The woman in the seat rose as Writ entered the room.

  Caedern followed her as Caustic closed the door from outside. The heavier surveillance ward still welcomed her. Familiar. Cold. Threatening.

  The woman’s eyes flicked up as the door closed behind Writ. A sharp intake of breath, “...I know you.”

  A pause.

  "You're that Zero."

  Writ didn’t react outwardly. Her hands folded neatly in front of her, expression neutral. But the tilt of her head, just slight, acknowledged recognition.

  The woman was the Nine who spent whole nights soothing the new children in 7D, all soft pats and gentle 'there, there'. The one the younger kids called for again and again, even when it was Writ’s turn on caretaking duty.

  High empathy. Of course Accord marked her as that.

  Caedern had already settled in his seat, tucked against the wall, ready for the show.

  Nine’s lip twitched, half-smile, half-snarl, “you’re in charge now? Of course you are...”

  Her voice carried surprise, bitterness, and that old, untrained defiance that had gotten her into trouble back at Treshfold. She shifted, uneasy, fingers curling into fists at her sides.

  Writ stepped forward, measured, the sound of her boots muted against the floor.

  Nine’s eyes tracked Writ, lingering on the quiet composure that had always unsettled her in the dorm, “you didn’t change. At all.”

  Writ remained silent as she sat on her seat, letting the comment hang. The ceiling lights hummed low. Nine’s chest rose and fell too quickly.

  Writ’s eyes didn’t flinch. She leaned slightly backward and crossed her leg. Looking unaffected. Hands resting at the files on her knees, voice low but cutting through the room.

  “Are you finished with the commentary?”

  Her voice carried no anger, no warmth. Just the unyielding demand for focus.

  Nine’s chest rose and fell unevenly. She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shut it again. Her fists loosened at her sides. That quiet command, delivered without overt threat, pierced sharper than any shout.

  “...Yeah,” the word came brittle, admitting defeat, still tinged with defiance. She shifted, then slowly, deliberately, sank into the chair across from Writ.

  Eyes wary, shoulders tense, fingers drumming against her knees. She’d submitted for now, but the storm behind her gaze hadn’t stilled.

  Writ tallied it without pause.

  A Treshfold-made had sat first in an official setting, without being told.

  Rowan Brennan, the previous subject, was civilian, no fault there. They weren’t made. Different standard. Excused.

  But this Nine in front of her?

  Strike. Fault. Record it.

  The thoughts came too fast. Too clean. As if the robe’s weight on her shoulders had already decided for her.

  She hated how natural it felt. How the judgment slid into place before she’d even chosen it, as if she’d worn the robe far too long.

  Her gaze remained steady, unblinking. Not a word, not a twitch of expression. Just the silent demand that the session begin.

  “State your ID, role, and the period you were assigned to your Division,” Writ said, voice even.

  Nine’s fingers twisted against her lap, “I... I was assigned as a sleeper operative. Peripheral Division active for, uh... ten years? Since 1215, I think.”

  “How long do you think you’ve been confined here?”

  The words left Writ’s mouth with the cadence of memory. Not hers, Tiran’s. She’d been asked the same once. She even caught herself mimicking the measured tone he’d used.

  Nine blinked, thrown off, “I’ve lost track. Months, maybe? I can’t... time moves differently in here.”

  Confinement outside Nexus stuck to routine. No disruption, no disorientation. How could she forget how many times she’d slept?

  “What access and permissions were you granted concerning the target before this mission?”

  Nine hesitated, “just... surveillance. I was told to get close to Jorath and Isolde Tovan. Monitor their movements. Beyond that... nothing. I didn’t... I didn’t have clearance for, um... other interference.”

  Instructed. And yet still slipped too close.

  Writ marked their names onto the paper.

  “Describe your interactions with the target before the elimination order.”

  Her voice trembled, hands twisting tighter, “mostly... observations. Daily encounters... casual things, like ordinary civilians. Just... keeping up the neighbors’ facade. Nothing serious.”

  Writ’s gaze cut in, steady and exact.

  “While you were keeping up that facade... what, exactly, about them drew your attention?”

  Nine’s glare sparked at last, weak but defensive, “they are... kind. The brief said their daughter was gone, so I... I leaned into that. It gave me space to-” her voice caught, “...to blend in.”

  So she’d slid into their daughter’s space. Too easily. Too far.

  “What made you hesitate?”

  Nine flinched, “w-what? I didn’t! They weren’t there when I entered to- to eliminate them. I didn’t hesitate.”

  “Then explain how the target fled. Did you disclose information intentionally, or did the failure occur another way?”

  Nine's breath quicken. She defensively answered, “I... don't know! I didn’t tell them anything! I swear! Maybe... maybe someone else... or... a slip in signals?"

