Chapter Eight
Boots cross the threshold.
Two men resolve only as blurred shapes before the hood drops back over my head.
The world collapses to breath and sound and the sour, reused smell of the fabric.
“Stand.”
It takes a second for my legs to remember what that means. When I struggle to my feet, the floor tilts. My calves tremble hard enough that I lock my knees to stay vertical.
I draw in a shallow breath, then another, focusing on the simple mechanics of balance—the pressure of my feet against the floor, the weight of my body stacked where it should be—until the shaking eases.
A hand closes around my arm and tugs me forward. They’re not rushing me this time.
I start counting steps without thinking. Eighteen. A turn. Twelve more.
The air changes again. Cooler now. The ventilation hum grows louder, more deliberate, vibrating faintly through my chest.
“Sit.”
The chair is wrong the moment I touch it. Too high. Too narrow. My feet barely reach the floor.
They reposition the restraints, pulling my arms behind me and securing them to hard metal. Ankles next. The posture forces my spine into an arch that turns breathing into work, each inhale scraping against my ribs.
Cold air rushes across my skin—my forearms, my hands, where the fabric dips into a v below my collarbones. Even my bare feet. I can’t shift away from the harsh blast. It pries me open inch by inch, and the loss of control fractures something deep inside me.
Someone tightens the hood at my neck. Not enough to restrict my oxygen. Enough that I feel it every time I swallow.
I slow my breathing.
Don’t give them anything they can use against you.
“Name,” a man says.
He sounds older. Polished and controlled, with the kind of authority that doesn’t need to demand anything because cooperation is the baseline.
“Raine Calder.” My voice is steadier than I feel.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No.”
Paper rustles. A file squared against a surface with careful precision.
“Do you understand why you’re here?”
“No.”
A pause. Longer this time.
“Explain your uncertainty.”
The hood presses against my cheekbone as I lift my chin a fraction.
“I reported to the Portland office for a training assignment. When I arrived, I was asked to complete an intake interview, then a questionnaire for a medical review before being restrained and transported…here. I don’t understand why. ”
That’s the simplest answer. The one that can’t be twisted. Whatever test this is, I can’t pass it until I understand the rules.
“You accessed material that wasn’t officially routed to you,” the man says. His voice is calm—clinical in a way that doesn’t give me any room to disagree.
My pulse jumps, but I keep my breathing steady. This is about the contractor tied to all those ops. The agents who disappeared from the duty rosters. The medical file that showed up in Tessa’s queue with RJ-3 all over it.
Tessa.
Is she here somewhere? Hooded and restrained and injured? A sob wells in my throat, but I swallow hard and force it away. Thinking about her now won’t help me find a way out of this.
I choose my words carefully. Not because they’ll free me, but because they’ll define what happens next. “A discrepancy appeared in several reports in my queue. I investigated it the way I was trained to, including reviewing linked records I was cleared to see.”
Another voice joins in. A woman. She sounds younger, I think. Or maybe just softer.
“In your assessment, was your response warranted?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Would you make the same choice again?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe your conduct requires this level of intervention?”
That’s a simpler question than it sounds. They aren’t asking about policy. They’re asking whether I think they’re wrong.
“I believe,” I say, “that my actions were consistent with my role. I’m not aware of any step that should trigger this level of response.”
“You think this is about procedure. It isn’t. It’s about the context you assigned to the information. That context was not yours to apply.” The man’s words aren’t harsh. He’s not accusing me so much as he’s correcting me.
I hesitate for too long. A chair shifts. Someone leans closer. The silence is suffocating. They’re waiting for a response. But I’m in too much pain to figure out what it could be.
When the man speaks again, his calm, measured voice is closer. Almost too close. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” It’s not a lie. I understand his words even if I disagree with them.
“Were you trying to initiate a formal alert or review?” he asks.
“No.”
The air inside the hood feels thinner with each question, every answer using up oxygen I don’t have to spare.
“Did you write anything down?”
“No.”
“Did you escalate your concerns to anyone?”
“No.”
Each answer is true given a narrow enough scope.
The man makes a soft sound, but I can’t tell if it’s thoughtful…or judgmental.
“Did Ms. Hale follow protocol when she brought her concerns to you?”
Tessa.
Her empty hands flash behind my eyes. The way she nodded when I told her Occupational Health would explain everything. The trust she gave me without asking for proof.
“Raine,” he says. The familiarity is deliberate, exerting pressure by reminding me what I still have to lose. “Do you know where Ms. Hale is?”
My breath stutters, my body answering before I can stop it.
“No,” I say.
“She’s being cared for,” the woman says calmly. “As are you. Until we decide what happens next.”
“How long will that take?” I ask.
“It depends on how helpful you choose to be.”
Understanding clicks into place. This only ends when they decide it does.
The man clears his throat. “We’ll talk again later.”
Papers shift, a chair scrapes against the concrete, and two sets of footsteps move away. The door closes with a muted thud, and the lock engages a second later.
This wasn’t about verifying facts. They cared how I framed them, how quickly I answered, and where I drew the line.
I’m alone again, hooded and held exactly where they positioned me. There’s no give in the restraints, so I let my shoulders relax and focus on staying quiet. This feels like it’s still part of the assessment. And I won’t give them any more of me than they’ve already taken.
Footsteps return sooner than I expect.
Hands adjust the restraints without comment. My ankles are freed from the chair, then chained together again. Wrists released next and relocked behind me.
Every movement is practiced. Sequential. No chance of me causing damage.
“Stand.”
My legs cooperate, but slowly. Hands close around my elbows to steady me.
I count steps until pain interrupts the numbers. The air cools again, and the sound dulls as they position me in another chair. It’s lower, but just as hard and unforgiving.
Air blows steadily across my skin from somewhere overhead as the restraints are reset in a way that’s awkward but not immediately unsustainable.
That matters.
“You are not to move unless instructed,” the man says, his voice flat with boredom. “If you need water or the bathroom, you will ask and wait to be acknowledged. Otherwise, you will not speak without direction.”
Ask. Not request. Requesting implies rights. Asking implies dependence.
“Failure to comply will extend your evaluation period.”
Evaluation again.
Everything here is conditional. Even silence.
“How long is the evaluation period?” I ask.
“You weren’t instructed to speak,” he says sharply.
I pull in a quick breath, then have to swallow the small, pained sound that wants to escape as my ribs protest.
“Do you understand the rules?”
I nod once.
“Use your voice.”
“I understand,” I say. “I will follow the rules.”
“One more thing,” he adds, his tone unchanged. “This isn’t punishment. This is care.”
Care? This isn’t care. This…is control.
I keep that thought to myself.
The door shuts with a solid sound, and silence settles back into the room, broken only by the mechanical whir from a camera somewhere in front of me and the constant rush of air from the vent.
The cold follows, weaving its way up from my feet until staying still takes more effort than moving would.
The hood traps my breath, the air growing stale and overused.
No light. No movement. Nothing I can catalog or analyze. Total sensory deprivation.
I focus on what I can control. Slowing my breathing. The pressure of the chair against my back. The way the cuffs pull at my ankles.
After a while, time stretches into something with no meaning. My muscles start trembling. My mind strains for noise that isn’t there. I rock once. Just barely. Enough to remind myself that I’m still here.
Follow the rules.
Find the gaps.
Work the system you’re in.
Survive.