Page 192 of Somno Slave

Rheda stops following the conversation ten minutes before anyone notices.

Peter says something to her from across the observation room and she nods a fraction too late, like the words have to travel through water before they reach her properly. Her attention catches up after her body does. I watch the exact second awareness returns to her face, the brief tightening around her eyes when she realises she has missed something important.

“Right?” Peter asks again.

She blinks once. “Sorry?”

It’s too slow.

“I said are you with us?” The question hangs there longer than it should.

“Yes, sorry.” She finally finds the words.

Sean glances up briefly from the coffee machine before looking away again. Mike keeps typing, fingers steady against the keyboard, though slower now. Nobody comments on it.

But Peter notices.

He watches her for a second too long before turning back toward the wall of monitors. One hand braces against the edge of the desk beside him while the other drags slowly across his mouth.

“We got confirmation this morning,” he finally breaks the silence.

Mike’s typing slows to a stop. “What kind of confirmation?”

Peter’s eyes stay on the screens for a moment longer before he answers. “Board reviewed the case overnight.”

Sean exhales. “Capital?”

Peter nods once.

Rheda’s throat works around it like the sound itself has lodged there.

Mike leans back slightly in his chair. “That was quick.”

Peter ignores both of them. His attention drifts briefly toward the glass instead. Toward me. Then back again. “They’ve brought the execution date forward. It’s tomorrow.”

He looks at Rheda as he says it.

The words enter her system slowly, snagging somewhere behind the eyes before the meaning reaches the rest of her body. Her pulse jumps hard enough that I can see it low in her throat. She swallows once and fails the second attempt entirely, breath catching somewhere beneath her ribs before she forces it lower.

She reaches for her plastic water bottle like that will ground her, but her cheeks are already red and traitorous.

The plastic crackles softly beneath her grip as she raises it to her mouth. Her thumb stills against the side of the bottle. I see the exact second the texture changes beneath her skin. Plastic hardens into metal. It’s cold enough that I can almost feel the ache of it against my own palm.

Her fingers tighten instinctively as the weight shifts heavier in her hand, dragging at her wrist in a way cheap plastic never could. Her thumb shifts once across engraved grooves worn shallow with age.

Her eyes lower slowly toward her own hand. Her pupils widen.

I press the image into her perception until the plastic obeys. For one perfect second she looks through the observation room entirely. Like she can still see stone. Like fluorescent light softens into flame.

Her mouth parts slightly. The cup trembles in her hand.

A chalice.

Then her chair screeches violently backwards across the floor. The sound cuts through the room hard enough that everybody looks up immediately. Water spills across the desk. She stands too fast, breath catching sharply in her throat, eyes locked downward at the object still clutched in her hand.

Peter says her name quietly.

She startles so hard her entire body jerks.