  “Someone else,” Writ pressed, “who?”

  “I don’t know, really! But it wasn’t me. I didn’t...”

  Trembling. Stammering. Too frantic to hold her lie together. Writ studied the girl and saw not just Nine but a mirror. Herself, years ago, before she’d learned how to keep her voice flat, her lies seamless. Before she’d realized pleading bought nothing.

  Had she been this obvious once? This breakable. This easy to read.

  “Were you aware of the detachment protocols?”

  “Yes,” Nine answered too quickly. A laugh, nervous, cracked through, “I know them. I... I followed them as best I could.”

  Best she could. Not good enough.

  “Did you maintain communication with anyone outside your orders?”

  “I... maintained contact with other neighbors. Normal greetings, casual talk. Blending in,” her eyes darted away, “no one else. Just routine reports. No other... contact. If I did, it was... accidental.”

  Forgetting who she was. Losing herself in civilian rhythm.

  “Walk me through your decision-making when you warned the target. What led you to that choice?”

  Nine’s eyes flashed with frustration. “...I- I told you, I didn’t warn them! I swear! They were already gone the moment I entered the house to- to eliminate them!”

  “Walk me through that moment, then. The day of the order.”

  She fidgeted with her fingers, then locked them tight to still the movement, “I... I received the order in the afternoon. I stayed in my house next door to prepare. Then-”

  “Prepare what?”

  “P-prepare my... things! Weapons, disguise, and all. It’s been a while since I used them.”

  How was that possible? To not have them ready. To trust no one would break in at night. To sleep peacefully without tools at hand. Even Treshfold had drilled against that. Unannounced break-ins in the dead of night. And yet this one had let herself go slack.

  “Continue.”

  “I entered at night. They weren’t home. So I... I waited. But they never came back.”

  “You waited.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Y-yes.”

  “You didn’t track them.”

  Her eyes widened, “...I didn’t.”

  “What made you believe they’d return?”

  “Well... their house was... messier than normal. I thought they were just... um... cleaning up.”

  “You didn’t suspect they’d left for good?”

  “No! They always told me if they traveled. Every time. Business trips, visits.”

  “Do they leave the house messy before travel?”

  “...Y-no. No, they don't. So I thought...”

  Writ flagged the slip, her pen pressing harder, the line beneath the question cutting darker than the rest.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I... I’d helped them prepare for their trips. Often. They always left things tidy... before travel.”

  The words hung in the air. Silence pressed against the room, thick, uncomfortable. Nine shifted in her chair, knuckles white where her hands clutched her knees. Writ let the pause stretch, unbroken, until the quiet itself did the work.

  “Did your feelings toward them influence your orders?”

  “Maybe...,” Nine admitted. Her voice cracked, defiant and pleading at once, “but... I didn’t break protocol! I didn’t! Feelings don’t- wasn’t the reason for what I did, no...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you aware of disciplinary consequences?”

  “Yes,” Nine whispered quickly, biting her lip, “I’ll... I’ll comply going forward.”

  “Even if that means limiting your autonomy?”

  Nine hesitated, fists clenching before she looked down, “...yes. I... I understand.”

  Writ uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, watching her flinch, “did you ever pause to wonder if the orders were... right?”

  Nine inhaled sharply, “every step.”

  “A conflict, then. Instinct against instruction?”

  “Yes! Every day. But I still tried. I followed.”

  And still failed.

  “Suppose the target had been indifferent to you. Would you have acted differently?”

  Nine’s voice came quieter now, almost pleading, “I... I don’t know... maybe? But they... they weren’t indifferent. And I... I couldn’t just...”

  Writ leaned back, the file balanced across her knees. The next question lingered on the page. One she remembered too well. One Tiran had asked her.

  She glanced at Caedern. A blink.

  His mouth curved faintly, gaze permissive.

  She dropped her eyes to the file. Papers shifted as though to disguise the pivot, her fingers arranging them like she was preparing the ground for her improvised lie.

  “I hesitate to share this with you,” she said quietly, “but the Tovans have been detained in Delvryn. They claim you told them everything.”

  Nine shot upright, chair scraping harsh against the floor. Her palms slammed flat against the table. Eyes wide, breath sharp.

  She didn’t move for a long moment, only glared at Writ.

  The silence stretched until she finally sank back down, eyes falling to the floor, “...I apologize.”

  “How do you explain it?”

  From the corner of her vision, Caedern’s grin flickered. Gone as quickly as it came, smoothed into composure.

  “I... I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”

  “And why, then, did they insist on seeing you as their final request?”

  Nine didn’t answer at first. The stillness stretched, heavy enough to drag the air down with it.

  When she finally spoke, her voice broke. Wet, raw, pleading, “I... I think... they wanted someone they could trust. Someone... who cared.”

