Page 11 of Somno Slave

I slow near the end of the corridor, checking the note once more in my grip, though it’s not needed. I have studied these numbers repeatedly, from the minute Peter left, to the second I’ve stepped foot into this corridor.

Room sixty-six waits at the end of the corridor like it already knows I’m coming.

I peer up again.

Sixty-three.

Sixty-four.

Sixty-five

Sixty-six.

I stop.

The door looks identical to the others.

I wait outside the door long enough for my pulse to make itself known. I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself.

I raise my hand, knuckles barely brushing the door before it opens suddenly.

“Miss Ainsley.” Peter Holmes stands in the gap like he’s been waiting for me. He steps aside and gestures me in. “Come through.”

The door clicks shut behind us, sealing with a sharp vacuum sound that makes my ears pop.

The two guards are already here, sprawled out on the chairs, mid conversation. I notice the ex-military man first. He stiffens the moment I step inside. His lips pull tight, eyes lifting to track me with careful precision. Not curiosity.Caution.There is something wary in the way he watches me, as if being looked at this closely makes him uncomfortable. When our gazes meet, he readjusts his grip on his weapon.

To his left is the younger guard with dusty blonde hair shaved into a buzz cut. A boyish face, round and flushed, dotted with faint stubble that leaves his skin uneven, pitted in places wherethe hair refuses to grow cleanly. He’s tall and lean, all limbs and angles, his uniform sitting a fraction too lose for his frame.

“The name’s Mike.” He leans forward, hand already out.

I take it out of politeness. His grip lingers as though he’s stretching the seconds out. He shakes once, twice, before finally releasing me.

“Rheda,” I say, already turning.

The other guard glances up just long enough to acknowledge me.

“Sean.” It’s one word. Flat. He drops his eyes immediately, returning his attention to the helmet resting on his lap.

The dismissal is deliberate.

Message received.

“Don’t mind him,” Mike says cheerfully, nudging my arm as if we’re already familiar. “Always grumpy, this one. Isn’t that right, mate?”

Sean makes a low sound, not quite a reply, and shifts in his seat.

Peter Holmes steps forward.

“This will be your new station.” He says, gesturing around the dim room, lit primarily by the soft glow of screens. Cameras. Monitors. Rows of computers humming quietly, their displays alive with feeds and data. Along the far wall sits three tall filing cabinets, each drawer tagged with neat white labels. Too many paper files for a place this classified.

I take it all in slowly. Recognition settles.

We’re behind the glass. The one-way glass.

My gaze fixes on the darkened interrogation room beyond the glass. Empty, for now. One desk under the fluorescent lights. Three chairs waiting around it. Quiet. Still.

He points to the far side of the room. “We have a coffee station. We will be doing shift work when the criminal isn’t inactive interrogation, so there should be plenty of time to rest too.”