Page 150 of Somno Slave

“Morning,” I say automatically.

He doesn’t even look up. His eyes remain peeled on the newspaper in front of him, eyebrows knitted together, lip curled. He mumbles something under his breath, but I don’t stop to respond. I keep moving through the hallways, past the reinforced steel doors.

I make it halfway down the corridor before my isolation is interrupted.

Mike.

He’s leaning against the door outside of the right side of the wing, scrolling on his phone, coffee balanced precariously in his other hand. As soon as he sees me, he pockets his phone, attention snapping into place.

“Good morning,” he says, his lips already stretching into a smile. Then, it falters. He lets out a short, nervous laugh.

“You look...” he starts, then pauses, forcing his stiff lips into a wide grin. “Great! Have you done something new with your hair?”

Lie.

I see it before the words have even finished leaving his mouth, in the way his eyes dart briefly to the side before settling somewhere above my forehead, anywhere but directly on me. He can’t hold my gaze, and that says enough.

I try to smile. My hands move automatically to smooth down the knots I haven’t properly brushed out after my shower.

He reaches to hold the door for me, awkwardly sticking his foot out to stop the heavy slab from swinging shut. It doesn’t work. The door lurches back toward my face, and I catch it with my hand before it can hit me.

I slip through quickly, trying to put a few paces between us. My head is pounding, thick and relentless behind my eyes, and I’m not in the mood for conversation. But he catches up almost immediately.

“Just us today.” He beams. “Peter’s just finishing up some notes, then he’ll be heading out.”

“Okay.”

“We’re still not to engage with him,” he continues, hurrying a few paces ahead so he can grab the next door before I reach it. “Just babysitting.”

His smile stretches too wide, eyes bright with the kind of nervous energy that makes me more tired just looking at him. He opens his mouth again, like he’s about to say something else.

I step past him before he gets the chance. “Okay.”

He falls back into step beside me anyway. I keep my eyes fixed on the viewing room door at the end of the corridor.

When we push inside, Peter’s hunched onto a console with a stack of files spread around him. His glasses sit low on his nose as he reads, pen moving slowly across a page. He glances up briefly when we enter.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Mike replies cheerfully.

I murmur something that vaguely resembles the same word, dropping my bag and coat in the usual place. I take my seat, keep my eyes low, busy on retrieving my notebook and pen. I play it cool. Unbothered like this is just another long shift I’m settling down for.

“Vitals were normal overnight,” Peter says without looking up. He shuffles a few pages together and scribbles something in the margin. “No disturbances. No unusual movements.”

Mike drops into the chair beside me with far too much ease.

“Guy’s basically a statue,” he says.

Peter finishes the last line of whatever he’s writing, caps his pen with a soft click, and finally pushes back from the desk.

“Alright,” he says, stacking the reports into a neat pile. “You know the drill. Keep an eye on him and log any changes.”

Mike nods immediately. “Got it.”

Peter looks at me.

“Sure,” I answer, a little too quickly.