Chapter Ten
Rheda
No one speaks when they come back in.
Peter stays standing. He’s at the head of the table, looking down at nothing in particular, one hand braced against the surface like he’s deciding something.
“Meeting. Now.” It cuts clean through the quiet.
Chairs shift again, quicker this time. Closer. We gather without being told where to stand, falling into a loose half-circle around him. He waits until we’re all there and then turns fully toward the board.
“Let’s go over this again.”
He carves Deogal’s name at the top in red marker. It squeaks and goes straight through me.
“No vocalisation,” he starts, speaking slowly as he writes the words down. “No cooperation. No physiological markers of stress after being transferred.”
He moves down the board. “Introductions have been complete. Initial proposition has been offered.”
The pen seems to get louder with every word, the scratch of it drilling into the quiet until it starts to feel deliberate. I resist the urge to press my fingers to my temples, to contain the pressure building behind my eyes before it fractures into something visible.
“But still nothing,” Peter says.
The words land with weight.
I reach back for my notebook without looking. My fingers close around the familiar weight of a black biro—and then stop.
Sean’s hand is already there.
He doesn’t look at me when he takes it from my grasp, just curls his fingers around the pen with quiet finality.
“That’s mine.” His voice is flat. He nods once toward my left. “That one’s yours.”
I follow his gesture.
The pen waiting there is light blue. Gel. Slightly translucent, almost childish, like something from a stationary aisle rather than an interrogation room. It looks wrong against the steel desk.
For a beat, I consider commenting but I don’t. I pick it up instead, rolling it once between my fingers, adjusting my grip until it feels usable.
“Would anyone like to add anything before we go back in?” Peter says tightly.
There’s a pause.
Mike lifts his hand, slower than necessary. “He looked... lost in thought.”
Sean lets out a short, cutting sound beside him.
“Brilliant,” he mutters. “Groundbreaking.”
Mike’s mouth opens again, like he might defend it, might try to justify why he spoke at all, but whatever he was about to say collapses before it forms. His face colours slightly, his gaze flicking briefly to me, before dropping.
Peter exhales through his nose and then turns.
“Ainsley.” His gaze fixes on me. “What did you write?”
He gestures to my closed notebook.
I open it, draw in a steadying breath, and prepare to read the very few observations I managed to capture and—
What the hell?
My notes are blue.
I stare at it. It doesn’t change.
No.
That’s wrong.
My cheeks burn.
I used a black biro. I remember the thin, scratchy lines, the faint dent they left in the paper. Black. Not blue.
I search for inconsistencies in my handwriting, searching for proof that I’ve somehow picked up the wrong notepad. That maybe this belongs to someone else. But the letters betray me. My a’s are caped, not tailed. My m’s flick long at the ends, impatient and angular. Every habit is there.
It’s mine.
And yet, the ink is wrong.
I drag my hand down my throat again, as if I can smooth the feeling away of something touching it. There is no reason for my body to feel like this. For my mind to be feeling this misaligned.
“Rheda?” Peter presses. His voice cuts cleanly through the fog and I jerk.
“Step length was even,” I say too fast. “Shoulders relaxed. No—no reaction.”
The click of the pen is sharp. My shoulders jerk before I can stop it.
“Okay,” he says but the word drags nastily. He’s already reaching for his jacket, shrugging into it with practised ease. “Note down absence.”
He motions at the guards. “Suit up. We do things my way now.”
The guards shift at once—armour sliding into place, helmets lifting, gloves tightening until they stop looking like men at all.
“I don’t understand.” I’m on my feet before I realise I’ve moved.
Peter lifts a hand. “Sit.”
I do. Fast. My cheeks burn, the heat sharp and immediate, like I’ve stepped out of line without meaning to.
They’re already moving into the room.
I find Deogal behind the glass. I’m aware of him now in a way I shouldn’t be—tracking the shallow rise of his chest, the slight shift at his throat when he swallows. Small things. Useless things.
