Page 106 of Somno Slave

I write the first thing that comes to mind.

Subject remains seated.

I add another line.

Minimal movement.

The words are too sharp. I stop and stare at them. They don’t look like mine. The words look like they’re trying to stab through the paper.

Focus.

I press the tip of my pen harder into the page until the pressure hurts, but it doesn’t help.

I move to the mousepad instead. The monitor flicks to life; first a loading screen, then my files. My fingers work quickly, almost automatically, and before I’ve fully decided to do it, I’ve selected my camera roll. The last image I’ve taken pops up on screen.

My face pales.

The screenshot.

Him.

Restrained.

Dripping with ice water...erect.

The realisation lands with a thud.

Fuck.

I move to close it, to erase it from history before anyone finds it, but my hand lingers. I don’t delete it. I look at it, really look at him.

Water streaks down the orange fabric. His skin is bruised, marked, ruined in a way that should make him easier to file under victim or threat or evidence.

His hands are cuffed together, resting on the table in front of him. I don’t know why it’s always the hands. I tell myself it’s habit, years of training and profiling. Hands tell stories. They reveal impulse and control. But this feels different, more like compulsion, as though there’s a thread tied behind my eyes, pulling my focus downward whether I want it to or not.

Long fingers.

Clean nails.

Ordinary.

I imagine blood beneath them.

I picture red seeping into the creases of his skin, collecting beneath the nails, slick and dark. I imagine those fingers curling as he positions himself at the hole in someone’s chest. I imagine warmth, thick and suffocating, and my stomach twists in betrayal.

For one split second, it feels like my hand instead, like I’m the one holding him there. My wrist burns just as fast, a dull ache and then sharpness. My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek before the thought can settle any further. The sting pulls me back just enough to breathe again. I taste copper.

My hands unclench in my lap. Re-clench. Unclench again.

I drag my attention back to the notebook. It’s a sharp reminder that I should be recording something useful. Time has passed and I haven’t done any of the work that would make this look normal if anyone glanced over.

I write another line.

No visible distress.

The words make my stomach turn.

I glance back at the screenshot.