Chapter 21

Chapter 21
Nyra 
The breakroom lights are dimmed. End-of-shift murmur bleeds into the space—low voices, clinks of mugs, the thud of boots against tile. Most days, no one notices me here. I’m a shadow folded into the corner, quietly sipping lukewarm coffee, pretending I don’t hear the jokes. The gossip. The exhaustion slipping into cynicism. But tonight, I do hear. Rane’s current handlers stand by the counter, one elbowing the water dispenser with practiced annoyance. I recognize them both. They don’t know I know that. They don’t know what I’ve seen. Or what I feel. They just see another face, another low-tier clearance tucked into a black uniform like the rest. The taller one—broad-shouldered, prematurely gray at the temples—grunts as he tears open a protein bar.

“I swear, if I get assigned to Sublevel 3 one more goddamn time…” 

The other handler, wiry and sleep-starved, snorts. “You’d think after two years, they’d rotate us out. But no. Just us. Because no one else wants him.” 

They don’t say his name. Of course they don’t. No one knows. I shift just slightly, careful not to draw attention, my fingers curled loosely around the mug in my lap. One of them leans back against the fridge, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“You know the hallway has no surveillance?” he mutters. “Nothing. Not a single damn camera watching our asses out there.” 

The first guy grunts again. “Of course it doesn’t. They want plausible deniability when he snaps.” 

“Inside the cages, it’s not much better,” the wiry one adds. “The in-cell feeds glitch all the damn time. Half the time I don’t even know if he’s sedated until I’m close enough to feel my skin crawl.” 

My throat tightens. 

“They won’t fix the feeds. You know that, right?” The taller man sounds bitter. “We’ve filed it ten times. They just tell us to reset them manually and ‘observe safely.’ Like that means anything with him.”  A pause. Then quieter, rougher: “He doesn’t even move most of the time. Just sits there. Staring. But you feel it. Like the room goes cold.” 

The other guy nods. “Yeah. It’s not like the others. It’s not even animal. It’s just… wrong.” 

The room feels colder now. Or maybe that’s just me. I sip from the mug, but the coffee’s gone. Still, I hold it, like a prop that says I belong here. The taller handler speaks again, voice lowered but unmistakably angry. “They keep saying he’s calmer now. Since the relocation. But they don’t care that we’re the ones facing him. That thing doesn’t forget.” 

“He’s still sedated?” 

“Every day. They pump him full. Won’t even tell us what cocktail anymore.” 

“Good,” the wiry one mutters. “One wrong blink and we’re torn in half.” 

My pulse is loud in my ears. I wait until they move on. Their voices fade into the hallway. Joking again, now that the vent is over. Now that the fear’s been swallowed. I set the empty mug down, quietly, and slip out behind them. I don’t head to my quarters. Not yet. Instead, I return to the surveillance room. It’s mostly empty this late. Just a tech assistant on rotation, yawning behind her screen. I walk past like I have a purpose, like I’ve been sent, and no one stops me. No one ever does. I take the last station in the row. The monitors blink to life. Familiar feeds, most of them passive—gamma containment, omega cooling cells, alpha-null archives that haven’t been used in years. 

Except one. Sublevel 3. Cell 01. 
Still blank. 
Still silent. 

He’s not on the screen, but I feel him anyway. Not just behind the door. But behind the silence. The fact that even the system can’t track him without clearance. As if even machines know he should not be watched without permission. I lean back. Exhale slowly. 
My skin feels too tight. 
My body too loud. 

The hallway has no cameras. 
The in-cell ones glitch. 
And I feel it—that flicker. That spark of maybe. 

Maybe now… I could get closer. 
Not just whisper through concrete. 

Not just get the remnants of his scent. But touch the door. Stand on the other side of that feed and know he’s there. 

Not for protocol. 
Not for control. 
But because I want to. 
Because I have to. 

I sit at the base of the stairwell. My legs are drawn tight to my chest, arms wrapped around them, chin tucked low. The stairs are dark, pulsing faint with red emergency light. No sound. Just the weight of my breath. I imagine him on the other side of the cell wall. Not pacing. Not crouched. Just… watching. Always watching. 

“They said you’re calmer,” I whisper. 

No answer. Of course not. “But I know it’s not because they moved you.” 

I press my forehead to my knees. “It’s because of me. Isn’t it?” 

I don’t know where the words come from. They just rise, like breath through cracked lungs. 

“I shouldn’t feel this way. I know that. I shouldn’t… need you.” 

The silence holds. “I heard them. About how they think you’re always watching, waiting to tear them apart.” 

I laugh, but it’s cracked at the edges. Not real. The wall across from me is bare. Plain cement and layered paint. But I see him anyway. Behind it. Inside it. Everywhere I can’t reach. 

“Do you know what I’d do to be in there with you?” 

The thought should terrify me. It doesn’t. It’s not about danger anymore. It’s about proximity. I shift, lean my head back against the railing. 

“You’ve been here so long,” I whisper. “Sixty damn years.” 

My eyes sting. I let them. “And they still don’t understand you. They keep you here like a bomb. But I don’t think you’re waiting to explode. I think you already have. And they just haven’t noticed what’s burning.” 

My voice is hoarse now. Dry. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of never reaching you.” 

The silence sharpens. 

“If I came to the door… would you growl again?” 

I don’t expect an answer. But my body aches with the question. And somewhere in the dark, I swear I feel the air shift.