Page 30 of Somno Slave

I curl my fingers tighter around the pen.

Peter takes his seat. He drops the file onto the table and the sound cracks through the room. It hits the walls and settles. He leans back in his chair, watching him for a long moment like he’s assessing something that isn’t written in the file.

“You’ve already shown us how this goes,” he says eventually. “So, we won’t waste time repeating ourselves.”

There’s no response.

Of course not.

Peter tilts his head slightly, a small shift that somehow changes the weight of the room. His fingers tap once against the table.

“You’re not the first to try this,” he says, almost mildly. “It never lasts as long as you think it will.”

Silence answers him.

Unchanged.

Untouched.

It does something strange to the room, pulls at it. Peter watches him for another beat, then another. He breaks the silence by raising to his feet.

He steps around the table.

I still.

He flexes his fingers as if to test their range of movement, before curling them digit-by-digit into a fist. His hand disappears into his back pocket. There, he fishes out something hard and metal, with thick rings.

Knuckle dusters.

My heart slams against my ribcage.

“Just talk to me, Deogal.” His voice is deceptively sweet as he slips the weapon onto his left hand, adjusting it tight, before fixing the right pair on. “We can help you.”

I haven’t drawn a breath in minutes, and my head is hot with fear. I don’t know when I raised to my feet, but I’m suddenly standing, fingers splayed against the cold glass.

“Last chance.” It’s more of a taunt than an invitation.

Deogal doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t register the danger at his side—not the shift in stance, not the coiled readiness. It’s as if Peter simply doesn’t exist to him.

Look left,I want to scream.For God’s sake, look left. He’s about to hit you!

The thought shocks me as much as the situation itself. The instinctive surge of it. The way my body leans forward before my mind can catch up, as though proximity alone might protect him.

Coercion isn’t assessment.

Pain isn’t evidence.

And torturing a human being into a confession isn’t just unethical—it’s fucking illegal.

“Fine.” Peter sighs. “Your call.”

He strikes fast. I barely have the chance to scream as his fist collides with the criminal’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. The impact reverberates through the speakers like a bang. My head explodes as if the connection has been made with my skin.

He lands another blow. And another. Peter doesn’t hold up his attack on Deogal and he...just takes it.

And God—it’s all too much.

The weight of it presses down on me all at once, sharp and suffocating. The brutality of it turns my stomach. Something inside of me recoils hard enough to hurt.