Page 33 of Somno Slave

“Why?” I manage.

He studies me, and then his face turns into something grin. “His methods were...inhumane. Targeted. That’s all you need to know.”

The answer doesn’t settle. Something in me recoils, instinctive and sharp, my lungs stalling before I can pull in another breath.

“I told you things work differently on this side of the prison.” There’s a small pause. “Keep that in mind as we move forward.”

“I’m not coming back.” It leaves me before I’ve fully decided to say it. My voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it I can’t quite smooth out. “If this is what you’re building toward...if you think I’m going to sit here and watch you torture someone into a confession—then no. I won’t be part of it.”

No one interrupts me.

“I won’t sign anything either,” I add, the words tightening as they come. “I’m not putting my name on something that turns into a death warrant.”

For a second, I think he might argue it but he doesn’t. His face twists into something cruel.

“Go ahead,” he spits. “Go back to your old unit. Sit behind your desk. Write your little notes and wait for someone else to decide what they mean.”

My chest tightens.

“That’s what you were doing before I walked in, wasn’t it?” he continues. “Observing. Commenting. Staying just far enough away that none of it ever really touches you. You think they’re going to let you move any further than that? After six years?”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“They already tell you where you belong,” he adds. “They just don’t bother saying it to your face.”

Terry.

His name burns in my mind.

The meetings.

The kettle.

The notes.

“They’ll keep you there,” he goes on, steady, certain. “You’re easy to overlook.”

My fingers curl tighter around the strap of my bag.

“At least here, we’re capable of making real change,” Peter says quietly. “Some of us are willing to do what’s necessary to put monsters away for good.”

The words land exactly where he intends them to.

My throat tightens.

He reaches for my coat and bag and presses them firmly into my chest like the conversation is already over.

“Go home,” he says. “Be back for eight.”

I press my lips together, but my body has already started moving.

My feet don’t feel steady beneath me as I cross the room. The blood on Peter’s knuckles keeps flashing in the corner of my vision every time I blink.

Death row.

The words drag brutally through me.

Two weeks.