Page 12 of Somno Slave

I glance over at the table with a large, expensive coffee machine and multiple paper cups. Sugar packets are spread everywhere, as are chocolate biscuits wrapped individually. There is a bin next to the station, already overfilling with an array of used cups and wrappers.

I let out a small, nervous laugh. “We don’t get this kind of treatment on the other side.”

His mouth tightens into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We make sure our staff are looked after.”

He gestures to a chair. “Sit. Get comfortable.”

“Thank you, Detective,” I say.

His mouth twitches. “If we’re working together, you can call me Peter.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe. It’s ridiculous, the small, stupid thrill that runs through me at something so simple, but I feel it anyway—sharp and private, curling low in my stomach. Not because of him, I tell myself. Because of what it means. Access. Trust. A seat at the table people like Terry Richards spent years making sure I never reached.

I keep my expression neutral, even as something smug and deeply unprofessional rises in me.

“Of course,” I reply, smooth enough this time. “Peter.”

I shrug out of my coat and drape it over the back of it before sitting.

“He’s going to be here soon.” He slides a file toward me. “Get familiar with it.”

My thumb presses lightly into the paper, feeling the faint textures of the fibres beneath the gloss.

I read the heading.

RECIPIENTS: Detective Peter Holmes; Dr Rheda Ainsley

SOURCE: Directorate—Special Case Unit

CASE ID:SCU-D/ATTOR

Personal Identifiers:

NAME RECORDED:Deogal Attor

APPROXIMATE AGE:Mid-30s (est.)

NATIONALITY:Redacted

KNOWN ALIASES: N/A

My eyes flick to his presenting status.

Subject currently non-communicative in formal interview settings.

Observed prolonged silence during standard interrogation procedures.

I pause. “He’s refusing to talk?”

Peter nods. “He hasn’t said a word since transfer or intake. Nothing. We’re taking over from the last unit that had him.”

I let my gaze drift back over the behavioural notes, the redactions interrupting the text like missing teeth. There’s a rhythm to what’s been withheld—medical, psychological, neurological. It’s hard to create a clear image in my mind when they’ve removed almost everything worthy of note.

I flip the page.

Intelligence links subject to three confirmed homicides. Further investigations ongoing.

Details classified.