Chapter Twenty-One
Rheda
“I told you, it’s not the machine—” Sean’s voice cuts through the hallway as I walk up to the viewing room.
All three of them look up when I walk in.
Act normal.
The thought comes too quickly, too automatically, like it’s already been repeating before I caught it.
Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened.
This is just another day.
“Sorry I’m late,” the words already thinning as they leave me. My hand drags over my coat, pushing rain from the fabric more for something to do than anything else. “There were no taxis.”
No one answers. The silence sits a moment too long to be nothing.
Sean leans back in his chair, coffee in hand, brows lifting slightly. “Well, it worked for me.”
He’s looking at Mike like I never spoke at all.
Mike’s face reddens as he turns back to the machine. His palm hits the side once. Then again, harder this time. A sharp, hollow thud echoes off the counter.
“It’s not working,” he snaps.
Sean doesn’t even look up, just takes a slow sip of his coffee like he’s letting Mike run himself out. Then, with a quiet exhale, he leans forward and presses a button. The machine hums, then splutters to life. Coffee starts to pour.
Mike straightens, staring at it. “How did you do that?”
“I told you,” he mutters. “It’s not broken.”
The door opens behind me.
Peter steps in, a brief nod to us, before moving straight past. He doesn’t slow.
“Anything?” He’s already at the front by the time the word lands, attention fixed on the screen, hands resting lightly on the back of the chair in front of him.
Mike straightens. “No.”
“Nothing?” He presses.
Sean shakes his head. “We spaced it out. Tried shorter gaps, longer ones. Same every time.”
Peter hums.
I don’t want to look at Deogal straight away, but my eyes lift without permission. The sight of him settles under my skin in a way that feels immediately wrong. He’s exactly where he was left, positioned with that same unshaken ease, like the hours between then and now have simply...failed.
The bruising is worse today, darkening beneath the electrodes, spreading unevenly under the skin in a dull purple that should read as damage. But if anything, it sharpens him, makes the lines of his body harder. I hate the way my focus tightens in response to it.
Heat follows it.
I inhale, the breath catching in a way that doesn’t belong here.
I know what I’m thinking.
I shut it down fast.
My gaze drops to the table instead, forcing it into something clinical: Injuries. Response. Endurance.
Not—
I don’t finish that thought, but I look up again.
He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t acknowledged the room. The glass. Us. And I... I want him to.
The thought slips in before I can stop it.
I shift my weight, uncomfortable now for a different reason. I need to sit. Make myself useful.
I glance sideways at the seat next to Sean, angled slightly, not directly facing the screen, but enough that I can watch without making it obvious. I move before I’ve fully decided to.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Can I—”
He shifts without question, dragging his chair back with a quiet scrape. “Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
I sit quickly, steadying my breathing before it can give too much away.
Peter turns.
“I’m not going to bullshit you guys,” he says, his tone cutting clean through the space. “I’ve got people asking me where this is going.”
Mike lowers his cup slightly. “Already? We’ve only just started.”
“They don’t like unknowns,” Peter says. “Especially not this kind.”
My fingers curl faintly against my side before I realise I’m doing it, like I’m trying to hold onto something that isn’t there.
Sean glances over. “What are they asking for?”
“A direction,” Peter says. “They want to know if we’re building toward sentencing.”
Sentencing.
It doesn’t sit in my head where it should, neat and clinical. It drops lower, heavy, pulling something tight in my chest before I can stop it.
No.
The reaction hits too fast.
Not because I care what happens to him. I don’t. But because the idea of this ending now makes something ugly tighten in my chest.
We barely understand him.
I barely understand why my mind is so fixated on him.
Mike swears under his breath. “We’ve barely scratched him.”
“I know.” Peter’s jaw tightens slightly, but his voice stays controlled. “That doesn’t change the fact they want an answer.”
“We don’t even know if he’ll talk,” Sean says. “This is ridiculous. They can’t possibly expect us to—"
“He will,” Peter interrupts.
The certainty in it slides under my skin before I can block it.
Mike huffs. “You sound confident.”
Peter’s gaze shifts back to the screen, and I follow it without meaning to.
“I’m not confident,” he says. “I’m realistic.”
My focus tightens, something in my chest pulling too taut. I flatten my fingers against my file to stop them shaking.
“Everyone breaks eventually.” Peter doesn’t move for a second. “We’re going to test that today.”
Mike straightens. “Test it how?”
“We find out whether he actually wants to live.” His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
My fingers curl hard at my sides, nails pressing into my palms, grounding and useless all at once as a flicker of something sharper cuts through the shock. I open my mouth to protest but he speaks again.
“Shock him again.” He says firmly.
Mike hesitates for half a second, just enough to feel it, then reaches for the panel.
I step forward without even thinking, the protest still caught somewhere between my throat and teeth.
“Peter,” I start.
“Now.” He interrupts sharply.
There’s no room left in it for anything else, because Mike’s hand is already moving.