Page 153 of Somno Slave

I nod. “Sounds perfect.”

I barely hear whatever he says next. The words pass straight through me, meaningless noise filling space. There’s no world where I’m actually following through with this. I’ll cancel later. Family emergency. A sick neighbour. Lost my phone. Something easy, something forgettable. I’ll invent it when I need to.

For now, I lean a little closer.

Mike looks like I’ve handed him something precious. His eyes go wide, bright and open, all that startled hope spilling across his face so plainly it almost feels intimate to witness.

I know I should feel guilty. I should feel the sting of it somewhere—some decent, human part of me should recoil at the fact I’m using him like this, pulling on his feelings just to satisfy something ugly in myself. I wait for that guilt to arrive.

Nothing.

It’s unsettling how little there is. Just a strange, cold emptiness where compassion should be. Because the truth is, none of this matters. Not Mike, not the drink, not the lie I’m already building.

There is only him and I can’t keep starving myself of it.

I look at Deogal.

My grip on the pen slips for half a second. Ink blooms across the page in a dark, ugly blot.

Fuck.

He’s staring. Atus.

Cold crashes down my spine so fast it almost steals my breath. Every part of me goes still. The thrill drains out of me all at once, leaving something colder behind, something sharper. Fear, immediate and absolute.

I wanted a glance, a reaction I could control. Something safe enough to pretend it meant nothing...

Not this. Not the full weight of his attention landing on me like a hand around my throat.

“Oh, no.” The words leave me before I realise I’ve said them aloud.

Beside me, Mike follows my line of sight—and freezes.

“Shit,” he whispers.

It feels like the room forgets how to breathe.

Everything goes unnaturally still, stretched thin and tight, like the air itself is waiting for something to happen. The hum of the fluorescent lights grows louder. I can hear Mike swallowing beside me. I can hear my own pulse, heavy and violent, beating in places it shouldn’t—my throat, my wrists, between my ribs.

Deogal doesn’t blink.

I suddenly become aware of everything—how close I’m sitting to Mike, the angle of my body, the heat still trapped in my face, the stupid pen in my hand, the evidence of the ink blot spreading like a confession across the page.

It feels obscene, like being caught touching myself. And worse—some part of me, some sick and humiliating part, is thrilled he noticed.

“What do we do?” Mike’s voice comes out smaller than usual, thin with nerves.

I swallow hard and force myself not to move too quickly, like the wrong shift of my body might set something off.

“He can’t see us,” I say carefully, keeping my own voice low, steady. “It’s one-way glass. Just... watch what he does next.”

“I know, but...” Mike trails off. His words die somewhere in his throat. I hear him choke on a breath. He inhales again, too fast.

“Oh my God,” he says, barely above a whisper. “He’s looking at me.”

I glance back at Deogal andfuck, his gaze is fixed.

There is something vicious in it, something so cold and concentrated it feels like the air has thinned around us. His eyes are too dark, too still like they’ve swallowed light instead ofreflecting it, and all of that attention is pinned straight through Mike like a blade.