Page 36 of Psycho Pack

"Dinner's at seven," I tell him. "Though you can eat in your room if you'd rather."

He nods once, already retreating into the shadows by the window. I leave him there, closing the door softly behind me.

That night, I lie awake listening to the creak of floorboards as he explores. His footsteps pause outside my door more than once, but he never enters. When I peek out, I catch glimpses of him touching the wallpaper, the picture frames, the furniture. Learning the textures of his new world.

He doesn't sleep.

Days pass. The boy vanishes during daylight hours, finding every possible hiding spot. Closets, crawl spaces, the gap behind the library bookshelf. He acts more like a wild animal than a human. The servants leave food outside his door, but he only eats when they're gone. There's never any sign he even exists.

Father's patience wears thin quickly. He drags the boy from his sanctuaries, forces him to sit at formal dinners even though he just stares at us and refuses to take off the bandana covering his scarred lower face, demands he act "normal." But the more he pushes, the deeper my strange new brother retreats inside himself. Those blue eyes glaze over, no amount of shouting or shaking drawing him back out.

I find him in my closet one night, knees drawn up to his chest. Instead of telling anyone, I sit with my brother until dawn breaks. It becomes our routine. He hides, I keep his secrets. Sometimes I read aloud or talk softly while he listens in silence.

I'm not sure he can talk anyway.

Father never understands that his new "weapon" doesn't need force. He needs time. Space. Gentleness. But healing isn't part of General Hargrove's plan for forging the perfect soldier.

"He's broken," Father declares one evening, pacing his study while I stand at attention. "Useless. I thought he'd be a warrior when we found him covered in blood and guts, not some mute beast that cowers in dark corners."

I say nothing, keeping my face carefully blank. Father doesn't know about the training dummy I found shredded in the garden. About the dents in the stone walls shaped like massive fists. About the raw power contained in that hulking frame, held in check by iron will.

"Perhaps more aggressive methods are needed," Father muses.

"Let me work with him," I interrupt, breaking protocol. "Give me time."

Father's eyes narrow. "Time is a luxury we don't have, boy. War is coming. I need soldiers, not broken toys."

"Two weeks," I press. "If I can't make progress by then..."

"Oneweek." Father sits behind his desk, dismissing me. "Don't disappoint me, Thane."

I find my new brother in the library that night, crouched in his usual spot behind the shelves. Even though he's alone, he's still wearing that bandana. When I approach him, he reaches up, feeling the edge to make sure it's still in place.

What kind of monsters would do this to a child?

I crouch beside him in the shadows of the library shelves. "You're safe here," I say softly, keeping my distance. "No one will make you take it off."

His blue eyes dart to mine, then away. Those massive hands clench and unclench in his lap. Even sitting, he's bigger than me. But there's nothing threatening in his posture. If anything, he's trying to make himself smaller.

"Father doesn't understand," I continue, watching his reactions carefully. "But I do. Or at least, I'm trying to."

A slight tilt of his head. He's listening.

"I know you can fight. I saw what you did to the training dummy in the garden." His shoulders tense. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. But you don't have to hide your strength from me."

His eyes meet mine again, holding my gaze longer this time. There's intelligence there. Pain, yes, but also a sharp awareness that the general seems blind to.

"You're not broken," I say firmly. "You're protecting yourself. There's a difference."

He shifts, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. One hand drifts up to touch the bandana again, an unconscious gesture I've noticed he makes when nervous. His hands are so huge and strong, but he's clearly still capable of small movements.

An idea strikes me.

If he's mute, maybe there's another way he can communicate.

The library stretches around us, shelves upon shelves of knowledge. Father's pride and joy, though he rarely reads anything but military texts.

But somewhere in here...

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