sealed, covered with blackout curtains, but still visible as a rectangle of faint gray.
"One."
"Count my hands."
He looks at me. For the first time since the scream, he actually sees me. His pupils contract, then dilate. Fear response, recognition, confusion. All of it cycling through in the span of two seconds.
"Two," he says.
