The next session was scheduled like nothing had happened.
I knew better.
The hallway felt colder, the fluorescent lights harsher. Everything echoed—my footsteps, my heartbeat, Nyx's low growl simmering just beneath my skin.
Nine's door opened with its usual mechanical sigh. He was already kneeling in the center of the room when I stepped inside.
Back straight. Head slightly bowed. Hands resting on his thighs.
But this time, he looked up immediately when I entered.
And something shifted.
It wasn't dramatic. Just a slight hesitation in his posture. A flicker of something behind his eyes that didn't vanish as quickly as it usually did.
He remembered.
And he was watching me.
"Hi," I said, softly.
He nodded.
I sat across from him, letting the silence settle. I didn't rush into the drills, didn't pull out the flashcards or emotion prompts. Not yet.
"How are you feeling today?"
He blinked. "Ready."
The word made my stomach turn.
But I nodded. "Okay. We'll go slow."
I pulled a card from the deck. A smiling face.
He looked at it. Then at me. Then pointed.
"Why?" I asked.
His lips parted. "You're here."
My breath caught.
Not because it was profound.
But because it was real.
He hadn't been taught that line.
He had chosen it.
Nyx stirred. Ours is learning.
I smiled—just a little—and set the card aside.
We worked through more prompts, but I barely registered them. His attention was different today. Focused. Curious. He tilted his head when I spoke, reached for the flashcards before I offered them.
He even asked me a question.
"What's outside?"
I blinked. "Outside?"
He nodded.
"Like… the facility?"
Another nod.
I swallowed. "A lot of noise. People. Light. Weather." I hesitated. "Freedom."
He tilted his head again. "Like you?"
I shook mine slowly. "Not like me. Not yet."
He went quiet again. But the question lingered in the room like dust.
I reached forward, letting my fingers hover near his.
"I'm going to help you understand all of it," I said. "But you have to stay with me, okay?"
His hand brushed mine.
Just barely.
And he whispered, "Okay."
We didn't stop there.
He asked about other things, too—things I didn't expect.
"What do you eat?"
"Where do you sleep?"
"Do you have a number?"
The questions came slowly, spaced out like drifting clouds. But they were there. He was there.
I answered all of them. Not with pity. Not like he was a child. But with honesty, even when it made my voice catch or forced me to look away.
"I sleep in a room that locks from the inside," I told him. "I eat what they give me. And no—I don't have a number. Just a name."
His fingers moved slightly. "Name," he repeated.
I leaned in. "You have one too."
He looked at me, puzzled.
"You're Nine," I said. "That's what I call you."
He tilted his head. "Because of the label."
"Yes. But not just that."
I reached for his hand again, and this time he didn't flinch.
"It's yours," I said. "It means something now. It's the first piece of you that no one else gets to rewrite."
He stared at our hands. Then he said, "Nine."
But it sounded different this time.
Like it belonged to him.
The camera clicked in the corner.
I didn't look at it.
Neither did he.
We sat in silence for a while longer, legs folded, knees almost touching. The session was technically over, but I didn't leave.
I talked instead.
I told him about a cat we used to feed behind the shelter. A wild thing with a missing ear and too much attitude. I told him about Mira, though I still never used her name. Just "a small one I used to protect." I told him about my favorite sky—the one just before rain.
He didn't ask questions this time. He just listened.
But he smiled once. Slight. Tentative.
And I felt it like a spark in a dark room.
"You're doing well," I said finally, brushing my thumb along the top of his hand.
He blinked slowly.
"Not because you're obedient," I added. "But because you're starting to choose."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't look away either.
That was enough.
For today, it was enough.