Page 66 of Somno Slave

The thought comes too quickly, too automatically, like it’s already been repeating before I caught it.

Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened.

This is just another day.

“Sorry I’m late,” the words already thinning as they leave me. My hand drags over my coat, pushing rain from the fabric more for something to do than anything else. “There were no taxis.”

No one answers. The silence sits a moment too long to be nothing.

Sean leans back in his chair, coffee in hand, brows lifting slightly. “Well, it worked for me.”

He’s looking at Mike like I never spoke at all.

Mike’s face reddens as he turns back to the machine. His palm hits the side once. Then again, harder this time. A sharp, hollow thud echoes off the counter.

“It’s not working,” he snaps.

Sean doesn’t even look up, just takes a slow sip of his coffee like he’s letting Mike run himself out. Then, with a quiet exhale, he leans forward and presses a button. The machine hums, then splutters to life. Coffee starts to pour.

Mike straightens, staring at it. “How did you do that?”

“I told you,” he mutters. “It’s not broken.”

The door opens behind me.

Peter steps in, a brief nod to us, before moving straight past. He doesn’t slow.

“Anything?” He’s already at the front by the time the word lands, attention fixed on the screen, hands resting lightly on the back of the chair in front of him.

Mike straightens. “No.”

“Nothing?” He presses.

Sean shakes his head. “We spaced it out. Tried shorter gaps, longer ones. Same every time.”

Peter hums.

I don’t want to look at Deogal straight away, but my eyes lift without permission. The sight of him settles under my skin in a way that feels immediately wrong. He’s exactly where he was left, positioned with that same unshaken ease, like the hours between then and now have simply...failed.

The bruising is worse today, darkening beneath the electrodes, spreading unevenly under the skin in a dull purple that should read as damage. But if anything, it sharpens him, makes the lines of his body harder. I hate the way my focus tightens in response to it.

Heat follows it.

I inhale, the breath catching in a way that doesn’t belong here.

I know what I’m thinking.

I shut it down fast.

My gaze drops to the table instead, forcing it into something clinical: Injuries. Response. Endurance.

Not—

I don’t finish that thought, but I look up again.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t acknowledged the room. The glass. Us. And I... I want him to.

The thought slips in before I can stop it.