  Writ let the silence linger, holding her steady gaze. No word of comfort. No reply. Just the weight of quiet, long enough to make the answer echo against itself.

  At last, she lowered her eyes to the file. She closed it with deliberate care, the soft clap of paper against wood sounding final. The pen followed, placed neatly across the cover.

  The signal was clear. The session was over.

  She gave a single nod, “that will be all for now.”

  As before, Caedern rose, unhurried, and crossed the space to stand beside them. He didn’t speak at once. Instead, he lingered in silence, gaze flicking from Writ to Nine. Writ kept her mask in place, steady and unreadable.

  When he did speak, it was in the same measured rhythm as the first session, “as per directive,” he said, “one off-record question. Interrogator first, subject second.”

  A pause, deliberate.

  “After you’re done, this session is dismissed. The subject may return.”

  Then he walked to the door and left without looking back.

  Even his pause, his pace, his exit. Everything was identical to the first session.

  She wasn’t sure what to ask. Even now.

  Nine in front of her mirrored pieces of her past, she had to admit that. But none of her choices matched what Writ could relate to, not anymore.

  An emotional bond with the target, so strong it fractured the order itself, was something unthinkable to Writ.

  Getting too close? Wrong. Getting attached? Worse.

  Yet a thought coiled at the edge of her restraint.

  What if they sent her to eliminate Kion? Could she still say the same? Could she still obey?

  She cut the thought down before it grew.

  Her gaze settled on Nine. Her voice, calm, precise, “is it worth it?”

  Nine blinked, wary, “...you make it sound like it’s the end.”

  “Correction cycle always felt like an end,” Writ replied evenly.

  Nine’s lips pressed together, starting to draw conclusions, “you’ve been here too, haven’t you?”

  Writ didn’t answer. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, each movement deliberate.

  Nine’s voice faltered, uncertain, “I’m not doing it right, am I?”

  No reaction. No reassurance. Writ remained silent.

  “...It’s true, isn’t it? I failed this, don’t you think...?”

  Writ inclined her head once, the smallest motion. Then she said, voice even, “the first question was mine.”

  Nine paused, recognizing the implied answer, then nodded.

  Glassy-eyed, she let a fragile smile appear, “...I finally felt warmth again. It’s worth it.”

  Writ nodded once. Small. Neutral. Nothing more.

  “My turn now?” Nine asked.

  “Yes,” Writ replied. Still neutral, still precise.

  Nine leaned forward, voice low, searching, “...how did you manage to get them to trust you? To let you climb that far?”

  The answer came to her at once.

  They didn’t. That’s why she was here. Every step a trap, every test set to catch her stumble.

  But when she looked at Nine, she no longer saw a subject. No longer just a task. No longer a target.

  She saw a reflection, clearer than before. Fragile. Transparent. Desperate in her fear. A past self. Anxious, trembling under interrogator eyes. Before silence had hardened into armor.

  The weight of the robe pressed heavier on her shoulders. She inhaled once, folded the guilt deep.

  “By trading my life for it,” her hand tapped the collar at her throat.

  Nine’s lips quivered, “you didn’t have it easy either, did you?”

  Writ remained still.

  “There’s no way out, is there? We’ll have to do this again and again, until they decide we’re too broken. Even you...”

  The words lingered, heavy in the air. A silence that threatened to spread if she let it.

  She cut it clean. A long breath, sharp enough to break the moment, “you’re dismissed.”

  Nine rose unsteadily, tears streaking her face. She stood for several heartbeats, unmoving.

  Then stepped closer, not away.

  Beside Writ, she bent down, arms trembling as they wrapped around her shoulders. A brief hug. A clumsy pat to her head.

  Writ’s muscles tensed at once, posture rigid. The contact was noted, not felt. Filed, not received.

  “It's alright,” Nine whispered, broken, “it’ll be okay.”

  Writ allowed the contact for a measured span, then sat motionless as Nine pulled back, wiping her sleeve across her eyes.

  “Goodbye, Zero.”

  She waved once, turned, and left.

  Writ’s eyes followed her until the door clicked shut. Then her gaze lowered again, her composure returning like a mask slipping back into place.

  She straightened the robe’s collar. Adjusted. Calibrated.

  Her attention dropped back to the file, the quiet pressing against her like a weight. Every thought, every breath aligned, ready for whatever came next. The silence stretched, steady, fragile, until the door creaked open.

  Caedern stepped in, slow, deliberate. Applause. Not loud, not theatrical, just the softest clap that scraped against the room. Writ’s spine stiffened immediately and she rose, hands brushing the edge of the table, fingers lingering just enough to feel its cool surface.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, voice low, amused, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, “quite a touching reunion, my dear Zero.”

  Writ didn’t answer. Her eyes met his briefly, measured, unreadable.

