Page 185 of Somno Slave

“This is Harris,” Peter says finally. “He sits on the board that decides what happens to Deogal.”

My eyes move to him properly now.

He doesn’t look back straight away. His attention stays on the file in front of him, pen moving in slow, deliberate strokes that don’t quite match the pace of the room. When he eventuallylifts his gaze, it lands on me without warmth. He looks at me the way people look at paperwork.

My palms go clammy.

I look away first.

Harris holds the silence for a beat too long and then finally speaks. “Doctor Ainsley, how familiar are you with the prisoner?”

For a second, I just look at him. My throat goes dry.

“I—I’m not. I mean, professionally. I’ve reviewed his case, I’ve been present for interviews, but there’s no personal—”

“Let me rephrase that.” He cuts across me without raising his voice. “How does a condemned prisoner know you well enough to ignore everyone else in the room?”

The words hit harder than if he’d shouted.

My mouth closes. I don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound insane.

Peter shifts beside him, jaw tight.

Harris folds his hands neatly over the file.

“He refused legal counsel. He refused direct questioning. He ignored Detective Holmes’ thorough interrogation,” His eyes stay on mine. “And yet the moment you entered the room, his behaviour changed.”

I can feel my pulse in my throat.

“He spoke to you like there was already something established between you.”

My fingers curl tighter against the table.

“That is not a small detail, Doctor Ainsley. That is the kind of detail people lose careers over.”

The room feels smaller. I force myself to breathe. “I can’t explain his behaviour.”

“No,” Harris says calmly. “That is exactly the problem.”

He pauses, then continues. “Did you have contact with Deogal before his arrival at SCU?”

“What?” I jolt. “No, of course not.”

My head tears toward Peter who doesn’t say anything. He sits there, tight lipped, eyes fixed and mistrusting. “Peter, this is ridiculous. Of course I do not know the criminal.”

“Then why did you speak into the microphone?” He replies smoothly.

My stomach tightens before I can stop it.

“I,—" I start, and then stop, because the words don’t come quickly. “I was fed up.”

“Fed up?” Harris asks. The intensity of his gaze makes my skin crawl.

My cheeks burn. “With his silence.”

“Why did it bother you?”

It doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like something being slid under my skin.