Page 137 of Somno Slave

Deogal shifts.

It’s subtle. A minute adjustment of his shoulders against the back of the chair. His spine bends a fraction before straightening again. His jaw tightens briefly, muscles in his temple flicking slightly.

Then he stills.

14:12:45.

Back to statue.

I still haven’t taken a breath.

Peter straightens slowly.

“Discomfort.” He says at last.

Sean nods. “Looks like it.”

I keep my expression calm, interested but not invested. I flatten my fingers on my notebook to hide the tremor.

Sean minimises the footage and brings the monitor display back up. He resumes typing. “So, no behavioural trigger.”

“No trigger,” Peter echoes. He looks lost in his thoughts as though turning over a decision in his mind. Then, he finally speaks. “If he’s physically uncomfortable, we lean into that.” He folds his arms. “Let’s see how long he lasts.”

Let’s see how long he lasts.

My mind betrays me immediately. Torchlight. Stone slick with damp. The narrow chamber closing in like a throat.

I look at Peter. Their cadence is the same, both have that righteous patience.

My chest seizes. For the smallest fraction of a second, the corners of his mouth shift, the ghost of something that might have been a smile threatening to surface.

My stomach lurches violently.

No.

Peter is not one of them.

He is not standing in robes beside a drowning boy.

He is not—

“Isolation works,” he continues. “Eventually, he will start talking to fill the silence.”

My fingers tighten around my pen until the plastic bites into my skin.

Sean looks up. “You think he’s almost there?”

Peter stands. His hand slips beneath the mousepad, followed by a quiet metallic drag. He straightens too quickly afterwards, already distracted, already moving toward the door before the thought fully lands in me.

My eyes narrow on it.

The realisation comes a beat later.

The key for the filing cabinet. For the photographs.

It remains hidden beneath the pad.

My heart slams against my ribcage.