Page 29 of Somno Slave

Mike lifts his hand, slower than necessary. “He looked... lost in thought.”

Sean lets out a short, cutting sound beside him.

“Brilliant,” he mutters. “Groundbreaking.”

Mike’s mouth opens again, like he might defend it, might try to justify why he spoke at all, but whatever he was about to say collapses before it forms. His face colours slightly, his gaze flicking briefly to me, before dropping.

Peter exhales through his nose and then turns.

“Ainsley.” His gaze fixes on me. “What did you write?”

He gestures to my closed notebook.

I open it, draw in a steadying breath, and prepare to read the very few observations I managed to capture and—

What the hell?

My notes are blue.

I stare at it. It doesn’t change.

No.

That’s wrong.

My cheeks burn.

I used a black biro. I remember the thin, scratchy lines, the faint dent they left in the paper. Black. Not blue.

I search for inconsistencies in my handwriting, searching for proof that I’ve somehow picked up the wrong notepad. That maybe this belongs to someone else. But the letters betray me. My a’s are caped, not tailed. My m’s flick long at the ends, impatient and angular. Every habit is there.

It’s mine.

And yet, the ink is wrong.

I drag my hand down my throat again, as if I can smooth the feeling away of something touching it. There is no reason for my body to feel like this. For my mind to be feeling this misaligned.

“Rheda?” Peter presses. His voice cuts cleanly through the fog and I jerk.

“Step length was even,” I say too fast. “Shoulders relaxed. No—no reaction.”

The click of the pen is sharp. My shoulders jerk before I can stop it.

“Okay,” he says but the word drags nastily. He’s already reaching for his jacket, shrugging into it with practised ease. “Note down absence.”

He motions at the guards. “Suit up. We do things my way now.”

The guards shift at once—armour sliding into place, helmets lifting, gloves tightening until they stop looking like men at all.

“I don’t understand.” I’m on my feet before I realise I’ve moved.

Peter lifts a hand. “Sit.”

I do. Fast. My cheeks burn, the heat sharp and immediate, like I’ve stepped out of line without meaning to.

They’re already moving into the room.

I find Deogal behind the glass. I’m aware of him now in a way I shouldn’t be—tracking the shallow rise of his chest, the slight shift at his throat when he swallows. Small things. Useless things.