Page 16 of Somno Slave

I focus on his chest last.

Breath.

I stare too long trying to find it. Waiting for the rise beneath the jumpsuit, the subtle expansion of ribs, any small shift at all.

Nothing.

A cold ripple moves through me before I can stop it. Because for one stupid second, I genuinely can’t tell if he’s breathing.

“I’ve read the reports.” Peter says.

“They died slowly.” He lets that sit for a beat, eyes still on the file before lifting them again. “You made sure of that.”

The silence stretches.

“Torture.” Peter says at last. “So, tell me—was that the point? Did they deserve it?”

Deogal doesn’t even blink.

My stomach knots. I press my fingers lightly against my mouth to stop the shake. Peter exhales through his nose, the first real crack in his rhythm. Small, but there.

“Make no mistake, Mr Attor, silence is not resistance. The men who transferred you here made a great deal of noise about special handling,” he tilts his head, just slightly. “But I’ve never found men to be more inventive than when they’re afraid.”

He leans closer.

“And fear,” he adds, “is something we can manufacture.”

Nothing in him moves. Not a shift, not a tell—nothing gives.

I glance at my notepad like it might hold an answer. A slower, colder discomfort settles under my ribs. If Peter looks at my notes now, he’ll see the truth immediately—I have nothing.

Time stretches. The clock seems to taunt me.

“You know what I think?” he says after a moment. “I think this silence is ego.”

Nothing changes in Deogal’s posture.

“I think you enjoy sitting there believing you’re the smartest man in the room.” Peter taps once against the photograph. “Men like you usually do.”

Still nothing.

Peter waits then, deliberately.

He lets the silence swell between them until it starts pressing against my ribs too, thick and ugly and impossible to ignore. My breathing suddenly sounds too loud in my own ears.

“But here’s the problem,” Peter says eventually, voice quieter now. “Silence only works when the other person still believes you have control.”

Peter changes direction without warning. One second his voice is level, almost conversational, and the next a photograph cracks violently against the metal table.

The sound makes me jump hard enough that my pen slips against the page.

I can’t properly see the image from behind the glass. Just flashes of pale skin beneath harsh lighting. A body. Male, I think. Something dark around the ribs.

Peter slides the photograph closer to Deogal with two fingers.

“Doctor Elliot Vale.”

The room seems to tighten around the name.