Chapter 14 RealMake Believe #2
She looks up, and for a second her eyes meet mine with a kind of desperate hope that makes my stomach twist.
“They want me to get you to talk,” she says. “To…to tell them things. About you. About the others. About why you did what you did.”
A chill slides under my skin despite the warmth. “And if you don’t?”
She swallows. “They said they’ll move him.”
“Move him where?”
She shakes her head, tears finally spilling down her cheek. “They didn’t say. They just said he won’t be safe.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I take a step forward before I can stop myself.
Then I stop.
Because I can feel it – an almost imperceptible shift in the air, like the room’s attention sharpening. Like an invisible lens adjusting.
They are watching the step.
They are watching my body respond to her distress. Measuring it. Recording the micro-changes: breath rate, pupil dilation, proximity. My empathy reduced to movement.
I keep my distance.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it feels stupid. Too small. A stupid throwaway phrase that doesn’t change anything.
She nods, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to betray you. I don’t. But I can’t – I can’t lose him.”
I take a slow breath, forcing calm into my tone. “What’s your brother’s name?”
She hesitates as if the name itself could trigger something. Then: “Sam.”
Sam.
An ordinary name that makes this feel ordinary, makes her feel human. Real or make believe?
My mind flashes an image: a boy somewhere, maybe already in a room like this, maybe not. The system knows how to use ordinary things as weapons.
I look at the biscuits again, at the neat little comfort staging.
“How long have you been here, Lena?” I ask.
She looks confused. “I don’t know. They bring me in for sessions. Sometimes it’s…sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it feels like days.”
She says it with that slight lack of certainty that tells me she’s lost time. They’re doing it to her too.
My throat tightens.
I can feel myself sliding towards the role I always play. The one that makes other people breathe easier. The one that sacrifices my own fear so theirs can settle.
But I can’t afford to do that here.
Because they want that role. They want to turn it into a weapon they can hone whenever they like.
“Alright,” I say. “If you’re being forced to do this, then we treat it like any other coercion. You tell me what they asked you to ask, and I’ll decide what to answer.”
Her eyes widen. “You’ll – you’ll help me?”
The hope in her voice is almost unbearable.
I hate them for creating that moment. For making me the person who can give her hope.
I swallow hard. “I’ll try not to make things worse.”
She lets out a shaky breath, relief washing through her so visibly that my hands twitch with the urge to reach out and steady her.
I keep them at my sides.
She glances towards the ceiling again, then back at me. “They want to know what you’re afraid of.”
A simple question, and it punches straight through the warm décor.
I stare at her.
“What did you say?” I ask instead.
She looks startled. “What?”
“What did you tell them when they asked you to ask that?” I repeat. “What did you give them as your answer?”
She frowns, thinking. “I…I told them you were afraid of being alone.”
My stomach turns. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”
She looks down, embarrassed. “I— it was just a guess. You seem like…like you take care of people. People who do that…they don’t like being left.”
Her guess is good enough to be dangerous.
I let my face go blank. “Try again.”
She looks up, startled by the edge in my tone. “Try—”
“What did they tell you to do if I didn’t answer?” I ask, and my voice stays calm only because I force it.
She bites her lip. “They said I should…make you comfortable.”
I bark a laugh. “And if that doesn’t work?”
Her eyes flick away. “They said there would be…adjustments.”
The room’s hum seems louder suddenly, like it’s leaning in to listen.
I step closer, just enough to bring my voice down. “Lena. Listen to me. They are using you as a tool.”
She flinches as if I’ve struck her, then nods quickly, tears gathering again. “I know.”
“No,” I say softly. “You know it in your head. You don’t know it in your body yet. In your body, you still think if you do what they want, you can protect Sam.”
Her breath stutters.
“And maybe you can,” I add, because I won’t lie to her. “But you need to understand the cost. They will make you hurt me. And they will make me comfort you for it. That’s the game.”
Her eyes search my face, horrified. “I don’t want to.”
“I believe you,” I say, and something in my chest twists with the familiar urge to reassure. “That’s why it works.”
She shakes her head. “What do I do?”
The question is the trap. If I tell her, I become the source of safety. If she follows my guidance, she bonds to me. If she bonds to me, they can threaten her to control me.
They have designed the room to create an attachment. This space is new. Their manipulation tactics are not.
My hands shake slightly. I curl them into fists to hide it.
“Ask your questions,” I say finally. “And when they tell you to make me comfortable, don’t. Not the way they want.”
