He lifts the blade.

Not fast.Not clean.

Just enough to tear the surface.

The sound he makes as skin separates from cornea is guttural.

He stops halfway.

So I turn up the volume on the intercom.

“You didn’t stop when I asked you to.”

He presses the blade harder.

The first scream is hoarse.

The second is pure terror.

He drops the scalpel.Clutches his face.Writhes on the floor, howling, blood and fluid already collecting from the corner of his eye.

I drop the gauze in.

“Other side tomorrow,” I say.

Then I close the hatch, mute the speakers, and shut off the lights, and walk away.Not because I’m finished.

But because I want him to spend the whole night wondering if I am.

61

Gillian

The eye didn’t rupture.

That’s the only reason I haven’t ended it.

He bled.He screamed.He clawed at the floor until his nails cracked.But the globe didn’t burst.Which means there’s just enough tissue intact for him to learn something.

And that’s all I ever wanted.

I sit outside the panic room, knees up, arms draped across them.I haven’t slept in days.Doesn’t matter.I don’t need rest.I need proof.I’ve had pain.I’ve had silence.But this—this is different.He’s not going to die until he sees what he turned me into.

The lights flicker once, barely noticeable but wrong all the same.

Not in the room.Out here.

Subtle.But wrong.

Then the security panel chirps.

One badge scan.Low tone.Internal user.

I thought I’d disabled that.

I rise slowly, hands already moving—toward the knife in my pocket, the exit plan I’d built line by line just in case this happened.The screen flashes.

ACCESS GRANTED – HELPER 99