Not yet.
I step away from the table and move toward the bed, stopping just short of it as I look at the bag they placed there. It sits unopened and untouched, waiting for me to acknowledge the space as mine, waiting for me to accept something I have already decided I will not.
I do not unpack.
I do not claim it.
Instead, I turn away and continue mapping the room in my head, every step measured and every movement intentional. The door, the console, the ventilation system, the lighting panels, and the seams in the walls are all cataloged, stored, and evaluated in silence.
He is unstable.
That matters.
But instability without consequence is not weakness; it is permission.
I press my fingers lightly against the side of my face, feeling the lingering heat where he struck me. The sting has dulled into something manageable, but the memory of the impact remains sharp and precise, and I hold onto it because pain is information. It tells me where the boundaries are, how far he is willing to go, and how quickly this situation will escalate.
I lower my hand and exhale slowly.
“You’re burning time,” I murmur to myself, my voice quiet but steady.
Time is the only resource I cannot recover.
I move back to the console and activate it, letting the interface bloom into existence in front of me. The system responds smoothly, presenting a controlled set of options that are clearly filtered—environmental adjustments, communication requests, and schedule access. Everything is restricted, curated, and deliberately limited.
I navigate carefully, not pushing too hard, because systems like this are designed to flag irregular behavior. Drawing attention now would be a mistake.
“Alright,” I say under my breath. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
The schedule appears first, and it is sparse in a way that feels intentional. Every entry revolves around him, structured around meetings, private sessions, and religious observances, with no allowance for independent movement or unsupervised time.
I shift to communications and find external channels locked, leaving only internal routing available.
That is expected.
I lean back slightly, letting the interface dim as I process what I have learned. This is not a place designed for negotiation or mutual function; it is a place designed for control, and control of this magnitude does not allow for voluntary departure.
Which means leaving will not be permitted.
Which means I will have to take it.
A sharper chime sounds at the door, and this time the tone is different.
“Enter,” I say.
The door opens immediately, and Lorens steps inside without hesitation or announcement, his presence filling the room with the same rigid tension he carried before. His gazesweeps across the space first, verifying that everything is exactly as it should be, before settling on me with cold precision.
“You will attend the evening observance,” he says.
“I was not informed of a schedule,” I reply.
“You are being informed now.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Then I will require appropriate context.”
His expression tightens immediately. “You will require nothing.”
“I will function more effectively with information,” I say.
