I had to lie to three different people just to get access to the sublevel.
First, I claimed I was part of an internal audit team doing spot-checks on biometric compliance logs. Then I said I was part of the emotional development unit working on comparative response analysis. The third person didn't even ask questions—just gave me a temporary access badge and looked away fast, like he knew better than to get involved.
The building was quiet at this hour. Too quiet.
The kind of silence that didn't belong in a place full of living creatures.
My boots made no sound on the polished floor as I followed the path I'd memorized from Nyx's pacing in my head. Past the labs. Past the sterile holding chambers. Down a short hall with flickering lights.
And there it was.
Observation Room B-7.
A panel of glass lined one side of the wall. The lights were dimmed, but the glow from the monitor arrays painted the room in cold blue light. A single chair sat in front of the one-way glass.
No one else was in there.
Not yet.
I stepped inside, pulled the door shut, and crossed the room.
And I looked through the glass.
Nine was already in place.
Stripped to nothing but the thin restraint belt looped around his waist. His hands were shackled above his head with soft, padded cuffs that were tight enough to keep him still, but not tight enough to leave bruises. Not yet.
His legs were spread, one knee bent where it had been tethered loosely to the bench. His chest was rising and falling fast, too fast, and his hair stuck to his damp skin like a shroud.
But it was his scent that hit me hardest.
Even through the reinforced glass and filtered vents, I could smell it.
Heat.
Raw, spiraling, unbearable.
It clawed at my senses with all the subtlety of a firestorm.
Nyx nearly lost her mind.
They drugged him again. They didn't even wait. He was just starting to recover—
The door on the other side of the chamber opened, and an instructor walked in.
Clipboard. Gloves. That usual, too-casual smile.
He approached Nine like he was dealing with furniture.
No greeting. No warning. No explanation.
Just a hand reaching out to tilt Nine's chin up.
Nine flinched.
The motion was slight, but it made my chest cave in.
His eyes didn't meet the man's.
They darted toward the corner—where the cameras were.
Then toward the door.
And finally—
Toward the glass.
Like he knew.
Like he could feel me watching.
My hand pressed to the window.
Just once.
Just a whisper of contact.
He shivered.
The instructor didn't notice.
He was already moving on—adjusting the restraints. Writing notes.
Then came the worst part.
He stepped between Nine's legs and knelt slightly, reaching for something beneath the bench.
Nine tried to move.
His legs twitched—more reflex than resistance.
But the chains held.
The instructor stood again, holding a syringe.
One quick injection in the inner thigh.
Nine made a sound. Not loud. Not even painful.
Just a quiet, startled whimper.
And then the scent spiked.
So thick it turned my stomach.
His body arched—almost involuntarily—against the restraints.
Not for pleasure.
Not for want.
Just instinct.
Overloaded. Overstimulated.
Burning.
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek.
Nyx was howling in my skull.
Let me out. I'll kill him. I'll tear this whole place apart.
The instructor circled him slowly, observing.
Jotting notes.
Then leaned down and whispered something into Nine's ear.
I couldn't hear it.
Didn't need to.
Because Nine's eyes shut tight.
And his whole body trembled.
His scent pulsed once. Shame. Pain.
He tried to breathe, but it came out as a whimper.
The instructor smirked, gave his thigh a soft pat, and walked out.
Just like that.
Left him.
Alone.
Panting.
Shaking.
Burning from the inside out with no way to stop it.
My fists slammed into the wall.
"Fuck," I hissed through my teeth. "Fuck—fuck—fuck—"
He was still shifting on the bench, eyes glassy and half-lidded. His lips parted like he wanted to speak but didn't have the energy. His legs twitched with every pulse of the drugs in his system.
He looked lost.
No.
He looked abandoned.
And he was.
Because I couldn't reach him.
Couldn't touch him.
Couldn't do anything.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and whispered his name.
"Nine."
He didn't hear me.
But he turned his head.
And he looked at the window.
And I swear he felt it.
Because he closed his eyes and breathed in.
Like he was pulling the last of my scent out of the air.
And for one moment, the desperation in him softened.
Just a little.
Not gone.
Not soothed.
But not alone.