At dawn, I finish the water, set the glass exactly where he left it, and pull the blanket around my shoulders. I try not to muss up the sheets. I don't know the rules yet, and inventing them is a good way to get broken.
I wait for the door to open again, for the real test to begin.
But when it does, all he does is look in, scan the room, and say, "Breakfast if you want it." Like nothing’s changed, like the night was nothing at all.
He leaves, and the silence is a relief and a curse.
I clutch the blanket, counting the moments until he needs something from me.
Because nobody does anything for free. Not in this world.
Drinking the last of the water, I brace for the cost.
Chapter Three: Jace
TheTribunalchamberiscolder than the autopsy suite in the Foundry, and twice as silent. They keep the lights at maximum, just to try make me uncomfortable. I stand at attention on the black rubber mat, hands visible, chin level, the way they taught us to do before breaking bone.
Five of them today. The panel sits elevated behind a slab of smart-glass, expressions set to default: neutral, impassive, not quite human. Their uniforms are dark, cut from the same fabric but in five different ways—each a signifier, each a warning to those who can read the subtext. I can. I always could.
Abernathy is the one who starts. Acquisitions Director, but also the man who signed off on the last three asset reclamations. He’s got a lanky build—narrow shoulders, thin wrists, hands that belong in latex. Thinning hair, eyes that blink slower than normal. The records say he’s fifty-seven, but the set of his jaw makes him older.
He begins with a statement of fact. “You are Jace Harrison, ID 1013-84, Reaper-class executioner, division of Erasure.”
My mouth says yes.
He doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Last night you were assigned to auction security at the Acquisitions facility. This was a routine protection detail, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You completed your assigned task at twenty-one hundred hours, confirmed by four separate systems. At twenty-one thirteen, you executed an override and assumed personal custody of asset number four-three-seven, Elliot Rowe, against explicit standing orders. Explain this action.”
I don’t move. They don’t want a real explanation. They want compliance, or a reason to push the button. I recite the line: “I believed the asset would be beneficial to the Ministry of Enforcement.”
He looks up, the way you look at a rabid dog behind a fence. “Your belief does not supersede protocol.”
“Understood.”
“You had no standing directive to interfere with the auction. Your role was security, not procurement. Yet you assumed personal custody, removed the asset from official transfer, and returned to your domicile without reporting.” He lets that hang, eyes flitting to the rest of the Board. “There is no provisionfor this action under any subsection of the current operational guidelines.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He wants a reaction. They always do.
Another Board member speaks, her voice sharp and chemical. “Asset four-three-seven is classified as property of The Silent. Your override preempts the interests of three Acquisition Houses and the Ministry itself. This is not a disciplinary matter. It’s a breach of trust.” She says the word trust like a curse.
Abernathy folds his hands. “Do you contest the facts as presented?”
“No.”
He sighs. “Then the only remaining question is whether to recommend immediate reconditioning or termination.”
The chamber’s silence thickens. I hear the faint tick of the digital clock overhead, counting up, not down. They want to see if I twitch, sweat, beg. I do none of these.
“Reaper Harrison,” Abernathy says, drawing out my title like it matters. “Do you have anything to offer in your own defense?”
A memory surfaces—the weight of Elliot’s hand in mine, the fine tremor in his bones, the color of his skin under the auction lights. None of these are facts. They are not admissible.
“No,” I say.
