Page 76 of Somno Slave

The screen pauses. I’m sure it’ll flash denial in angry red font, my attempt logged and flagged, guards storming in before I can even stand.

And then—

I’m in.

A rush of adrenaline nearly makes me laugh out loud. I shove a hand over my mouth before the noise can escape and force my heart to stop thrashing so hard in my chest.

My fingers shake when I move the mouse.

A case list stares back at me. I scroll, searching for the right ID number. I find it almost immediately.

135166

Attor, Deogal.

I click.

The file is insultingly thin on here, too. I can only make out three short phrases with the rest redacted by thick black lines.

Serial homicide.

Psychosexual deviation.

Sexual sadism.

I inhale—and it sticks.

I get caught on the repeated sexual motif and heat floods my skin too quickly.

I’ve studied this. Years of it—case files, interviews, patterns that blur into each other if you let them. Sexual depravity has never bothered me before. But now...I feel the shift before I can stop it, something in me leaningininstead of pulling back, searching for meaning in a way that feels far too personal.

I want answers.

The thought lands harder than anything else.

I need to know what those labels mean.

I press the pad of my thumb into my knee until it hurts.

I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself to be careful. And yet, I can’t seem to remove the memory of his eyes from my mind. They seem to follow me even here, alone in a room on the other side of the prison.

I reach for my water, pressing the cold plastic to my palm as if it might cool the heat creeping into my cheeks but it doesn’t work.

Something on the screen catches my eye. A small video icon.

My hand moves before I can stop it, clicking through as a grey portal flashes open, rows of dates and timestamps lining up in neat, clinical order.

My eyes skim without really seeing, numbers blurring past until one catches, something recent enough to tighten my focus, and beside it—a still frame.

It’s small. Grainy. Easy to miss. But something in me stills when I see it. I recognise the scene immediately. Peter’s behind Deogal, arm angled in a choke.

My pulse kicks, sharp and immediate.

I know what that video leads to. I know what I could watch again.

I shouldn’t—

I exit the video, but then bring it up again almost immediately. The click is deafening.