I don't hide. I slide off the couch, silent, and press my back to the wall beside the door. The peephole is at eye level, but looking through it would put me in view of whoever's on the other side.
The knock comes again. Louder.
"Ministry of Acquisition. Welfare compliance. Open the door."
The words put me in an anxious spiral. Ministry. Acquisition. The people who owned me. The people who sold me. The people who will take me back if they could.
I don't move. I don't breathe.
"This is a scheduled compliance check. Failure to respond will result in escalation."
The voice is male, bored, reading from a script. I've heard that tone before, in the pens, when they came to inventory the assets. Counting heads. Noting damage. Marking the ones too broken to sell.
I press my hand to my mouth to keep any sound from escaping.
The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. I count them in my head, each one a lifetime.
Then footsteps. Moving away.
Something slides under the door. A card, white with black text. I wait until the footsteps fade completely before I crouch and pick it up.
Compliance check rescheduled. Asset owner to report to Ministry within 24 hours or face retrieval protocols.
Retrieval.
The word burrows into my brain and nests there, spawning images I can't stop. The transport vans. The holding cells. The auction block, lights in my eyes, hands on my body, voices calling out numbers like I'm cattle.
I sink to the floor, back against the wall, knees to my chest. The card crumples in my fist.
He won't let them take you. He said you're safe here.
But he's not here. And they know where I am. And the clock is ticking.
I stay on the floor, breathing in shallow sips, until the panic recedes enough for me to think.
Don't answer the door. That's what he said. Don't answer the door.
I didn't.
I followedthe rule.
I was a good boy… wasn’t I?
By the time the door opens at 2:00, I've moved to the couch. The card is in my lap, smoothed flat, the creases from my fist still visible. I've read it forty-three times. The words haven't changed.
Jace enters the same way he does everything: quiet, controlled, precise. Three deadbolts disengage in sequence. The door opens exactly wide enough for his body. He steps through, scans the room, locates me in under a second. Shutting and relocking the door, he stalks towards me.
His eyes drop to the card.
I hold it up. My hand doesn't shake, which feels like a victory.
He crosses to me, takes the card, reads it. His expression doesn't change. Nothing about him changes. The stillness is absolute, the kind you see in predators right before they strike.
"They came," I say. My voice sounds wrong, too thin, but it doesn't crack.
He nods.
"I didn't open the door."
