I didn't stop to change. Didn't pause to breathe. The second the van returned to the facility and the back doors swung open, I was already moving.
I needed to see him.
I told myself it was routine. That I had to check on Nine. That it was part of my job. That maybe he was waiting for me like he always did—kneeling, quiet, watching.
But that wasn't the truth.
The truth was that I needed to see his face. To remind myself that there were still pieces of this world that hadn't been fully eaten by rot.
The hallway stretched long and empty as I walked it, the cameras blinking red in the corners. The security guard at Nine's wing barely glanced up before scanning me in.
I made it two steps into the observation corridor before I froze.
The light over his door was red.
Active session.
No one had told me there was one scheduled. No one had given me a notice.
My pulse spiked as I moved toward the viewing panel. Just a glance, I told myself. Just a check-in.
I wish I hadn't looked.
The room was lit harshly, white and clinical.
Nine was on the floor. Not kneeling.
Pinned.
An instructor—face half-shadowed, expression cold—had Nine face-down beneath him. One hand was fisted in Nine's white hair, yanking his head back, the other shoved between Nine's legs, holding him down with obscene intimacy.
The instructor's hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts. There was no attempt at subtlety. No hesitation. His pants were unfastened, pushed just low enough to do what he came to do. Nine's own uniform had been stripped down to his waist, his soft body pressed hard against the padded floor.
His thighs bore fresh red marks.
There was no struggling.
Nine wasn't resisting.
He just lay there.
Silent. Blank-eyed. Submissive.
Like this was another drill. Another test.
His face was turned to the wall, but I saw the tightness in his jaw. The small tremble in his fingers. The tension in his shoulders that tried and failed to vanish beneath the weight pressing into him.
No.
It tore through me like shrapnel.
I slammed a hand against the glass. "STOP!"
They couldn't hear me. The room was sealed. Just another observation chamber. Just another training session.
Nyx screamed in my skull.
They're breaking him. They're breaking what's OURS. Let me out, LET ME OUT—
She was rabid now, clawing, snarling, tearing at the walls of my mind.
Rip his throat out, Rhea. Tear his spine from his back. Kill him.
I stood frozen.
I didn't cry.
I never cried.
But my fists were clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms, drawing blood. My breathing came shallow. Controlled.
The instructor groaned low and leaned in, lips brushing against Nine's ear as he whispered something I couldn't hear—but Nine's body jerked.
Not from pain.
From instinct.
From obedience.
He arched slightly, as if that would make it easier.
As if he wanted to be good.
This is what they made him for, Nyx whispered, no longer shouting. Her voice shook. He thinks this is love.
I didn't move.
Because if I did—I wouldn't stop.
I would kill him.
And then they'd put someone else in his place.
And maybe next time, Nine wouldn't survive it.
So I watched.
And promised myself I would burn this entire place to the ground.