Chapter 22

Chapter 22
Nyra 
I sit on the edge of my bunk with my shirt bunched in my fists, knuckles white. The air in my quarters feels too thin. I’ve been like this for an hour—caught between the ache to move and the fear of what movement might mean. I’ve paced. I’ve washed my face twice. I’ve stood in front of the mirror trying to recognize myself. I don’t. The door to the hallway outside his cell—it isn’t locked. I know that now. I’ve been there once already, and nothing stopped me. No alarms. No red lights flashing warnings. Just silence. Silence and that thick, invisible pull that seems to come from him even when he makes no sound at all. But tonight feels different. Heavy in a new way. The thought of standing in front of his door again makes my whole body thrum. Like something’s waiting. Like something might happen. 

I stare at the wall, fingers twitching. 
You don’t have to go. 
You already heard him growl.
You already came undone for him more times than you can count.
You’ve whispered enough. 

But the thoughts that follow are louder. More persistent. 
You need to see him again. 
You need to be closer. 

I pull my knees up to my chest, forehead resting against them. “It’s not wrong,” I whisper. “Not if I don’t touch anything. Not if I just talk.” 

But even that feels like a lie. There’s no such thing as “just” with him. Not anymore. I let out a long breath. I think of his handlers—how they tremble in the breakroom when his name is spoken. I think of the stairs, the hours I’ve spent sitting just beyond reach, trying to be satisfied with walls and distance. I’m not satisfied. I’m starving. 
And no one’s watching that hallway. 

I rise slowly, like the motion needs to be earned. My legs are stiff, knees locking. I dress without looking at myself, slip out of the room, and close the door quietly behind me. My feet already know the way. The Sublevel 3's hallway  is colder than I remember. Or maybe I’m colder. I don’t feel my feet as I step past the final steel gate, fingers grazing the sensor-plate just long enough to register presence but not intent. No one guards this section. No one watches. And no one locks it. They trust the fear to do that for them. That, and the failproof cells. The air feels vacuum-sealed, sterile and motionless. I swallow hard and move toward the final hallway. I’ve been here once before, but even now it feels like slipping into a forbidden memory. Quiet shoes. Slower breath. Hands tucked against my ribs like I can keep the air from noticing I’m here. 

The walls are grey-blue, unremarkable. I count the bulbs overhead out of habit—sixteen between the security door and his cell. Each one throws a cone of sterile light that seems to narrow the closer I get. His is the only door with no markings. Just reinforced metal, the outline of a viewport sealed shut, and the heavy bolts framing the doorframe like fangs. I stop inches from it. He’s there. I know it. Just beyond this threshold. But I don’t speak—not right away. I press my palm to the door first. Flat. Slow. A touch, not a knock. I feel the faint vibration of air recirculation and something heavier beneath it. Not sound. Not movement. Just… presence. It’s him. Still. Always. 

“I thought there were hidden cameras,” I whisper eventually, voice raw from the long walk and the weight of my heart. “That maybe they were watching from somewhere invisible. That even when I was alone, I wasn’t.” 

I rest my forehead to the metal. “But there’s nothing. Just the glitching in-cell feeds, and no one in the hallway. They made it blind. Now I think I finally understand.” I exhale. “They’re scared of you, terrified. They think that everyone is. That no one would come here willingly.” 

My voice barely echoes. “They talk like you’re a myth. Like something made of fangs and shadow. They hate facing you, even when you’re sedated. They reset the cameras like it’s a punishment, not a task. And maybe… maybe that’s something I can use.” 

I close my eyes and press in closer. 

“I think I could rise. If I ask for it. If I’m clever. I think I could become one of the ones allowed near you. Maybe even your handler. You terrify them, but you don’t terrify me.” 

Silence. Always silence. 

“I’ll climb every rung they put in front of me. Every test. Every watchlist. Every threshold. Just to stand on the other side of this door without a barrier between us.” 

My hand curls into a fist against the metal. 

“I don’t know if you hear me but I hope you do. ” My throat tightens. 

I lean into the silence, almost begging it to break. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry you’re still here. I’m sorry they put you so far down. I’m sorry they buried you for sixty years, like your voice was something to be feared instead of followed.” 

My next words come slower. Heavier. “I’m sorry for whatever they did to you. For what you had to live through. For the things they tried to make you become. I would have done anything to keep that from happening if I’d been here.” 

A shudder passes through me. 

“I don’t know if you mind me being here. If you do, I’ll stop. I’ll disappear. I just…” I falter. “I just didn’t want you to think no one cared. That no one saw you.” 

I slide down to sit on the floor, knees pulled in, back to the cold door. The corridor is silent, but I feel something shift. A breath on the other side. The weight of attention. Not imagined. Not fantasy. Real. My head tilts back until it taps the door behind me. 

“I don’t want anything from you,” I murmur. “I don’t want power or safety or answers. I just want to be where you are.” My lips part. My throat tightens. “I think I was meant to be near you.” 

The air shifts again. Barely. But enough. I wait in that space between thought and breath. My chest rises too fast. My hands press flat to the floor beside me. I count to ten. Then twenty. Then— 

“Nyra.” 

I freeze. 
The sound doesn’t come from my head. 
It comes from the other side of the door. 
Rough. Deep. Spoken like someone testing the shape of something sacred for the first time in years. 
My name. 
Not a snarl. Not a growl. 
A voice. 
His voice. 

“Say it again,” I whisper, tears prickling without permission. 

But the silence has returned. 
Still—I smile. 
He heard me. 
And he spoke.