Page 32 of Hallow’s Crown

“So is breaking a man’s jaw,” he says.

“Yours is still attached,” I point out.

He shrugs, the motion rolling through his entire frame. “Maybe next time, then.”

A silence falls, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels earned.

I watch him for a beat, then open the system’s comms line. I request a disposable uniform, one size up from Samuel’s intake record. Within seconds, the pneumatic hatch at the edge of the control room whines, and a sealed bag drops into the dispenser. I retrieve it and toss it to him.

“Put that on,” I say. “You’re about to officially be a Ministry of Enforcement trainee.”

He catches the package one-handed, tears it open with his teeth, and pulls out the black fabric. The way he dresses is unhurried. He doesn’t turn away, doesn’t cover himself, just steps into the pants and shrugs on the tunic. The blood and sweat dry into the cotton, but the clothes fit. The look suits him.

“You done with your cleanup?” he asks.

I look at the screens. “For now.”

He comes up behind me, so close I can feel the heat of his skin. He rests a hand on my shoulder, not heavy, just present.

“You’re afraid they’ll find out,” he says. Not a question.

“Not afraid,” I reply. “I plan for every outcome.”

He squeezes once, then let’s go. “You’re not the only one.”

He walks to the door, then pauses. “You gonna come find me?”

“Yes,” I say.

He grins, all teeth and contempt. “Good. Maybe I’ll be waiting and fuck you again.”

He leaves, and the door hisses closed behind him.

I stand at the console for another full minute, staring at the empty corridor loop. I let the moment sink into my bones. The risk, the rage, the want. I replay the final image: his back, straight and unbroken, even as the world tries to chew him to pieces.

I drag my hand down my face, feeling the sting of my own nails.

I’m not sure who won, but I know who I want to see lose.

The Ministry will have their due. But so will I.

I sit, reset the logs, and prepare to write the report.

The secure terminal is supposed to be unbreakable. A layered defense: biometric, dual-code, time-locked to deny even the most aggressive attacks from within the House. I open it with a fingerprint and a blood sample. The system pricks my thumb, reads the sequence, and then overlays a blank canvas.

I type the heading: MINISTRY OF ENFORCEMENT—CANDIDATE ACCEPTANCE AND TRAINING.

My fingers hover above the keys, unwilling to press forward. The air in here is too clean; the only trace of the last hour is the line of sweat drying at my collarbone and the faint taste of iron behind my teeth.

I check the logs again—nothing but a perfect stretch of normality. My hack worked.

The file for Samuel Richards populates from the database, a perfect distillation of every offense, every psych eval, every emergency room visit. I skim the early history again. The Ministry’s language is always detached: “Subject presents with escalating pattern of anti-authoritarian behavior, mitigated only by structured confinement.”

I almost laugh.

My job is to reframe it so that they will release his training to me. Otherwise… he will be taken to the Foundry.

I strip out the boilerplate, then start at the top. “Candidate demonstrates exceptional situational awareness. History of institutional violence offset by rapid adaptation to environmental pressure. Notable capacity for compliance when given explicit, rationalized authority.”