Writ stood up and took several steps, away from the sofa. Enough space for Pious to move, enough distance to breathe. The air still felt too close.
Zyra sat on the sofa Writ just left, legs crossed, posture perfectly composed, but her expression carried the same quiet disgust she’d shown since the moment she entered. The blinking red light stone beside her pulsed across the room, catching on the table’s trim. A voice recorder. Always watching, even when eyes weren’t.
Pious positioned herself between them, part shield, part intermediary. Her stance careful, professional. Whether she meant to block Zyra’s view or to soften it, Writ couldn’t tell.
“This session will be recorded for loggings,” Pious said, “Voice only, no visual. Zyra will handle the session log device.”
Zyra’s fingernail tapped once against the recorder’s casing. Then silence.
“Can we start now?” Pious asked.
Writ nodded.
Zyra’s voice slid sharp across the space. “Words. You’re not mute.”
“Yes. Ready.” she said, or meant to. The word came out a little thinner than she intended.
Pious glanced at Zyra as if the offense were hers to process instead of Writ’s. Writ caught the look, mirrored it faintly, trying to gauge Zyra’s temperament. The flavor of obedience this woman expected.
Zyra didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She only pressed a button. The light on the box steadied, no longer blinking. Recording, then.
“Recording start,” Pious recited, her tone rote, memorized. “Examiner Pious Ink of Black Quill, with observer Zyra Threisk of Judge. Subject is zero-seven-one-seven-three-four of Harbringer, named Silent Writ. Examination conducted under protocol for physical-injury verification. Subject has been informed of the process and her right to refuse any step. Subject, do you consent to proceed?”
“Yes.”
“Consent confirmed,” Zyra said.
The session had only just begun, yet Writ’s chest already felt heavy. The air was thick with disinfectant and the faint oil of gloves. Zyra’s eyes burned holes in her skin, a kind of hatred that made the room smaller.
“Requesting consent to examine both wrists for visible marks or injury,” Pious continued.
“Yes.”
“Consent confirmed.”
“Beginning with right wrist.”
Writ lifted her arm. The muscles held, steady enough, but a small tremor threaded down the forearm. The kind that came only after holding too much, too long.
Pious’s gloved hand caught hers, fingers gentle but unyielding. She rotated the wrist back and forth, turning it toward Zyra’s view. The leather squeak of gloves filled the small pause.
“Taking picture of the bruise on the right wrist for documentation,” Pious said.
Zyra reached for a camera, a palm-sized memory stone encased in a shell designed to steady its aim. The shutter snapped.
“Done,” Zyra replied.
“Examining right wrist. Circumferential bruising visible. Superficial abrasions along the outer sides; inner aspect spared.”
Pious looked to Zyra. “Would you prefer I state probable cause, or will you handle it?”
“You do it.”
“Pattern consistent with compression or restraint.”
“Confirmed.”
Writ exhaled, barely audible. The process had only begun, but each exchange made her pulse louder in her ears. How long would this stretch?
“Applying light pressure to several points along the bruised area,” Pious said. “Please inform me if any area is painful.”
“Understood.”
Pious pressed her thumb along the line of bruises. Writ didn’t flinch, didn’t feel pain. The numbness itself felt wrong. She’d pressed those same spots earlier in private, same result. The absence of pain should have comforted her, but instead it felt like another loss.
“No pain response noted across tested points. Am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“Confirmed,” Zyra echoed.
Writ filed the detail away. A reason, at least, for why she hadn’t noticed the marks sooner. Though why they were there at all, still no answer.
Zyra uncrossed her legs, leaned forward. She placed four small bottles and stacks of cotton on the table. The motion rattled the dead potted succulent beside them.
“Testing surface for pigment or cosmetic application,” Pious said.
The first bottle hissed softly when opened. She dabbed a cotton square with liquid, wiping it gently across the bruise. The solvent hit cold. Writ's breath clipped short before she gathered it again.
“Cleaning area sequentially with sterile saline. No pigment transfer observed.”
“Confirmed,” Zyra replied, flat.
Writ’s gaze flicked between the bottles and her own skin. What if one of them erased the mark? What would she say? What would it mean?
The second bottle opened. Alcohol burned faintly in the air.
“Now using alcohol-based disinfectant,” Pious murmured. “No pigment transfer observed. Bruising appears subdermal, not surface stain.”
“Confirmed.”
The used swab landed in a small compartmental box. Pious lowered Writ’s wrist. Writ caught the sight of the remaining bottles and felt her throat tighten.
