Page 6 of Somno Slave

Rheda

The noise of the prison presses behind my eyes, dull and constant, like it has rooted itself somewhere in the back of my skull. I’ve spent enough nights in this interrogation room to know that the sound should have dissolved into the rest of it—the ventilation, the distant footsteps, the old building settling around itself, but tonight it feels louder, older, like the room is holding its breath.

The room is ordinary in the way places like this always are: one metal table with three chairs that don’t match and grey walls. I notice things I don’t mean to. A smear on the table. The sharp taste of disinfectant at the back of my throat. It never switches off.

I stifle a yawn behind my hand and glance at the clock.

04:17 a.m.

Too late for a new case but not early enough to refuse one. Not that I could refuse one even if I wanted to.

This is the real cost of being a criminal psychologist: not the danger, not the cases, it’s that none of my time belongs to me anymore. I’ve answered calls mid-shower, left meals untouched on the counter, fallen asleep in clothes I don’t remember putting on. Even at home, a part of me is always listening for the ring of my phone, the sharp summon back into bright lights and locked doors, to diagnose and sentence criminals too violent to see real light again.

And yet, my colleagues don’t share this problem. They leave in pairs, laughing, talking about things that have nothing to dowith this place. I don’t get invited into those conversations. I stopped expecting to.

It’s been this way for six years.

I thought it would ease as I proved myself, but the men still look at me in meetings and assume I’m there to listen, not participate. They act like because I didn’t move through university the way they did, that I’m somehow lesser; as if my education came stampedinferiorbecause it was earned sideways, in borrowed hours and second-hand books instead of lecture halls with oak-panelled walls. They act as if that makes me an intruder here, working alongside them instead of beneath them where they think I belong.

Terry Richards, in particular. Three ranks my senior. He still hands me the kettle in meetings and doesn’t look at me when he does it like he knows I can’t refuse. He asks me to take notes, explains behavioural therapy back to me like I didn’t claw my way through the same exams he did—only quieter, only harder.

I glance at the clock again.

04:29 a.m.

Still nothing.

My jaw tightens once. I let it go. I refuse to give the room the satisfaction of watching me fray, but a familiar thought creeps in, nonetheless.

They may have called me in just to remind me they can.

It happens often enough to have a pattern. At least once a month, I’m summoned at some obscene hour, left to sit alone in this god-forsaken room, waiting for something that never materialises. Just a reminder that my time is theirs and that professionalism means swallowing it.

My fingers flex under the table, once, then still.

I push back from the chair. I take one step toward the door, and for a moment it feels like the right decision until I stop, held there by the quiet awareness of how easily it could be the wrongone. Because there’s always the other possibility of transport delays. A restraint issue or a paperwork snag. A single mishap that costs ten minutes and makes a fool of anyone impatient enough to leave.

I exhale slowly through my nose and bring myself back into place. I hook two fingers under the chair and pull it in by an inch until it sits square to the table. The scrape is minimal, but in this room, it still sounds too loud. I soften it with my palm.

When I sit again, my posture is immaculate. My face settles into neutrality, and whatever irritation is left stays contained.

The hour ticks by.

Then, just as I feel my eyelids drooping, the door opens behind me.

I hear the soft scuff of sensible shoes against polished floor—measured, unhurried. For a beat, I assume it’s one of the junior officers sent to relay instructions or deliver paperwork. I turn in my chair, already preparing to nod and listen.

And for a second, something in me misfires.

Three men. Armed. Their uniforms are cold and thick, and there is a badge on their left breast that I’ve never seen before: a thin slash of paint curved into a red circle.

They look at me with the kind of alertness usually reserved for problems.

I simply stare back. My thoughts refuse to make sense of what is happening.

The sight of the man in the middle lands slowly. He’s taller than the other two, with wider shoulders and a sharp posture. I’d place him in his sixties, though the deep folding of his face show that this job has aged him prematurely.

He has his suit jacket folded neatly over one arm, his tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion without admitting to it. The fluorescent light catches in the grey at his temples, in the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. He looks tired. Not worndown...loaded,like someone carrying a weight he hasn’t decided where to put yet. But it’s the tense popping of the muscle in his jaw which unnerves me.