  He stopped less than a step away, looming, a shadow of authority, “you doubled the questions. I’m impressed,” a tilt of his head, a faint lift of his brow, almost imperceptible, “getting the hang of it now? Starting to feel it?”

  Writ’s lips pressed together, “...Only because of your... guidance,” she chose her words carefully, measured. A nod. Minimal, but acknowledging.

  “Really? I’m flattered.”

  He let his eyes linger on the robe she still wore. Pointed. She nodded and, deliberately, slid it off her shoulders. The weight was different this time. Not a comfort. It pressed into her chest, seeped into her posture, a subtle reminder of the authority it represented. Not her own, not entirely. She folded it neatly, gave it to him. He received it without ceremony, the faintest curl of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

  He leaned closer, over her shoulder, voice dropping to a near whisper, “if you’re thinking of... greasing the wheels for your next session, now’s the time. Or don’t, your choice.”

  Writ’s gaze stayed calm, but inside, a coil twisted tight around her chest.

  Greasing the wheels... bribing? Testing? Both?

  Her fingers clicked faintly against her lap. The surveillance ward pressed harder, an invisible reminder of the stakes.

  That he even offered it first... that alone unsettled her. Something had shifted. But what?

  No anchor, no clue. Just the sense that the world had moved slightly, and she had to step carefully to avoid tipping it further. That was his power. Dangle the possibility, let it stretch, and watch her weigh every shadow of consequence.

  Her lips pressed together. Irritation flared, how easily he counted her before she acted, but she exhaled. Not worth it. Not here.

  At last, a subtle tilt of her head. Acknowledgment. Nothing more. Not advantage, not consent, just recognition of the bait and the restraint she maintained.

  “I’ll pass. Thank you.”

  His smile deepened, sharpened, like the edge of a knife catching light, “is that so? Don’t cry to Tiran when you regret it. He won’t bother.”

  He held her a moment longer, gaze glinting, predatory, weighing, measuring. Every second a probe, a test. Writ stayed still, muscles tuned, posture precise, marking his amusement and the subtle shifts in his eyes. She exhaled softly, fingers unclenching, a slow settling of the storm inside.

  Another ledger entry. The rhythm he shifted, the bait he cast, the way his lips curved when denied. She stored it for later, for survival. Whatever came next, she would be ready.

  “Dismissed. Report at Tiran’s office tomorrow, fourteen hundred. As usual.”

  “Acknowledged,” Writ didn’t move immediately. Something more lingered in the air. He tilted his head, just slightly, an invitation and a warning in the same motion.

  “Last chance to change your mind. I’m not answering anything tomorrow, or the day after.”

  Anxiety slithered in her gut. Serious probe, or merely another tease? Either way, no context existed to make a reasoned decision.

  “...And what will the price be?” Her voice was calm, measured, but her pulse ticked faster.

  Caedern’s eyes glimmered. A sharp, cold glint, like a gambler catching a perfect hand. A hunter glimpsing prey frozen exactly where he wanted.

  “Let’s see...” He stretched the word deliberately, letting the pause linger, “how about one ‘yes’ for my future offer? I’d even clear that one answer you owed me this morning.”

  Her decision came without a beat of hesitation. Too steep a price, not even worth weighing, “then I’ll still pass. Thank you for the offer.”

  He chuckled low, delighted. Not frustrated, not impatient. Pure amusement, the thrill of the game, watching her resist both the tease and the real carrot, “let’s see if you change your mind tomorrow.”

  Even if she reconsidered, she knew the bargain would bleed her dry. The future offer wouldn’t be gentle. Not with him. His excitement at the game, at her restraint, at the flicker of her emotions. She catalogued it all, silent, careful.

  “Alright. Go now. You can still accompany me for another session to null your debt, though.”

  Writ bowed slightly, gathered the file from the table, and walked away, “I’ll be leaving.”

  Caedern’s quiet, dark laugh followed her, echoing just behind the closing door. She shut it softly, as if sealing a curse between them.

  She didn’t linger. Her steps quickened, the folder pressed to her chest like a lifeline. Something would happen tomorrow. Something she couldn’t predict, couldn’t control.

  He had offered a lead, laced with control and wrapped thick in ominous intent. One she dared not touch now, one he would not repeat.

  She hoped, silently, cautiously, that refusing it wouldn’t become a regret. Whatever shift awaited, she would meet it. As always.

  And in the quiet of the hall, her thoughts settled on a single, sharp certainty. The game was far from over. Caedern’s delight, both in the bait and the real offer, would ripple through every move to come.

  Tomorrow, something would change. She couldn’t guess its shape, couldn’t anchor her expectations. Only that she would endure it. Again. No end in sight.

  Anyway, has anyone mentioned you’re standing a little too close?