Chapter 22
BOYS WITH CLIPBOARDS
I spent my evening waiting for a manual cuff sync after I tripped over June’s feet on the way to dinner. For advanced tech, they are such a pain.
I’m back in the common room by nine, and to my immense joy, there’s still no sign of Mister M.
The girls are already there. Ivy’s laid out over the couch.
Bri and June are fussing by the supply shelves.
Brielle grabs the art bin when she sees me, and we gather around the too-small table for a gossip session disguised as an artistic endeavor.
I grab a bright green marker that smells like fake apples and disobedience.
I twirl it between my fingers, watching June peel at the designation label on her water bottle. Brielle’s doodling something intricate and flowery on the corner of her paper. Nothing assigned, just her brain reaching for softness the way it always does.
Colt’s leaning against the far wall, pretending to be uninterested. Technically he’s supposed to be doing some kind of logging, but he’s been staring at his clipboard blankly for about fifteen minutes. Probably bored. Probably assigned to keep an eye on us. Definitely regretting it.
“Okay, but seriously,” Juniper says, kicking one leg up onto her chair. “If Mister V is nineteen, then what the hell does that make Mister M?”
I tilt my head. “Maybe like—”
“Eighty-seven!” Brielle cuts in, a little too excited.
Juniper snorts. “On a good day.”
“No,” Bri says. “Not human years—in demon years. Like dog years, but for evil.”
I smile despite myself, thinking of the creepy creatures from the night book. “Wait, so that means one human year equals, what? Nine demon years?”
“Which makes him twenty-one,” Juniper declares, “and emotionally seventy-four.”
I hum. “Still feels generous.”
“You guys are terrible at math,” Colt mutters, pretending to write something on his clipboard. I can see it from here; the man’s page is utterly blank.
Mister M must be close to Mister V’s age. He moves like he’s older, like he owns the very ground we stand on. But little things give him away: the petty cruelty, the need for control, the little gleam in his eye when someone calls him sir. Something tells me he’s still growing into this role.
June leans her elbows on the table. “You think they trained together?”
“Probably,” I nod. “There’s only so many of them. Carr must pick them directly, right?”
Brielle frowns. “I don’t know… They act so different.”
“I think that’s the point,” I say. “If every mentor was like Mister M, we’d probably all be dead by now.”
A thought nags at the back of my mind. Maybe they didn’t get to choose at all. But that can’t be true. They must choose to become mentors, right? I blink away the discontent bubbling in my stomach, drawing big green spirals across my paper.
The conversation shifts, less playful now. It’s like we’re all sitting with the same thought, trying not to touch it.
Brielle cracks the silence. “Do you think all the mentors are that young?” My heart stutters. I glance at Colt. He’s silent, still leaning against the wall, dark eyes weary.
“I think,” I start slowly, hoping my next words sound coherent. “They make them young so they don’t know better.”
“Like us.” The colors leech from June’s face. “Easy to train.”
“And easier to replace,” I whisper, fear settling over my chest.
Brielle presses her palms to the table. “But why would someone choose this? To be a mentor or an enforcer. To live here and take care of us. It can’t be easy, and there have be better options, right?”
“They probably didn’t pick,” Juniper mutters, bitterness creeping on the words. She turns to Colt, eyes narrowed in curiosity. “All right, spill. How old are you?”
He blinks. “Me?”
“No, the other enforcer in the room.”
Colt scratches the back of his neck, suddenly aware of four pairs of very judgmental teenage eyes. “Eighteen. Nineteen in…four months, I think.”
“You think?” I echo.
He shrugs awkwardly. “Dates get weird here.”
“Are you telling me we’re surrounded by teenage boys with state-issued weapons?” June groans.
“Technically, I’m not supposed to—”
“You’re barely older than us!” Brielle blurts.
Ivy lifts her head, interest piqued. “They said I was seventeen at intake. We’ve been here for at least”—she lifts her fingers like she’s going to count them, then slaps a hand over her face—“an eternity. So we’re probably the same age.”
The thought makes my head spin.
“I’m sixteen,” June declares, face twisting with delayed concern. “I think.”
“I don’t even remember my intake age!” Brielle cries. I bite my lip, because I don’t either.
“Everyone needs to slow down,” I say before Bri can hyperventilate. “This is insane.” I square my shoulders toward Colt. “So, all the mentors and enforcers are young?”
“Define young.”
“Under twenty-five?”
Colt nods slowly.
“That’s gotta be like—a huge liability, right?” I add, trying not to look at him. “Teenagers being trained by teenagers while being watched by—you guessed it—teenagers. Why would anyone think that’s a good idea?”
“’Youth breeds obedience,’” he quotes, too neatly to be spontaneous. “Carr loves that line. Says the trick is catching us before we start thinking for ourselves. Bright eyes, steady hands, clean slates.”
“Cute slogan,” June huffs.
“Yeah,” Colt mutters. “Until you’ve lived it.”
I shake my head. “That’s kind of messed up, right? Like, even for them?”
Colt lifts his hands like a shield. “Hey, I didn’t design the program. I just passed the damn tests.”
“What tests?” I ask.
His face shudders a little. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it does.
And we all feel it.
June sounds gentler now. “Did you…sign up?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He takes a long, deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Sort of.”
Sort of.
I glance at Brielle, then at June. I don’t like the implications of this. Belief-altering statements make my stomach hurt.
June straightens, serious. “So let me get this straight. We’re being shaped by boys who probably still flinch when Carr raises his voice.
” She points at Colt. “Watched by barely legal enforcers. Surrounded by instructors who never interfere. Drugged, monitored, and evaluated constantly. But the only real involved adults in this whole place are Carr and the other doctors?”
Colt folds his arms but doesn’t correct her.
“Yeah,” Bri says softly, “I think you just about summed it up.”
“No wonder it’s cracked,” I murmur. “So are we. Maybe that’s the only way it works.”
Bri leans forward again, voice small. “Do you think Mister V ever had a choice?”
I want to say no. I want to believe he didn’t. That he was dragged into this, same as us. But I think of the way he stands and watches, so stiff it hurts to look at. The way he deflects everything we throw his way. The way he looks at me with icy eyes that see too much.
“No,” I say softly.
But it scares me more to think that maybe he did. Because if you chose this…
If you walk into these halls and say yes, what kind of person does that make you?
And what kind of person do they turn you into once you do?