Page 183 of Somno Slave

I watch myself enter. On screen, I look composed. That is the worst part. My body is folding in on itself, but the camera keeps me clean. Professional. Untouched. There is a fractional delay at the threshold and I see it immediately. It’s subtle enough that it wouldn’t be noted in a standard review—no hesitation in posture, no visible falter—but I know what I’m looking for now. The smallest disruptions. Things that don’t belong.

My hand tightens slightly around the mouse.

Frame by frame, I move forward.

I step inside. The door seals behind me. My shoulders draw in just slightly, almost imperceptibly, but I see it. I catalogue it. My body bracing before I consciously register why.

I advance the footage.

Peter is already seated. His posture is as expected: forward-leaning, engaged, controlled. The guards are in position. Deogal sits exactly where he should be, restrained, still.

I pause.

Rewind.

Play.

He does not move, not even a fraction. My eyes narrow, tracking him with a precision that borders on fixation. The footage continues, it confirms what I think happened.

I remember sitting.

I remember him speaking.

I remember—

My throat tightens.

The interaction unfolds exactly as it should with questions and responses. Peter interjecting, silence stretching where expected. Deogal speaks, but only when prompted. His gaze remains locked on me.

I watch his face, every frame, every micro-adjustment. The way he looks at me like I’m a source of amusement.

I lean closer to the screen, as if proximity will reveal something I’ve missed. My eyes begin to ache, but I don’t stop. I can’t, because if I do, I have to believe that this ball of dread in my stomach is unfounded.

I scrub back.

Play.

Pause.

My hand lifts unconsciously to my wrist. I slip under the bracelet. My thumb grinds into the skin until pain blooms hot and mean beneath it. I want a mark. I want something ugly enough to trust. A bruise. A split. A ring of broken capillaries. Anything that proves my body isn’t inventing its own evidence.

But the skin stays smooth like nothing touched me.

The door opens behind me. I don’t hear it at first, only the shift in air. The faint change in pressure that pulls my attention away from the screen a fraction too late.

“Rheda.” Peter’s voice lands low.

I turn.

He stands in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame like even he is reluctant to cross the threshold. His posture is controlled, as always, but there’s something off in it. Something held too tightly beneath the surface.

My spine straightens automatically. “Yes?”

His eyes flick briefly to the paused footage, then back to me again, sharper now.

“You’ve attracted attention.” His eyes stay on mine when he adds, “Headquarters are here.”

For a second, I don’t understand the words.