“You forgot the next two,” Zyra said.
“Protocol discourages solvents level three and above on fresh tissue.”
“Do it.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The room went still for a heartbeat. Pious’s sigh was the only sound before she reached for the third bottle.
“Proceeding under direction of Judge Zyra,” she said quietly. “Applying minimal amount of cosmetic oil to assess pigment solubility.”
The cotton swab spread the oil in slow, deliberate strokes. The skin glistened, unchanged.
“No visible change. Mark remains intact.”
“Confirmed.”
Another glance between the two women. Silent exchange, cold permission. Then the fourth bottle was uncapped. The smell bit sharper, acrid.
“Applying a small amount of Glyphfire’s solvent. It might sting slightly, but it’ll pass quickly.”
The first touch seared. The mark didn’t fade.
“No visible changes either.”
“Confirmed.”
Saline cooled the skin again, washing away the last traces of solvent. The relief was almost tender. The final cotton swab, soaked and darkened, stayed in Pious’s hand instead of returning to the box.
Writ’s right arm lowered. She lifted the left on her own. Pious accepted it wordlessly.
“Repeating same procedure on left wrist.”
Everything repeated. Photo, examination, pressure, solvents, stinging rinse. The same results, the same silence between phrases.
When Pious moved to her neck, the metal of Writ’s collar sent a chill climbing up her scalp. Zyra’s gaze didn’t waver. It crawled along her skin. Writ reported the truth. That her neck felt sore, nothing more. No pain.
Pious nodded once, continuing the methodical sequence.
“Requesting consent to remove shirt for examination of chest and back. Undergarments will remain.”
“Yes.”
“Consent confirmed."
"Subject removing upper garment.”
Writ’s fingers fumbled with the buttons. The moment she eased one sleeve down, she froze. A glimpse of dark, round marks. Impossible, unfamiliar. Her jaw tightened. She forced her hands to keep moving, pretending she hadn’t seen them.
Her shirt slid off her shoulders. Pious’s face flickered. Pity, quickly suppressed. Zyra only raised a brow, sharp and disdainful.
“Taking picture of the marks on upper arms for documentation,” Pious said.
Zyra was already on her feet. The lens hovered close enough for Writ to feel the displaced air. The shutter clicked. Too loud, too final. Zyra circled behind her, another click, then another.
“Done.”
She didn’t sit. She hovered close, dissecting every mark with narrowed eyes. The curtain swayed faintly behind her, a reminder that someone waited on the other side, unseen.
“Five small bruises on each upper arm,” Pious read. “One to two centimeters across. Oval to crescent-shaped. Evenly spaced. Consistent with fingertip pressure from a full-hand grip.”
She paused, glancing at Zyra. Zyra didn’t reply. The camera clicked again.
“Confirmed,” Zyra said at last. “On the back too.”
Pious stepped behind Writ to get a clearer look, then let out the faintest gasp. A cold ripple crawled across Writ’s spine.
“Several long, narrow welts across the back,” Pious said quietly. “About twelve to twenty-two centimeters in length, half a centimeter to a bit over one wide. Mostly parallel. Sharp edges. A few with pale centers and light skin splitting. Pattern consistent with disciplinary implements or pressure lines from rigid restraint edges.”
“Confirmed,” Zyra said.
Writ blinked. Her expression stayed still, but confusion flickered beneath. She shut her eyes for a moment, steadying her breath.
“Testing sensitivity with light palpation along the length of the welt,” Pious said. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“Understood.”
Pious tapped along her back. Gentle, searching, systematic. Writ felt contact, pressure, temperature. But not a single sting. Nothing like the punishments she remembered. An absence of pain where pain should be. They would notice. They always did.
“Raised tissue and warmth consistent with recent impact injury.”
“Confirmed.”
“Applying mild lateral tension,” Pious said, stretching the skin gently.
Should she pretend it hurt? Or would that be marked as weakness? They had a metric for everything.
“Mark moves uniformly with surrounding tissue. No pigment separation,” Pious reported. She glanced at Zyra. “Would you like to test it as well?”
“No. Proceed,” Zyra said. “Confirmed.”
Their voices faded into background noise. The cold sweep of saline followed, lighter than the other bruises. Writ felt the temperature shift. But still, no pain. Not even when asked to lean forward, to raise her arms, to breathe in and out.
Then Pious stepped in front of her, meeting her eye.
“You did not report pain at any point. Please confirm, was there any pain? Any discomfort?”
“None.”
“Are you certain? Even mild discomfort counts.”
