Page 165 of Somno Slave

Peter remains fixed, holding onto the moment like he can keep control if he just doesn’t let go first. Blood rushes through my ears so loudly that their next words are muffled. I blink hard as if that will reset my nervous system. The seconds crawl by with no movement. Then the chair legs scrape against the floor, loud and ugly, and Peter moves. Steps back. Leaves it open.

My legs almost give way, because now I have to choose. Taking the seat feels like agreeing to something I don’t understand, but standing there feels worse. So, I sit. Slowly. Carefully. Every movement measured, like if I do it wrong the room will notice.

The metal chair is cold through my clothes. My hands find the table because they need somewhere to go, fingers flattening against steel that feels too much like an operating table waiting for something to be opened.

For a second, I can’t look at him properly. Because seeing him here—really here, under fluorescent prison light instead of the thick, distorted darkness of sleep—does something ugly to my body.

My mind keeps trying to force the two versions together. The man who stood at the edge of my bed like a secret I should have buried. The mouth at my throat. The voice in the dark, low and patient and inside me. The thing that never felt entirely like a dream and never felt safe enough to be real.

And this... orange prison uniform stretched over broad shoulders. Chains at his wrists. Concrete walls. Cameras. Observation glass. Except none of it helps because somehow, he still looks less contained than everyone else in the room, like the prison has been built around him instead of for him.

My pulse is so fast it feels violent, beating behind my eyes, a dull throbbing pressure that makes it difficult to think.

I force myself to breathe, to drag on all my professional training.

I have done this thousands of times. This doesn’t need to be any different.

“Good morning, Deogal,” I say, and my voice holds. Barely.

The silence after it stretches.

Then he leans forward. The chains shift with him, a soft metallic whisper, and something in my chest tightens so sharply it borders on pain. His gaze drags over me, slow enough to feel like touch.

For one horrible second, neither of us speaks. Then his mouth moves, just slightly.

“Doctor,” he says.

It’s the same cadence of what he whispers in the dark. Heat floods my skin so fast it feels like humiliation. My fingers tighten against the table before I realise I’m doing it.

No. No, absolutely not.

This is interrogation. This is fluorescent light and observation notes and behavioural analysis.

This is not my bedroom.

This is not a dream.

He watches the thoughts happen. I know he does, because something shifts in his expression, faint and cruel, like satisfaction. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts his cuffed hands and taps two fingers once against the table.

Tap.

Tap.

My entire body locks.

It’s disgustingly familiar. The tapping on my bathroom window a week ago. The same sound I heard before I felt him at the side of my bed. Before I convinced myself stress was making me sick.

My mouth goes dry.

Deogal smiles like a man watching the first brick loosen before the whole house comes down.

My training screams at me to recover, to regain control before Peter and the others behind the glass smell blood in the water. I straighten in the chair, even though my spine feels like it might crack under the effort.

I drag a slow breath into my lungs and make myself move. I pick up my pen. The click of it sounds far too loud. I press the tip to the paper, though the words blur for a second before they settle.

“Let’s begin,” I say, and this time my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

My other hand reaches for the file.