I didn't knock.
Didn't wait.
I walked into his office like I belonged there — like I hadn't spent the last night watching my mate writhe on a bench, drugged out of his mind, too obedient to cry.
The boss was seated behind his sleek, steel-trimmed desk. The room smelled like polished leather and quiet threat. His attention was on the screen in front of him — columns of data streaming across a holographic display.
He didn't look up.
I didn't care.
I stopped three feet from his desk and cleared my throat.
That got his attention.
He raised an eyebrow, fingers steepling. "Miss Nyx. You're early."
"For what?" I asked, voice flat.
"Everything," he said mildly. "But especially interruptions."
I didn't rise to it.
"I want access to Observation Room B-7. During the next scheduled cycle."
That made him pause.
He tilted his head, appraising. "Ah. You've heard about the new protocol."
"I've read the documentation," I said.
"Which means you've also seen the response metrics. Quite promising."
I didn't answer that.
Because if I opened my mouth to speak my real opinion, I wasn't sure I'd stop.
He smiled thinly. "And what exactly do you want to do in B-7, Miss Nyx?"
"I want to study him," I said. "The omega."
There was a beat of silence.
The boss leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was one of his puzzles.
"You already study him," he said. "Every afternoon session, yes? Emotional articulation, verbal mimicry. All of that is well within your purview."
"I want to study his instinctive responses," I said calmly. "In a more heightened state. Emotional pliability is one thing. Biological reactivity is another."
"And you believe you're qualified to observe both?"
"I believe I'm the only one he responds to authentically."
That was only half a lie.
The other half — the bond — was something he still didn't know.
Couldn't know.
Because the second he found out, Nine would be taken from me. Caged even tighter. Turned into a tool with purpose instead of a person with a choice.
The boss drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk.
"I have instructors on rotation who are trained in bio-emotive monitoring," he said slowly. "What makes you think your input is needed?"
"Because I've watched him mimic pleasure and pain. I've seen how he masks confusion. I've seen what it looks like when he doesn't know he's being watched."
He smiled at that.
Not because he was convinced.
Because he was entertained.
"You want to be in the room," he said, "so you can see what breaks him."
My throat tightened.
But I didn't flinch.
I gave the smallest nod. "Yes."
He tapped something on his screen. Brought up a timetable. Data. Camera feeds.
His eyes flicked to mine.
"You know we push harder when observers are present."
I nodded again.
"You know we don't pause the protocol."
"I'm aware."
"And if he cries, if he begs, if he—"
"I won't intervene," I lied.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then—
"Permission granted," he said.
Just like that.
He waved a hand toward the door.
"You'll be present for the next session. Your badge will be updated with clearance by the hour."
I didn't thank him.
Didn't nod.
Didn't smile.
I just turned and walked out.
Because if I'd stayed one second longer, I might've lunged across the desk and torn out his throat.