Page 109 of Somno Slave

Something sick rolls low in me.

The sound is still there in my head.

Come here.

I clamp down on the thought hard enough to hurt.

“Rheda,” Mike says carefully, “are you sure you heard him speak?”

“Yes.” I say too quickly.

Mike runs a hand down his face and exhales. His brows furrow, lines cutting into his forehead as he stares at the monitor like he’s not able to look me in the eye.

“Could’ve been... I don’t know,” he mutters, searching for something safe. “The intercom? Feedback?”

No.

“I know the difference between a machine and a voice. I know what I heard.”

I turn my gaze to the glass again, throat tight.

Deogal sits with his head bowed as if the last five minutes never happened. As if he hasn’t just reached through the room and wrapped something around my mind.

No.

Stop.

What the fuck are you thinking?

This is real life. Cameras don’t ignore the truth.

I made it up. I must have.

I force a slow inhale. The air tastes like warm electrics. I make my face to do what I’ve trained it to do: soften and neutralise.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I think I just...”

My laugh catches halfway out. “God, I don’t know. Maybe I’m more tired than I thought.”

Mike smiles. Relief flickers across his face so fast it’s almost insulting.

“Hey,” he says, gentler. “You’re not dramatic. You’re just—” he pauses, searching for the right word, but fails. He exhales. “This case is a lot.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s a lot and I’m tired. That’s all.”

I pick my pen up off the desk with careful fingers, like I’m holding something fragile. My hand trembles once. I force it still.

I glance at my notebook, at the page still open.

Subject seated. Minimal movement.

I stare at it. My pen moves.

No vocalisations.

I add slowly, almost like if I write it down, it will become true.

Mike shifts beside me, trying to reset the atmosphere. He taps the edge of his book with two fingers, like it’s a harmless offering.