Her brow furrows. “Then how?”
“Truth,” I say. “Be honest. Tell me when they’re listening. Tell me when they’ve threatened you. Don’t soothe. Don’t pretend. Don’t give them a performance.”
She swallows. “They’ll punish me.”
“Maybe,” I say, and my voice tightens. “But if you perform, they’ll punish both of us later. They’ll just call it data.”
She nods slowly, then wipes her cheeks again, trying to compose herself.
She takes a breath. “Alright. They want to know why you defied them.”
I stare at her.
There are answers I could give that are true enough to satisfy them. There are answers that would protect the others. There are answers that would damn us all.
The warmth of the room presses in. I can almost feel the systems behind the walls, waiting, hungry.
“Because,” I say carefully, “there’s a line. And they crossed it.”
Lena’s eyes flick to the ceiling. I don’t miss it.
“Can you be more specific?” she asks, and her voice has the faintest edge of rehearsed tone now, like she’s repeating a line she’s been told will get better results.
I hate the way my body responds with a rush of protectiveness. Not only for her. For myself. For the part of me that wants her to be real and safe and not a blade aimed at my throat.
“I can,” I say. “But I won’t. Not for them.”
Her shoulders slump. She looks genuinely disappointed, and I can’t tell anymore whether that disappointment is hers or theirs.
A soft chime sounds in the room.
Lena flinches, hands clenching. “That’s…that’s their signal.”
Another chime. Gentle. Almost pleasant.
“Adjustments,” she whispers.
The warmth increases. Not much. Just enough to make the skin flush. A faint, sweet scent threads through the air – vanilla, honey, something designed to calm.
My stomach lurches. The scent hits like nostalgia. Like a kitchen. Like someone baking when the world is safe.
My throat tightens.
My body responds before my mind catches it: shoulders loosening, breath deepening, a tiny, stupid sense of ease seeping in. It’s chemical. It has to be.
I thrust my hands into my pockets and grip the material inside hard enough that my fingers ache.
Lena’s eyes widen as she notices my reaction. “It’s in the air,” she whispers urgently. “I told them you’d notice.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, not unkindly. I can’t blame her for trying to survive.
The scent thickens.
My heart rate slows in spite of me. Calm rolls through my blood like warm water. My eyelids feel heavy. The room feels soft, forgiving.
My mind whispers: Just rest. Just sit. Just let it happen. You deserve a break.
I grit my teeth.
This is not kindness. This is compliance forcefully delivered through chemistry.
I force my eyes open wider, fixating on something sharp – the edge of the picture frame, the corner of the table – anything to anchor myself.
Lena stands abruptly, panic in her face. “They’re going to ask me how you’re feeling,” she says, voice shaking. “They’re going to want me to reassure you.”
My chest aches with the urge to reassure her.
The urge is so strong it makes me feel sick.
“No,” I say, harsher than I mean. I soften it immediately because I can’t help myself. “No, Lena. Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s alright. Tell me it’s happening.”
She nods, tears spilling again. “It’s happening,” she whispers.
The chime sounds again.
A voice – different from before, colder, more precise – fills the room. “Facilitator Lena. Report subject status.”
Lena’s shoulders tense like a marionette whose strings have been pulled. She looks at me, helpless.
I meet her gaze and try to put something steady into my eyes without offering comfort. Steady is not comfort. Steady is information.
“I—” she begins, then swallows. “He’s…he’s responding to the environment.”
“Specify,” the voice says.
Lena’s hands tremble. “His breathing is slower. His posture is less guarded.”
The voice is quiet, almost pleased. “Proceed.”
Lena looks like she might vomit.
The scent intensifies again, and with it comes a pulse of something else – heat behind my eyes, a rush through my chest, a sudden bloom of affection so sharp it’s almost painful. It lands on Lena like a target.
It isn’t even subtle.
My body wants to step forward, to touch her shoulder, to smooth her hair back, to tell her it will be alright. My mouth wants to form words that taste like safety.
I clamp my jaw shut until it hurts.
Because if I give them that, they win. They turn my kindness into a switch.
Lena edges closer, drawn by her own script or her own fear, I can’t tell. “Honey…” she says, and the way she says my name is almost a plea.
My throat constricts. My eyes sting.
I hate them. I hate them so much it’s a physical sensation, hot under the chemical warmth.
“I need you,” Lena whispers, and her voice breaks. “Please.”
The words hit something raw in me.