“Yes.”
“If you’re enduring it, you don’t have to. You can tell me.”
“There’s no pain.”
The room stilled. Pious’s lips trembled before she forced them neutral again.
“...Alright.”
Writ kept her face still. Inside, her pulse stuttered unevenly. None of it made sense. Neither what she remembered nor the gaps where memory should have been.
Caedern wouldn’t do this... would he? He knew the rules. Even cruelty had boundaries when done under authority. Unless the boundary was the cruelty.
Unless he’d already twisted the wording.
The directive echoed in her mind.
Any asset brought into experimental sanction must consent in record, even under duress.
Had she said yes?
Had she been pushed into it? Drugged? Given the forget-solution they used for transfers? So she wouldn’t remember it was him? But his visit had been sanctioned. The trace would be too visible, anyone could guess. Why would he risk his own reputation?
If she had agreed, why the bindings? Why the bruised wrist? Nothing aligned. None of it fit.
“You may put your shirt back on,” Pious said.
“Alright.”
Her fingers trembled as she rebuttoned. Zyra watched every motion, openly.
“Requesting consent to remove trousers for examination of thighs and ankles. Undergarment will remain.”
“Yes.”
“Consent confirmed. Proceeding.”
The fabric slid down her legs, sounding far too loud. And more marks, purpling around her ankles. Another hole opening in her certainty.
“Taking picture of the ankles now. Let us know if you need us to stop,” Pious said.
“Noted.”
Click.
Click.
Three.
Four.
Each one a small, cold detonation.
“Done,” Zyra said.
“Shallow dark marks around both ankles,” Pious read. “Almost full circles. Light surface scrapes on the front. Likely caused by ankle restraint or ties that shifted.”
The voices blurred. Light pressure. No pain. Saline. Solvent. No transfer. Confirmed. Again. Again. Until the rhythm drowned meaning itself.
By the time Zyra finally sat, Writ hardly noticed.
The pattern was wrong. Too deliberate. Too clean. Too much like something someone else wanted her to “remember.”
She let herself drift under the repetition. If she didn’t cling to the meaning, it would pass faster. She wished she remembered anything, anything, to anchor these marks. Bruises healed. Skin healed. But a blank space... that was unbearable.
She should’ve let Kion come. Should’ve asked him what actually happened before agreeing to this. Should’ve done so many things differently.
I believe you can do it, he’d said.
He’d helped her get ready that morning. Stayed longer than he should have, long after he should’ve clocked in. And before he left, he’d pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and steady, like he knew she’d need it.
It had startled her. Warmed her. A first. He’d never kissed her before. Why now?
Had he known all this would happen? Seen something she couldn’t? Was this all planned to lead here?
“Requesting consent to examine lower pelvic and genital area for possible injury.”
Her breath hitched.
Her gaze moved from Pious to Zyra to the floor.
What if they found something? What if the report wrote her into guilt she didn’t even understand? She felt fine. But her body had lied before. Her memory had too.
“...Can I refuse?”
The silence stretched, heavy as stone. Even Zyra’s head tilted slightly, cold curiosity replacing her usual contempt.
“Yes,” Pious said softly. “You may refuse any part. Do you consent to proceed?”
“No.”
“Refusal noted. No examination of pelvic area conducted.”
“Noted,” Zyra said, flat and sharp.
“You may put your trousers back on,” Pious continued.
“Proceed,” Zyra added.
A click, different this time. The recorder. The steady light turned back to blinking.
“Convenient, isn’t it?” Zyra said, voice thin and cold. She leaned back, propped her chin on one finger. “You’ve been all nice and compliant. What makes you think you can stop now?”
The phrasing struck too close. Too exact. Most of last night was a blur she couldn’t hold onto, but that line, that tone, cut through everything. The same question from another mouth.
Who taught you to refuse like that?
Zyra was Caedern’s. That much was clear.
“She has the right,” Pious said quietly. “Please turn the recording on again.”
“Just my two cents.”
“You can wear your trousers now, Writ.”
Writ nodded. Pulled them up. Then, as an afterthought, remembered to say, “Yes.”
Another click. The light steadied again.
“Physical examination complete,” Pious said. “Proceeding to verbal inquiry segment.”
“Confirmed,” Zyra replied.
Writ’s eyes lingered on the steady red light. The urge to switch it off clawed at her fingers. Because now came the part she feared most. Questions she couldn’t answer, proof she didn’t have, the empty stretch of memory she couldn’t fill.
And the recording would remember everything she couldn’t.