Page 68 of White Noise

“Good. I want you mouthing off when I fucking break you.”

Before I can answer, the CRT behind me crackles hard enough to drag my attention over my shoulder. Static crawls across the curved glass in thick white bands, building fast until the whole screen is swallowed by it.

My stomach drops.

When I look back at the monitor, Silas is gone.

“Fuck.”

The CRT pops once, sharp and loud, and then his hand presses through the screen.

He doesn’t force his way out.

He takes his time.

His fingers flex against the air before his wrist follows, then his arm, his shoulder, the rest of him sliding through the static with slow, deliberate control until both feet land on the floor.

He straightens to his full height and turns toward me.

The difference is immediate.

There’s no flicker around him this time, no unstable edges, no strain in the way he holds the body together. The scar across his eye is still there, but everything else about him looks disturbingly real.

Solid, almost human.

Except there’s nothing human in the way he looks at me.

“You’ve mistaken my patience for uncertainty.”

I push away from the desk and square my shoulders. “I haven’t mistaken shit.”

He starts walking toward me. Every step is slow and controlled, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You still think saying the words changes anything.”

“I think you’re a fucking psycho with an ownership complex.”

Another step.

“You think because you can make my body react to you, that means something.”

His jaw shifts.

I see it.

That tiny reaction is enough to make me keep going.

“It doesn’t.”

Silas stops a few feet away.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then his mouth finally curves, but there’s nothing warm or amused in it.

“You really want to test that?”

My pulse kicks harder and I know he fucking sees it. He always does. But he doesn’t react. He doesn't make a point of it which sadly doesn’t offer me any relief.