The next session was quiet.
Too quiet.
Nine was perfect—on paper. He followed every instruction, held every posture with precision, responded with flawless timing. No trembling. No faltering. No confusion.
But there was no light in him either.
Just quiet desperation wrapped in obedience.
I noticed it in the smallest things.
How tightly his fingers gripped his own sleeves. How his lips pressed together just a second too long after every answer. How he didn't glance at me when I touched him—not like he used to. Not like he was safe.
It wasn't silence. It was suppression.
And I didn't dare break it. Not yet. Not with the cameras watching. I smiled. I praised. I played the part of a good handler with a docile pet.
But the moment the door slid shut behind us and we were alone again—he changed.
He turned toward me so fast it startled me.
"Bite me," he whispered.
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped closer. There was something desperate in the way he moved—like he'd been holding it in all session, like this moment had been vibrating in his chest.
"Please," he said, voice rising just a little. "I want to be yours. I want to be good for you. If you bite me… I'll be better."
"Nine—"
"You said it links us. That you can talk to me in my head. That it means forever." His voice cracked. "I want that. I want you to want me forever."
I exhaled slowly, trying to stay grounded. "I do want you. But I can't. Not yet. It's not safe."
His face twisted.
"Not safe for me?"
"No. For us."
His jaw trembled. "Then make it safe. I can try harder. I can—just tell me how. Please. I'll be better. I can prove it—"
He turned slightly, shoulders twitching like he couldn't hold still anymore.
"I'll fix it, I swear—"
And suddenly, he was dragging his nails across his arm. Hard. Fast.
"Nine!"
I lunged toward him, grabbing his wrists. He squirmed, twisting away.
"If I break myself, maybe you'll fix me," he gasped. "Then you'll keep me."
"No—no. Don't say that." I tightened my grip, voice rising with panic. "You don't need to be fixed. You're not something broken. You don't have to hurt yourself—"
"But you didn't bite me," he whimpered. "You didn't want me enough."
"I didn't bite you because I'm trying to protect you!"
His whole body shook. "I just want to be enough," he whispered.
He was trying to hold himself together, but I could see the fault lines.
The way he looked at me, like he was begging to be wanted—even if it meant destroying himself.
Like this was the only way he understood love.
I felt something give inside me. A sharp, breaking noise. My vision blurred.
"You are enough," I snapped.
"I'm not," he whispered. "I know I'm not. I know you only say it because I cry when you don't."
Something inside me burned.
He said it without flinching.
Like he really believed it.
I couldn't take it.
I couldn't take that look in his eyes. That hollow, scraping sadness carved deep into something that had once been innocent. Something that should've been soft and untouched.
I backed away.
Paced once. Twice.
Nyx growled inside my skull, low and guttural. You let this happen. You let them teach him this. And now you're just standing here.
I spun.
He flinched when I looked at him—but didn't move.
Still hoping, even now.
And that was it.
I broke.
The distance between us disappeared in a blur. I slammed him back into the wall, both hands flat against his chest, holding him there with my full body weight.
He gasped.
But he didn't struggle.
He didn't cry.
He just stared at me, wide-eyed and breathless, with the faintest shiver of fear.
Not of me.
Of what he'd done.
Of what he'd made me become.