Page 88 of Somno Slave

His head is tilted slightly backward, just enough that the line of his throat is visible beneath the collar of the jumpsuit. The fabric is still damp in places, clinging and drying in uneven patches that reshape him in ways I don’t want to notice, but I notice anyway.

His hair hangs loose today, darker where it hasn’t fully dried at the roots, pushed back from his face just enough to expose the sharpness of his jaw. For a second, one sharp, irrational second, something in my chest seizes. It’s brief, almost non-existent, but it looks almost...familiar. Like I’ve been here before. Like I’ve seen this before.

My thighs press together, and immediately guilt drags through me.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this. Not here. Not abouthim.

This isn’t a lingering clinical curiosity; there is no analysis here.

I press my lips together, forcing my expression back into something neutral, but I know it doesn’t sit right across my face. My pulse picks up like it’s trying to betray me from the inside out.

Get a fucking grip.

The quiet hum of the monitors fills the space, pressing in around the edges of my focus. I try to anchor to it. To the screens. To the structure of this—watch, assess, record.

Notfeel.

“Alright,” Peter says eventually, voice cutting cleanly through the stillness. He doesn’t look at us when he speaks, eyes stillfixed through the glass. “That’s enough for tonight. Log what you’ve got and go. Rheda and I will take over from here.”

Mike exhales first, long and relieved, like he’s been holding it in without realising. He leans back from the desk, dragging a hand down his face. “Finally.”

Sean pushes himself upright beside him, rolling his shoulders out, working the tension free. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the relief as he collects his belongings a beat too fast.

Chairs scrape softly against the floor as they move, the small, ordinary sounds of packing up filling the room—keys, a muttered comment, the rustle of fabric. It’s routine, practiced, easy in a way this never should be, and I lean into it.

The door opens and a brief spill of colder air pours into the room.

“Night,” Mike says, leading the way. Sean follows quickly but doesn’t say anything. He just lifts his hand and gives a jut of his chin. The door shuts with a dull, final click.

Peter turns to me.

“You look pale.” He says almost immediately like it’s been on his mind since he entered.

I blink, refocus, drag myself back into the room. He’s standing beside me, arms crossed, his gaze moving between my face and the glass.

“I’m fine,” I say. The lie comes out smooth.

His brow furrows slightly. “You sure?”

“Yes.” I meet his eyes this time, steady. “I’ve always been pale. I work too much.”

I force a smile, but he doesn’t return it. His gaze lingers for a beat too long, and then he exhales, dropping into his chair; the tension in his shoulders is visible even when he tries to settle.

His attention shifts back to the glass, jaw tightening.

“I can’t wait for the sixteenth,” he says, a faint smile touches his mouth. “Then we’re done with him.”

The words hang in the space between us, too neat for what they mean. There’s a quiet shift beside me before I can respond. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, fingers searching before closing around something small. A soft crinkle follows as he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, tapping one loose with practiced ease.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks, already reaching for his lighter.

“Go for it,” I say.

“Nasty habit,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, slipping the cigarette between his lips. “Wife made me give it up about ten years ago.”

He flicks the dial; the flame flares briefly, sharp in the dimness before settling. The tip catches, ember blooming as he draws in slowly. The inhale stretches a second longer than it needs to, before he leans back into the chair, shoulders easing. Smoke leaves him in a thin, steady stream.

“Want one?” He tilts the pack toward me.