They punished him for it.
I knew it the moment I walked past the infirmary wing and saw the red-coded alert outside his door. I wasn't supposed to be there. I wasn't supposed to even know he was in recovery.
But I'd seen it enough times to recognize the signs.
He'd been hurt.
Deliberately.
For disobedience, they'd say. For emotional instability. For failing to comply with handler standards.
But I knew the truth.
They had punished him because I had said no.
Because I hadn't wanted to use him like they did. Because I hadn't played my part in the system.
And they saw it as rejection.
Not just of him.
Of the entire structure they'd built.
So they took it out on him.
The guilt sat heavy in my chest like iron. It clawed at my ribs every time I tried to sleep. It followed me down hallways, into meetings, through assignments. I couldn't look at the cameras without wondering if he was behind one. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror without seeing his face reflected back—confused, scared, trying to understand why the only person who had ever treated him like he mattered had pushed him away.
I asked about him once. Quietly. Casually. Just enough to seem curious. Not concerned.
The answer came back clipped. "He's recovering. Still compliant."
Still compliant.
As if that was all that mattered.
When I was finally allowed to see him again, they didn't tell me in advance. They just added his room back to my schedule like nothing had happened.
I knew better than to run when I saw it.
But my hands shook the whole way there.
The door opened. The room was the same.
But Nine wasn't.
He sat in the farthest corner, not kneeling, not poised—just curled into himself. Knees drawn to his chest. Eyes wide and unblinking.
He looked up when I entered.
And I saw it.
Fear.
Real, visceral fear.
Not of pain.
Not of the instructors.
Of me.
My breath caught. "Nine… it's me."
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
I took a slow step forward. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
His shoulders trembled.
"I didn't say no because I hated you. I said no because I wanted you to be safe."
Nothing.
I crouched down, keeping my voice steady. "You didn't do anything wrong."
His voice was so small I almost didn't hear it.
"Am I broken?"
The guilt tore through me all over again.
"No," I said. "You're not broken. You're not wrong. You're just… learning. And they punished you because of me."
He flinched at the word.
I stopped speaking.
I didn't reach for him. Didn't move closer.
He needed space.
But the ache in my chest told me I didn't know if I'd ever be allowed close again.
Nyx's voice came softly.
They're winning.
And I had no choice but to believe her.
He didn't speak again for the rest of the session.
I stayed in the room as long as I could without pushing. Sitting across from him, pretending it was normal. Like we could go back to the first few days, when silence didn't feel so heavy. When we were both still pretending it could be different.
But there was no pretending now.
Every few minutes, his eyes would flick toward me, then dart away like he was expecting me to lash out. And when I shifted even slightly—just to ease the pressure in my knees—he tensed like he expected pain.
They'd gotten to him.
And worse, they'd made me the threat.
After I left the room, I went straight to the facilities log terminal and scrolled through the training records. I found them within minutes—three back-to-back sessions labeled "Correctional Reinforcement."
Instructor ID: 0167.
Duration: ninety minutes each.
Purpose: Behavioral recalibration following emotional response to subject-handler interaction.
I nearly tore the monitor from the wall.
I wanted to scream. To destroy something. To throw open every door in this facility and drag those bastards into the light.
But all I could do was walk away.
Because screaming would only get him hurt again.
So I carried it.
The rage. The guilt. The useless, choking helplessness that came from knowing I had let them hurt him because I had thought I could protect him by playing along.
It wasn't enough.
Not anymore.
The next day, they gave me a new assignment.
Not a reassignment. Just an addition.
A new hybrid. A younger one. Female-coded. Barely past initial development stages. I was supposed to "help facilitate emotional consistency."
Which meant the same thing it always meant:
Break her in slow.
I stared at the file in silence for a long time. I didn't say yes. Didn't say no.
Just walked away.
Back to my quarters.
Where I sat in the dark and thought about a boy with moon-pale hair and violet eyes who had asked me if I wanted him.
And had believed that not wanting him was the same as throwing him away.
Nyx didn't speak that night.
She didn't have to.
I knew what she was thinking.
What I was thinking.
That this place was killing him. And if I didn't find a way to stop it soon—
There'd be nothing left to save.