I think about the collar in my dream last night. The one they put on assets who malfunction. The one that delivers a shock strong enough to stop a heart if the handler decides you're not worth the trouble anymore.
I think about Elliot, asleep in the next room, throat still bruised from the last collar he wore.
I delete the trace log and start planning.
At 0803, Elliot emerges.
He stands in the doorway of the bedroom, wearing the same oversized shirt from yesterday, hair damp from the shower he took while I was working. He's holding the empty coffee cup in both hands, like he doesn't know what to do with it now that it's served its purpose.
I'm at the table, laptop open, running scenarios. I don't look up immediately. I let him stand there, let him adjust to the space, let him decide whether to approach or retreat.
He approaches.
Three steps. Four. He stops at the edge of the kitchen, still holding the cup.
"I can wash it," he says.
"Sink is right there."
He turns, runs water, scrubs the cup with more attention than it requires. I watch him in my peripheral vision: the way he keeps his shoulders hunched, the way he flinches when the water pressure changes, the way he dries the cup three times before setting it on the counter.
He's performing competence. Trying to be useful. Trying to earn his place here.
I've seen this before. In new assets, fresh from acquisition, desperate to prove their value before someone decides they're not worth keeping. The behavior is predictable, even logical.
It's also unnecessary.
"Sit," I say.
He sits. Across from me, at the far end of the table. Maximum distance while still complying with the instruction.
I close the laptop. Give him my full attention.
"You need to eat."
He nods but doesn't move.
"The fridge has food. You're allowed to eat it."
Another nod. Still no movement.
I stand, cross to the fridge, pull out eggs, bread, butter. I cook without speaking, the same way I've cooked for myself for fifteen years: efficient, methodical, no wasted motion. Two eggs scrambled, two slices of toast, a glass of water. I set the plate in front of him and return to my seat.
He stares at the food like it might be poisoned.
"It's not a test," I say.
His eyes flick to mine. Searching for the trap.
"There is no correct response. You eat or you don't. The food will be here either way."
He picks up the fork. His hand trembles, but he brings a bite to his mouth. Chews. Swallows.
I watch him eat. Not because I'm hungry. Because I need to understand how he functions. What makes him move. What makes him freeze. What combination of inputs might eventually make him believe that he's not going to die in this apartment.
He finishes half the plate before setting down the fork.
"Thank you," he says. The words are automatic, trained into him. But there's something underneath them now. A flicker of genuine feeling.
