The next morning, I asked a question I already knew I wouldn't like the answer to.
"How exactly are hybrids trained here?"
It was over breakfast. I was seated at the long steel table again, a different cluster of low-tier enforcers and instructors flanking me. The food on my tray sat untouched—congealing in a puddle of something grey and protein-rich.
One of the instructors across from me looked up from his mug. He was older than the others, wiry and sun-tanned, with a thick scar running from the edge of his lip to his ear. "Why?" he asked bluntly. "Something wrong with yours?"
My throat tightened. "No. Not… wrong. I just want to understand. I'm meant to help with his emotional responses. But I don't know how much—what he's been through."
A woman beside him, younger, snorted. "You're one of the handlers from Cell A, right? One of the hybrids made for high-value placement?"
I nodded, already regretting this.
"They don't tell you much," she said. "You're not cleared for the baseline work. Most of us come in during the conditioning stages. That's the real fun."
Fun.
My fingers curled around my fork so tightly it creaked.
The older man set his mug down and leaned in a little. "You want details? You really want to know how we train the pretty ones?" he asked, voice low, casual.
I didn't answer. Just held his stare.
He took that as a yes.
"First month," he said, "we break them."
The word hit like a slap.
"They're isolated. Lights on twenty-four-seven. No sleep unless permitted. Food's rationed, water controlled. Sensory deprivation for hours. Then overstimulation—blaring sounds, flashing lights. We alternate. Shock the system. Break the rhythm. The body learns helplessness."
He said it like he was listing off weather conditions. Like it was nothing.
"They get conditioned to touch through compliance drills. Praise if they stay still while we handle them. Punishment if they flinch. Some cry. Some beg. Most stop doing either after a while."
The woman laughed under her breath. "We had one who kept biting. Wouldn't stop. Took a week in the chair to fix that."
I couldn't breathe.
I forced the words out. "The chair?"
"You haven't seen it?" the older man asked, raising a brow. "Metal restraints. Injects a paralytic so they can't shift or move. Then we run the drill—projection screens, voice triggers, obedience sequences. We loop commands until they stop resisting."
"Daily reinforcement's important," the woman added. "They're caned in the morning, thighs and hands. Keeps them soft. Submissive. They associate pain with the start of the day—sets the tone. Makes them easier to direct."
The man chuckled darkly. "Routine's everything. Some of them start flinching just from the sound of boots walking in."
I didn't realize I'd stood until my chair scraped the floor.
No one else flinched.
The woman arched an eyebrow. "You asked."
I didn't respond. Couldn't.
"You're lucky," she added. "The one you've got—he's one of the cleaner batches. Didn't fight back much. Pretty thing. Real pliable."
I turned and walked out.
I didn't make it far.
The hallway just beyond the mess felt like it was closing in on me, walls too tight, lights too bright. I braced a hand against the cool paneling, breathing hard, willing Nyx to stay calm.
She wasn't calm.
She was growling.
"They did that to him," I whispered aloud. "They made him like this. They broke him on purpose."
Her fury answered like fire. They hurt what's ours.
I felt sick. My stomach rolled, bile rising. I hadn't eaten, and I didn't want to. The image of Nine sitting so obediently on the floor, silent and blank and beautiful, played over and over in my mind.
That wasn't calmness.
That was damage.
They'd caged him inside his own skin.
And worse—he didn't even know.
He thought he was being good.
Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I forced them down. There were cameras here. Always cameras.
I wiped my face roughly with the sleeve of my jacket and started walking again.
I needed to see him.
Now.