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Something I don’t yet understand.

There are shoes in a box by the door, plain black, soft as leather can be. I sit on the closed toilet to put them on, fingers fumbling at the laces. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s the adrenaline dump, but I know it’s not.

I’m not sure what comes next. I know this isn’t freedom. I know the uniform is just another kind of chain, cut to fit so I won’t want to take it off.

But I do, for a second, admire how it looks.

Bentley said I was "accepted." But I know enough about men like him to recognize the lie. What he really means is that I belong to him, for as long as I’m useful. And maybe a little after.

I run a hand through my hair, still damp, and look at myself one last time. The shirt and jacket almost make me look respectable. They hide the bruises, the damage, the parts of me that are still raw and leaking. But they don’t touch the eyes.

The eyes are still wrong. Too bright, too alive, too hungry.

I square my shoulders, open the door, and step back into the world.

It’s time to see what being "claimed" actually means.

The hallway is silent except for the ticking of a clock. Even the air here feels measured out in precise units, like every molecule knows it’s being tracked. I take the stairs slow, not because I’m sore—though I am—but because I need the time.

At the landing, I pause. There’s a faint echo of conversation, and my curiosity wins. I follow it toward the dining area.

On the table, arranged in order of nutritional density, are breakfast foods: eggs in a white bowl, chicken breast sliced to exact evenness, fruit cut into cubes and stacked on a serving plate. There is no coffee. There is only a tall, clear pitcher of water.

Bentley stands at the far end, back to me, the tailored jacket cutting a razor silhouette. He’s not alone—there’s a monitor propped on the edge of the table, and a voice is coming through, one I don’t recognize. Bentley isn’t looking at it, though. He’s staring out the window, arms folded behind him, every muscle in his back alive with tension.

I slide against the wall, out of line of sight. I know better than to announce myself when power is being transferred.

“Asset is stable, but I recommend transfer to private oversight.” Bentley’s voice is clipped, more military than medical. “Compliance is optimal. Behavioral profile is within expectations. Psychological profile indicates specialized handling requirements.”

The voice on the monitor responds, low and bureaucratic: “Authority to process into the Ministry has already been assigned. Why deviate from protocol?”

Bentley’s shoulders roll, a tension release. “Because the subject is viable. If he fails in Foundry, you lose all return on investment. I can convert him to Enforcement, or turn him into a handler. Either way, he’ll be more valuable with direct, continuous supervision.”

A pause. The sound of a keyboard on the other end.

“Is this personal?” the voice asks.

Bentley doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he turns a fraction, scanning the room, and his gaze lands right where I’m hiding. He knows I’m here, but doesn’t call me out. He just shifts so the monitor is between us, an implicit wall.

“Every subject is personal, or you’re not doing it right,” Bentley says, and his tone is pure spite.

The call ends with a soft chirp. The monitor screen goes black.

He stands, silent for a beat, then pivots to face me.

“Come in, Richards,” he says, not bothering with fake surprise.

I do. My feet are soundless on the tile, but he still tracks every step.

He gestures at the chair at the head of the table. “Sit.”

I do, hands folded. He pours two glasses of water. No words.

I scan the spread. It’s a protein massacre, like he expects me to fight my way through a day in the mines. There’s a knife, but it’s blunt as a spoon. The fork is the same. No metal sharp enough to use.

Bentley watches as I eat. I wonder if he’s looking for tremor, or hesitation, or any sign that I’m broken.

There is none.