I curl my fingers tighter around the pen.
Peter takes his seat. He drops the file onto the table and the sound cracks through the room. It hits the walls and settles. He leans back in his chair, watching him for a long moment like he’s assessing something that isn’t written in the file.
“You’ve already shown us how this goes,” he says eventually. “So, we won’t waste time repeating ourselves.”
There’s no response.
Of course not.
Peter tilts his head slightly, a small shift that somehow changes the weight of the room. His fingers tap once against the table.
“You’re not the first to try this,” he says, almost mildly. “It never lasts as long as you think it will.”
Silence answers him.
Unchanged.
Untouched.
It does something strange to the room, pulls at it. Peter watches him for another beat, then another. He breaks the silence by raising to his feet.
He steps around the table.
I still.
He flexes his fingers as if to test their range of movement, before curling them digit-by-digit into a fist. His hand disappears into his back pocket. There, he fishes out something hard and metal, with thick rings.
Knuckle dusters.
My heart slams against my ribcage.
“Just talk to me, Deogal.” His voice is deceptively sweet as he slips the weapon onto his left hand, adjusting it tight, before fixing the right pair on. “We can help you.”
I haven’t drawn a breath in minutes, and my head is hot with fear. I don’t know when I raised to my feet, but I’m suddenly standing, fingers splayed against the cold glass.
“Last chance.” It’s more of a taunt than an invitation.
Deogal doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t register the danger at his side—not the shift in stance, not the coiled readiness. It’s as if Peter simply doesn’t exist to him.
Look left, I want to scream. For God’s sake, look left. He’s about to hit you!
The thought shocks me as much as the situation itself. The instinctive surge of it. The way my body leans forward before my mind can catch up, as though proximity alone might protect him.
Coercion isn’t assessment.
Pain isn’t evidence.
And torturing a human being into a confession isn’t just unethical—it’s fucking illegal.
“Fine.” Peter sighs. “Your call.”
He strikes fast. I barely have the chance to scream as his fist collides with the criminal’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. The impact reverberates through the speakers like a bang. My head explodes as if the connection has been made with my skin.
He lands another blow. And another. Peter doesn’t hold up his attack on Deogal and he... just takes it.
And God—it’s all too much.
The weight of it presses down on me all at once, sharp and suffocating. The brutality of it turns my stomach. Something inside of me recoils hard enough to hurt.
I can’t do this.
I can’t be complicit in the torture.
This is not what I meant when I wanted more of a challenge!
“Stop!” I hear myself scream. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
It’s useless. I know Peter won’t be able to hear me, none of them will, the one-way glass is thick and soundproof and designed for these very moments, to lock out weakness, and yet I can’t control the hysteria.
I drive my fist into the glass, and they merely bounce back pathetically.
They won’t hear me, but my conscience refuses to stand by and just watch.
Peter connects with Deogal’s jaw with brutal precision. There’s a wet, unmissable pop, that makes my stomach lurch. The impact ripples through him a heartbeat later—delayed, disorienting—and his body staggers sideways as if sensation has only just caught up.
Then gravity takes him.
Peter uses the momentum without hesitation, hauling him down. Deogal hits the floor hard enough that the speaker’s crackle in protest, a burst of static slicing through the room. Chains scream as they strain against the sudden movement, metal shrieking like something alive and furious.
The sound is obscene.
“Had enough?” Peter sniffs hard, wipes the back of his nose with his arm, revealing the blood staining the metal around his knuckles. His entire body heaves as he pants.
Something sick spreads across his face.
Bile rises at the back of my throat.
His boot meets his spine in one final, booming assault. The impact shudders through him.
My hand rises to my throat without permission. I swallow, and the motion burns.
I can’t even blink.
Regret blooms in my chest.
I didn’t think Class M would look like this.
I don’t want this.
I didn’t mean this.
What the fuck was I thinking when I said yes?