The hall outside Nine's quarters was dark.
Not the usual kind of dim that came with night-cycle lighting. This was different—heavier, quieter, like the walls themselves had decided to mute their own breathing. I moved slowly, careful not to trigger the automated sensor. I didn't want anyone to know I was here.
Inside his room, a single low light was glowing by the far wall. Just enough to see his silhouette curled up on the mat.
He wasn't asleep.
I knew the shape of his stillness now. Knew when he was resting and when he was simply waiting for something to happen. When I pushed the door open and stepped inside, he didn't flinch. Didn't sit up.
But he didn't relax either.
"Hey," I whispered.
He turned his head slowly.
His eyes met mine, soft and expectant.
Then he did something that froze me to the spot.
He sat up.
Crawled to the far wall.
And picked up a cane.
He held it out to me—two hands, gently, almost reverently—as if it were a gift.
My breath caught.
"I can take it now," he said softly. "I'm good at it."
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
He thought…
He thought—
"They said it helps," he continued, voice still so damn calm. "If you do it first. It makes the rest easier."
I reached out—not for the cane, but for him.
But he mistook the movement.
He knelt and turned around.
Presented his thighs.
Like he was proud.
Like this was normal.
"I won't cry," he promised. "I'm better now."
My throat closed.
Nyx's growl echoed like a storm in my skull.
They did this.
They made him think this is what we want.
I knelt beside him slowly. Gently pushed the cane away. He blinked up at me, confused.
"They always start with that," he said. "Sometimes three times. Sometimes five. Then it's easier."
Easier.
Pavlovian.
They were conditioning him.
Rewarding his pain tolerance with abuse. Teaching his body to expect one with the other. Breaking the boundary between suffering and submission until he didn't know how to tell them apart.
"Do you want me to undress?" he asked quietly.
My heart cracked clean down the middle.
I took his face in my hands, gently, firmly. "No," I said. "No, baby. Not ever. Not for me."
He frowned, like I'd said something incorrect.
"But… they said—"
"I don't care what they said."
His expression faltered.
"They said I was made for it," he whispered. "They said I'd be wanted more if I didn't fight."
I pulled him into my arms and held him like I was the only barrier left between him and the world.
"No one gets to want you like that."
Not while I was still breathing.
Not while I could still fight.