I laughed.
It startled even me, echoing off the cold walls like something broken loose from a cage. Not the kind of laugh that held any real amusement. No. This one scraped the back of my throat raw—half-choked and half-snarling. It tasted bitter, metallic. The kind of sound you made when the world spun so far out of control that all you could do was laugh or shatter.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, as if I could shove the sound back in. Silence it before someone heard. Before someone remembered I wasn't supposed to have the capacity to feel this much.
Too late for that.
I looked down at him—at Nine—and the laugh died in my chest like it had never existed at all.
What was I even doing?
I talked about waging war on this place. About tearing it down, brick by brick, bone by bone. I imagined fire curling through the hallways. Imagined dragging every monster that walked these sterile floors into the sunlight and watching them burn.
But that's all it was. Talk.
The kind of talk that made me feel like I had power. Like I had agency. Like I wasn't just another cog in their machine.
Because the truth? The disgusting, inescapable truth?
I couldn't do a damn thing.
Not really.
They owned me.
They owned all of us.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into the flesh of my palms.
What would I even do? March into the boss's office and throw down a gauntlet? Demand Nine's release? Threaten to burn the place down with what? My bare hands?
They'd laugh in my face. Or worse—smile politely, nod thoughtfully, and then send someone to slit my throat in my sleep.
The illusion of control was the most dangerous thing they ever gave us. More intoxicating than food, than warmth, than any twisted form of comfort they doled out like currency.
They let you believe you had choices.
And then they reminded you who you really were. What you really were.
A resource.
A body with a use. A function. A number on a list.
I was no different.
Not really.
Even when I told myself otherwise.
I walked these halls in shadows. I whispered rebellion in the dark. I plotted, I snarled, I bit. But in the end, I always came crawling back.
Because I had nowhere else to go.
Because I had Mira to protect. The shelter. The girls. The scraps of humanity I'd managed to gather and guard with my teeth bared and back hunched like a feral dog in a trap.
Because now I had Nine.
And the sick part?
They knew it.
They knew I wouldn't walk away. That I'd sell pieces of myself to keep what little I had left. That they could dangle him in front of me like bait and I'd chase it every time, leash or not.
They'd already done it.
And I'd played right into their hands.
I let out a breath that shook, that hurt. I leaned back against the wall of the med room, letting the chill seep into my spine like it could freeze the fury before it boiled over.
"Burn the place down," I muttered under my breath. "Yeah. Sure."
My voice dripped with mockery. Aimed squarely at myself.
I'd said those words to myself a thousand times. In the dead of night. In the mirror. In my mind while blood dried under my fingernails and guilt pooled at my feet.
But they were just that—words.
Because if I lit the match, I'd be incinerating everything I'd bled to protect.
And gods help me… I wasn't ready to lose all of it.
I wasn't ready to lose him.
Especially not him.
Nine made a small sound—so faint I almost missed it. Not a groan. Not a word. Just the barest shift in breath, like some piece of him stirred behind the curtain of unconsciousness.
My heart leapt and then immediately dropped again.
False hope. Or worse—wishful thinking.
I couldn't afford to crack now. Not with eyes on me. Not when surveillance could be watching from any angle, just waiting for proof that I wasn't stable enough to hold my position anymore.
Because they'd take everything if I showed weakness.
They'd take him.
They'd already tried.
A beat passed.
Then another.
I forced myself to move—slowly, mechanically. I stood up from the chair I'd pulled beside his cot, legs prickling with the sting of too much stillness. My body protested, but I didn't care.
Movement was better than silence. It made me feel alive.
I went to the sink tucked into the corner of the med room. The faucet squeaked before water ran, cold and clear. I splashed it on my face, trying to wash away the expression I hadn't realized I'd been wearing. My reflection stared back at me from the dented steel—eyes too wide, jaw too tight, something unrecognizable sitting just behind the pupils.
I looked like a ghost of myself.
Or maybe this was who I really was all along.
A survivor. A liar. A hypocrite.
Someone who said "I'll burn it all down," and then stayed exactly where they were.
I turned off the water.
Dried my hands on my pants. No towels in here. Probably by design.
My gaze flicked back to Nine.
Still motionless.
Still mine.
For now.
I didn't know what I was going to do. Not really.
But I knew I couldn't stay like this—caught between fury and futility. It would eat me alive. And I couldn't afford to let them see me unravel.
So I forced my spine straight.
I smoothed my expression.
And I walked out of the room.