The girl's name was Lina.
I knew it because it was etched into the silver plate on the band around her neck—LINA, followed by a string of numbers. Her eyes were large and golden, framed by thick lashes that almost touched the tops of her cheeks. Her ears twitched every few seconds, feathered and narrow, like something between an owl and a lynx. She couldn't have been older than fifteen.
She smiled when I walked in. A small, eager thing. It made something twist in my gut.
"I've never been out of the dorms before," she said, voice soft but chipper. "Do I get to meet someone today?"
I nodded once.
Her smile widened. "A handler said I was pretty enough now."
I didn't answer. Just signed the clipboard the technician handed me and stepped aside for her to follow.
Lina practically skipped behind me, bare feet silent on the tile. Her gait was smooth, too smooth. Engineered. Every inch of her was perfected in that uncanny way the others had been—too symmetrical, too balanced, like beauty pushed past nature into something clinical.
"I thought I was going to be a hunter," she whispered as we walked. "They said I was too delicate, though. So I'm trying this path instead."
Path.
Like this was some career choice.
I kept walking.
The route was direct—hall B7, corridor three, Suite 7B. It was a soundproofed client room. One of the nicer ones. That fact felt like a threat.
She kept talking.
"What's he like? My match?" she asked. "Do you know him?"
"No," I said.
She paused. "Have you done this before?"
I didn't reply.
We reached the door. I scanned my ID, keyed in the client code. The lock clicked open.
Lina walked inside without hesitation.
The man waiting on the other side looked clean. Expensive suit. Silver rings on his fingers. He smiled too easily, the way predators do when the prey walks in willing.
"Lovely," he said, to no one in particular.
The door closed behind them.
I stood outside. Waited. I don't know why. Protocol didn't require it.
Then I heard it.
The shuffle. The pause. A question in her voice—then confusion. A crack in her childlike curiosity.
Then the sound shifted.
Breath catching. A stifled cry.
Silence.
Then again—rougher this time.
A high, startled whimper—quickly cut off.
I didn't wait to hear the rest.
I turned, fast.
Made it halfway down the hall before the bile climbed up the back of my throat.
There was a small waste bin by the water cooler. I barely made it in time.
It wasn't dramatic. No heaving sobs. No tears.
Just my body rejecting what I'd done.
Again. And again.
Until there was nothing left.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and stayed crouched beside the bin, the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing in my ears.
Nyx was silent.
Even she didn't have a joke for this.
Eventually, I stood. I washed my hands. I fixed my face in the reflection of a steel panel.
Someone would come for the report soon. Ask if the client was satisfied.
And I would nod. Sign my name. Pretend I wasn't listening when that girl's voice broke in half.
There was no room left for pretending.
Only silence. And the sound of the door closing again behind me.