The world they built for people like me didn't make room for guilt.
Not the real kind. Not the kind that sits heavy behind your ribs, pressing inward with every breath like a slowly tightening band. Not the kind that takes shape in your throat and coils there, too stubborn to be swallowed, too dangerous to speak.
But that's what I carried now.
Every hour. Every day. Every time I stepped into a room and saw Nine kneeling on that cold floor—compliant, beautiful, silent—I felt it tighten more.
I hated it.
I hated the way the instructors talked about him when they thought I wasn't listening.
Asset. Unit. Model Nine. Omega variant.
Like he was just a product, a prototype for something bigger and better. Not someone. Not a boy with moonlit hair and violet eyes and a bond that hummed inside me like a secret I didn't dare name.
I hated smiling when they joked.
Hated laughing when they teased.
Hated sitting there pretending to be one of them.
Because if I didn't—if I flinched or challenged or looked too disgusted—they'd pull me off the project again. They'd reassign me. Replace me. Punish him.
And that wasn't something I could survive a second time.
So I did what I had to.
I stayed.
Played the part.
Even when it burned.
Even when it meant letting them treat him like a thing.
The first group session after my reinstatement was worse than I'd expected.
There were three other instructors assigned to the emotional development sector. All of them higher-ranking than me. All of them men who enjoyed watching their subjects squirm.
We were brought into the mirrored chamber where the hybrids sat in a semicircle on the floor—Nine among them, poised and silent. He didn't look at me. Not directly. But I felt his attention like a pull under my skin.
"You'll lead the prompts today," one of the men said, handing me the folder.
I didn't answer. Just nodded and took it.
The first card was a basic one: empathy identification.
I read the scenario aloud, voice steady. "A child loses their toy. What do you feel?"
One of the fox hybrids blinked. "Nothing."
Another laughed.
Nine didn't speak.
The instructors watched. One leaned toward me. "They're not supposed to actually care. We just want them to fake it convincingly."
I nodded again. "Understood."
Liar, Nyx hissed.
The next hour passed in jagged fragments. Prompts. Reactions. Corrections. Laughter when one of the hybrids said something wrong.
One instructor snapped his fingers at Nine. "Hey. Pretty one. Smile for us."
Nine obeyed.
It was mechanical. Practiced.
But the way his jaw clenched—barely, subtly—told me everything.
"Still looks like a doll," another said, voice mock-thoughtful. "Do you think he even knows what he's doing when he smiles? Or is it just muscle memory by now?"
"Bet he was programmed with a few good tricks," a third added. "Boss must be keeping the best for himself."
They laughed.
I laughed, too. Short. Hollow.
Nine's expression didn't change, but his posture did—just slightly. Shoulders too tight. Fingers twitching in his lap like he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong.
"Can we test him?" one instructor said, turning to me with a smirk. "See if he responds better to physical prompts?"
I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. "Sure," I said, because what else could I say?
One of them walked up behind Nine and brushed his hand down his back.
Nine flinched. Slightly. Automatically.
The man laughed. "Sensitive, isn't he?"
Another leaned in, fingers skimming down Nine's neck. "I heard he purrs if you touch the right spot."
More laughter.
More comments.
One grabbed Nine's chin and tilted his face side to side like he was inspecting a mannequin. "They really did a number on this one. Look at that symmetry."
The other chuckled. "Bet he doesn't even know what half of this means. Just sits there and takes it. Maybe we should teach him a thing or two."
"You volunteering?" someone joked.
"Only if I get to go second."
Their laughter echoed against the sterile walls, a sick kind of harmony.
And when they looked at me expectantly—waiting for me to join in—I forced my body to move. Forced my hand to brush lightly against Nine's arm like it was just another joke.
His eyes darted to mine.
Confused.
Hurt.
But he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't pull away.
He just sat there, waiting.
Waiting for me to stop.
One of reached out - caressing Nine's inner thigh. "See, he doesn't even react anymore. This one's ready. Prime material."
"Bet the boss'll be passing him around soon. Get their money's worth."
I didn't know who said it. I didn't care.
Then—worse still—one of them stood, walked behind Nine, and without warning grabbed his arm and yanked him backward.
He didn't fight it. Didn't resist.
He stumbled, landing on his knees in front of the instructor.
"Let's see how well he takes orders," the man said.
Before I could react, he smacked Nine's bottom hard enough that it echoed in the room.
Nine flinched—visibly this time.
He didn't cry out.
Didn't run.
But he curled in on himself slightly.
Like a kicked dog who didn't understand what it had done wrong.
Nyx screamed in my head. I WILL KILL THEM. I WILL RIP OUT HIS—
I pressed my nails into my palm, grounding myself in pain. Keeping her locked down.
Because I couldn't save him if I lost control now.
"I think that's enough," I said, voice low.
The instructor looked at me, raised a brow, and then—finally—let go of Nine's arm.
"Just giving him some practical education," he said with a grin.
The others laughed again.
I didn't.
Nine didn't move.
Didn't look up.
Just knelt there, humiliated and hollow.
And when the session finally ended, and the others filed out still chuckling over drinks they planned to have later, I stayed.
Waited until the last man was gone.
Then I stepped behind Nine.
Leaned down.
And pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
He froze.
Then—slowly—he leaned back into me.
Just a little.
Just enough.
And I knew he had already forgiven me.
Even if I never did.