The training room felt colder when others were watching.
Everything here was built for scrutiny—high ceilings, echo-less tiles, lighting designed to expose every flaw. The mirrors blinked red, recording. Always recording. The scentless air was too clean, too sterile, like it was meant to erase warmth altogether.
Nine knelt at my feet, just as he'd been told. Obedient. Perfect. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled, posture immaculate. His head was bowed, but not with fear.
With anticipation.
For me.
I could feel it in the way his body leaned slightly forward, the subtle way his breath caught when I shifted beside him. Not for them. Not for the handlers. Just for me.
And gods, it made this so much worse.
Because he still believed.
He didn't understand what this session was. What it had to be.
What I had to become.
The instructors entered behind me, one by one, in silent, expectant rows. They didn't speak to me. They didn't need to. Their eyes did enough—gleaming, judgmental, hungry.
They'd seen the footage from the demonstration. They'd seen what I could make Nine say.
Now they wanted more.
Nyx was already pacing.
Don't do this again. Don't play their game. Don't break him just to buy time.
But I already was.
The woman instructor—thin and cold-eyed—took the lead. "We'd like to observe obedience during low-threat conditions," she said. "No physical coercion. All verbal. Let's test his dependency on you. Keep it clinical."
Clinical.
Of course.
I turned to Nine.
He looked up at me and smiled.
My heart cracked.
Nyx snarled.
He doesn't know. He thinks it's just you and him.
I schooled my expression, hardened the softness in my chest, and let my face go cold. My voice, when it came, was sharp and empty.
"Nine. Sit up straighter."
He obeyed instantly, shoulders pulled back, neck long and exposed. Eyes glowing with attention.
"Faster," I snapped.
He blinked, startled, and adjusted.
Still not fast enough for them.
The woman nodded. "Try punishment reinforcement."
I picked up the crop.
It was a prop, mostly. Not meant to hurt—yet.
But its presence made them nod. Made them believe.
I tapped it against the floor once.
Nine looked confused. He tilted his head—then quickly corrected himself.
"You were too slow," I said. "Apologize."
"I—I'm sorry," he said, voice uncertain.
"Louder."
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
"Again."
"I'm sorry!"
He flinched at his own volume. But he didn't stop.
I made him say it ten times.
Twelve.
Until it sounded like a ritual, not a word.
The instructors were pleased.
They took notes, exchanged quiet glances.
I kept my face still.
Because if I didn't, they'd see it—how close I was to snapping.
Nyx was clawing at my skull.
This isn't saving him. This is conditioning him. You're just one of them now.
"No," I muttered under my breath. "I'm not."
"Hmm?" asked one of the men.
"Nothing," I said smoothly, and turned back to Nine.
He was kneeling there, silent, his eyes never leaving me.
Like he was waiting for praise.
For affection.
For me to touch him like I did when no one was watching.
Instead, I said, "Say 'Good boys listen.'"
He hesitated.
Then, softly: "Good boys listen."
"Say it again."
"Good boys listen."
"Who do you belong to?"
"You," he whispered.
"Louder."
"You."
"Again."
"You."
They were practically glowing now, these vultures. One of them smiled at me—genuinely.
"Very impressive," he said. "You've stabilized him more than we thought possible. He's almost ready."
Ready for what? I wanted to scream.
Ready to be passed on?
Ready to be destroyed?
Nyx was keening now.
He doesn't understand. You've made him think obedience is love. That pain is reward. He doesn't know the difference anymore.
But he would.
I would teach him.
After.
When they were gone.
When we were alone again.
When I could undo this.
Finally, the woman gave a nod.
"That's enough for today. We'll reconvene after the next hormonal cycle. Monitor his responses."
She left.
So did the others.
One by one.
And the second the door shut, I dropped the crop.
Dropped to my knees.
Pulled Nine into my arms.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't flinch.
He leaned into me like a flower toward light.
I pressed my face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent—soft, sweet, innocent.
Still his.
Not theirs.
Not yet.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."
He blinked at me. "Why?"
I pulled back, looked him in the eyes.
"Because I had to be mean."
He tilted his head.
"You weren't mean."
I blinked. "What?"
"You told me what to do. And I listened. I was good. That's not mean."
"You… don't think I hurt you?"
He frowned, uncertain.
"No. You never hurt me."
Gods.
I hugged him tighter.
Nyx snarled.
You keep saying he's safe. But every time you do this, he loves you more for the things you hate yourself for. What happens when he starts asking for more? For worse? Thinking it's what you want?
I didn't answer her.
Because I didn't know.
Because maybe she was right.
Maybe I was too far into this.
Maybe he was.
Maybe it was too late to pull either of us out.
But I had to believe it wasn't.
So I kissed the top of his head.
Held him.
And whispered, "You were perfect."
Because he was.
Even when I was not.