Page 51 of Played By Design

Julian has shifted in his chair, turned toward Kain now, one elbow on the table.

Kain’s posture has opened, his shoulders relaxed, one hand gesturing as he speaks, the other resting near the touchpad on his laptop.

The easy familiarity between them suggests they’ve known each other for years.

They’ve known each other for three weeks.

I open the binder again.

Page one.

SENTINEL CORE LOOP: Player declares role →

I slam it shut.

My phone comes out of my pocket, still open to the photo gallery. The image of me beside the Sentinel model fills the screen.

I linger on it.

Then my attention shifts to the glass.

Julian’s hand moves, coming to rest on the back of Kain’s chair. His fingers drum a light, absent rhythm on the headrest.

I set the phone down.

The binder lies open on my lap, pages splayed, the first line of text blurring as my focus refuses to hold.

SENTINEL CORE LOOP: Player declares role →

Declares role.

I am the Sentinel. I speak for those without a voice.

Which is good, because if I tried to speak right now, nothing would come out. My throat is tight, my jaw clenched so hard the muscles along my temples start to ache.

The soggy-fry feeling from Kain’s basement has returned, but worse, roiling in my stomach, stubbornly refusing to digest.

I close the binder and set it on the couch beside me.

Pick up my phone.

Put it down.

The archive interface glows, untouched. A cursor blinks above a directory tree I’ve waited fifteen years to explore.

It blinks and blinks, and my hand won’t move.

10

The streetlights slide across the windshield in steady beats, and I count them to give my brain something to hold on to.

One. Two. Three.

Four. Five. Six.

My hands rest in my lap, my phone still in my pocket where I put it after we left Lantern Key, and silence fills the car.

Kain glances over, his attention on my profile longer than is safe, before he returns his focus to the road.