Page 8 of Somno Slave

“I love it.” The answer comes easily, too easily. I steady it. “I like working with the patients. Understanding their motives.”

“Hmm.” It’s not approval but not quite dismissal either.

He watches me long enough that I feel it settle under my skin like I’ve said something he’s still turning over.

“I spoke to your colleagues,” he says after a moment. “They described you as a ‘mind reader’.”

The words land before I can prepare for them.

Heat rises, quick and unwelcome. “Did Terry tell you that?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.

I drag in a slow steading breath.

“Body language expert,” I clarify, “That’s what I do.”

My voice drops. “They don’t believe me.”

He holds my gaze until it starts to feel deliberate. Then his attention drops. His pen finds the number of cases and circles it once, slow, precise.

“You’ve worked with one hundred and thirty-three patients so far this year.” His pen stills against the paper. “That’s more than ten times the others. How do you fit it all in?”

“I don’t sleep as much as them.” It comes out flatter than I mean it to.

He hums, nodding his head like I’ve answered a question he hasn’t asked yet. “Good to know,”

There’s no follow-up question, nothing. He just closes the file then, the sound quiet but final. He rises from the seat in the same unhurried way, like nothing about the moment requires urgency. His fingers lift just slightly for the guards to move, and then he stops, just briefly.

Something sharp pulls beneath my ribs.

“Wait,” I say. The word leaves my mouth before doubt can catch it. “Is there a case you need me for, Detective?”

“There’s always a case. The question is whether you’re useful on it.”

“I’m useful.” I say too quickly, the words rushing out. “What do you need? An assessment? A confession? I can do it.”

“Miss Ainsley, this isn’t just any case.” He pins me with his gaze. “This is a class M criminal.”

Class M.

Something dark and eager wakes up in me before I can suppress it. It shouldn’t spark anything warm or bright in my chest, that letter. And yet, I feel the quiet glint of interest sharpening behind my eyes. I don’t smile openly. That would be unprofessional. But something in me stretches awake.

M is the code for multiple murders. It’s not ordinary violence, not men contained by routine, process or appeal. Class M is different. These are the ones who crossed something invisible and never came back. M stands for monster. M is a sentencing straight to Hell.

At least, that’s what I think.

Nobody says it out loud, but you learn to recognise the gaps: the missing files; the closed doors; the way certain names are never spoken twice. Whatever Class M is... It isn’t meant to be understood.

“I can help.” I say suddenly.

He doesn’t answer straight away. Doesn’t move either. The silence sits there, deliberate, like he’s giving the words time to settle—and fail on their own.

“I’m not convinced,” he says at last, voice clipped, already edging toward dismissal.

“You said it yourself,” My pulse is too loud in my throat now, but I keep my face still. “I have over a hundred successful cases this year. What more could you possibly want in a doctor?”

“I’m not looking for help,” he says. “I just need a signature.”