Nine didn't ask at first.
Not when he woke. Not when I helped him wash, carefully wiping the sweat from his temples, rinsing the last remnants of slick from his skin with cloths I warmed myself. Not when I fed him by hand because his fingers still trembled too much to hold the spoon.
Not even when I coaxed him into clean clothes and held him while he drifted again in and out of sleep.
He didn't ask.
But he watched.
Quiet. Distant. Observing everything I did like he was memorizing it. Like if he could just understand why I was doing all of this, it would make sense of the night before.
It wouldn't.
Nothing could.
And when he finally spoke, it was like his voice was something breakable he'd dug out from under layers of confusion and pain.
"I said something wrong."
I paused in the middle of brushing out his hair. His voice had been so small, I almost missed it.
I set the brush down.
"What do you mean?" I asked softly.
His shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. "You looked… different. After. When I said it."
He didn't say what.
He didn't have to.
I swallowed. "You didn't do anything wrong, Nine."
He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at me over his shoulder.
"But you got scared."
My breath caught.
"I wasn't scared of you," I said truthfully.
He looked away again.
"But something's wrong."
I didn't answer.
Not right away.
He kept staring at the far wall, eyes distant. Still soft, still sweet. But flickering now with the first glimmers of knowing. Not understanding yet—but knowing. That something about all of this was off.
"Did they get mad?" he whispered. "Because of me?"
I crouched beside him, brushing my thumb along his cheekbone. "No. You didn't make them mad."
"Then why are they talking so much now?"
I froze.
"You heard them?" I asked carefully.
He gave a small nod. "They were behind the mirror. They said... things."
I tucked his hair behind his ear. "What things?"
"Words I didn't understand." He paused. "And your name. A lot."
Of course they did.
Of course they were already watching.
I exhaled slowly and pressed my lips to his temple.
"You don't need to worry about them, Nine. That's my job."
He didn't look convinced.
"Promise?" he whispered.
And gods help me, I said, "I promise."
He leaned into me again. Not quite a hug. Just weight. Trust.
"I thought you wouldn't come back," he murmured.
"You never have to think that."
"But... people leave."
"Not me."
A quiet settled over us. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Like the room was holding its breath.
He hesitated. Then, almost too softly to hear: "I don't know what that word meant."
I blinked. "What word?"
He fidgeted slightly, curling his fingers into the edge of the blanket. "The one I said. The one that made them stop."
My heart clenched.
"Do you want me to tell you what it means?"
He nodded once.
I took a long breath.
"It's a feeling," I said carefully. "A big one. One you feel toward someone you care about so much it hurts."
"Like you?"
I smiled. "Yeah. Like me."
He looked thoughtful for a long time.
Then he whispered, "I meant it."
I had to close my eyes.
Because if I didn't, I might break.
And he needed me whole.
He needed me certain.
He needed to believe I could keep him safe.
Which meant I couldn't just sit here and wait for the next disaster.
I couldn't let the instructors decide what to do with him. With us.
I stood, brushing my palms down my thighs.
He looked up, suddenly wide-eyed. "Are you leaving?"
"Just for a little while," I said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "I need to talk to someone. But I'll come back."
His expression folded in on itself—fear, sadness, longing.
But he nodded.
Because he trusted me.
Because he still believed in me.
I walked to the door.
Paused with my hand on the keypad.
And whispered, "I'll fix this."
Then I stepped out into the hallway.
The silence there felt too clean. Too polished. Like something had been wiped down and sterilized just moments before.
But I didn't stop.
Didn't hesitate.
I walked straight to the handler's central wing and keyed in a request on the internal system.
Rhea Nyx — appointment request. Subject: Omega 9. Priority: High.
And then I waited.
Because one way or another, I had to make them see:
He wasn't just a tool.
He was a person.
And he was mine.