I should’ve remembered the taste of Leni’s burnt coffee. That was the first wrong thing. A tray waited on the little table by the hearth, polished wood carved into briars that tried too hard to look like flowers. Broth steamed in a bowl like it had been ladled out in a hospital break room, not in a place that could take a person’s name and tuck it into a drawer. Bread sat beside a sliver of something pale and sharp-smelling—ginger, maybe. Smoke, definitely. I lifted the spoon and held it there, waiting for the memory to jump up and bite me. Nothing. No rig bay. No Leni leaning in my space, calling me “Sofi” like it meant home. Not even the blurry edge of her laugh. Just a clean, bright gap where a piece of my life should’ve been. My fingers eased the spoon back to the bowl. The fire snapped and settled, warm and ordinary, and the normalcy made my skin crawl. Someone had reached into my head again. Quick work. Neat. No mess on the floor. The door chimed—one polite note—and the lock sigil dulled. Permission granted. Corridor assigned. A leash with ribbon on it. “Okay,” I told the empty room. My voice came out thin. “You wanna do this? Fine.” Stone bit at my bare feet when I stood. The floor held onto the night’s chill like it had a grudge, and the black thorn inlay under my toes forked and branched in glossy lines. When I shifted my weight, the pattern seemed to move a fraction—not visibly, not like a trick. More like the building noticed me and adjusted its grip. The corridor smelled like crushed leaves and cold metal the second I stepped out. It hit the back of my throat the way subway air does when you’ve been underground too long. Everything shone. Walls, trim, even the seams. Like polish could stand in for permission. Two guards waited down the hall, faces swallowed by dark helms. No names. No curiosity. Between them stood Rafe Nash, armor dark, hands empty, posture locked. “You will walk the courtesy route.” No contraction. No softness. “I’ll walk.” I met his gaze and didn’t blink. “Route’s negotiable.” His jaw worked once, like he’d swallowed a word whole. “It is not.” “Love that for you.” I stepped forward anyway. Rafe fell in a half-step behind me. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to stop me if I bolted. The hall curved left toward the guest wing—safe rooms dressed up with pretty stonework and comfort that didn’t mean freedom. The right side ran darker, that leaf-and-metal scent sharpening into something papery. Records. Offices. Holding. I turned right. The thorn inlay slid under my feet as if it had been waiting for that decision. A soft chime rose from the walls—warning or witness. Rafe didn’t change pace. “Turn.” “Not happening.” I kept walking. The corridor tightened by a fraction. No grinding stone, no dramatic shift—just less air. The ceiling’s gleam felt lower. My shoulders pulled in, small and angry. Ahead, an ornate archway waited—wrought iron threaded with briar motifs, too decorative for a simple door. Dry paper smell drifted from beyond it, like old forms baking under a heat vent. My skin prickled with recognition I didn’t want to have. I angled toward the archway. The floor didn’t move under me. It moved around me. My next step landed half a foot left. Then another. The hall bent my path with gentle insistence, never admitting it had done anything at all. “Cute,” I called, loud enough for the walls to hear. “You don’t block me. You just… herd.” Rafe stayed quiet. Fine. New tactic. I slowed. Let my shoulders sag like I’d accepted the “courtesy route.” I drifted back toward the safer curve, the one that smelled more like wax than metal. Two steps. Three. Then I cut hard, aiming straight for the archway. Pain lanced behind my eyes, sharp and immediate. Not a headache. Pressure, invasive, like a thumb jammed into the place between thought and bone. My knees went soft. I caught myself on the wall, palm sliding over stone slick as glass. Iron flooded my mouth. My tongue prickled like I’d bitten it. Rafe was there, fast. He didn’t grab me. He just shifted into my line like a door that had learned to breathe. “Do not.” The pressure pulsed once. A warning. A bill. I forced air in through my nose and out through my mouth, slow enough to keep my hands from shaking. EMT training didn’t care where you were. It just demanded you start somewhere. “You gonna tell me where the humans are,” I murmured, “or do I keep finding out how much this place enjoys hurting me?” Rafe stared like his face had been carved for this exact job. “You are collateral.” “Yeah.” I pushed off the wall, mouth tight. “Collateral can still bleed.” His gaze flicked to my hand. A smear of dark on my palm—soot, maybe. Or something the floor had taken as interest. The inlay beneath my feet looked a shade darker, like it had been fed. The pressure eased. Not gone. Waiting. We walked on. The corridor smoothed itself back out, pretending it hadn’t just tried to rearrange my brain. Mirrors lived in the shine if you looked too long. I didn’t. A fork appeared ahead—one passage screened by carved panels, decorative and pointless. Fae loved their pretty barriers. Rafe’s steps slowed. That should’ve warned me. It didn’t. A sound slipped through the gap. Not a voice. A wet rasp, thin and ragged, breath scraping over something too dry. My body moved before my thoughts lined up. Head turned. Feet angled. Hands flexed, ready to do what they always did—help first, ask permission later. “Continue.” Rafe’s voice cut clean through my shift. The rasp came again. Shorter. Panicked. I stopped anyway. The air tightened around my ribs, counting my breaths like it owned them. “There’s someone back there.” “It is not your concern.” “Funny,” I muttered, and my knees bent like they’d made the choice without me. “That’s literally my job.” I stepped toward the screen. Pressure flashed behind my eyes, sharper than before, like a fuse burning down. Rafe moved to block me. Still no hands. Still no violence. Just his body between me and the sound, a rule with a pulse. “You are directed to the clerks,” he warned. “You will comply.” A thump followed the rasp. A body hitting stone. My throat clenched so hard it hurt. A bus crash flickered through me—metal screaming, people pinned, my hands frozen for seconds that felt like hours. A teenager’s face, mouth open, waiting for me to move. Not again. “I’m going,” I said, and my voice didn’t ask. I slipped past Rafe’s shoulder. He could’ve stopped me. He didn’t touch me. The screen smelled like varnish and old flowers. Behind it, the papery dryness thickened, layered with sweat and something sour that turned my stomach. Fear had a smell. Human fear did, anyway—bile, salt, breath that didn’t believe in tomorrow. An alcove opened up, tucked out of sight like a mistake someone tried to decorate over. A person lay on the stone, half-curled, trying to shrink smaller than the space would allow. I dropped to my knees. Their face turned toward me. Eyes too wide. Skin gone gray with exhaustion. No name. No context. Just a body that was still making breath, even if it had to fight for every scrape of it. “Hey.” My voice softened without permission. “Look at me. Breathe with me, okay?” Their chest hitched. The rasp lived deep, like the airway was trying to close shop. My fingers found their neck. Pulse—fast, thin, skittering. Their skin felt wrong, too cold in a way weather didn’t make. Court chill, maybe. The kind that slid under bargains and sat in your bones. “Can you tell me your name?” I asked. Their lips moved. Nothing came out. Their gaze snapped toward the corridor, terror bright and sharp. “It’s okay.” I kept my hands steady. “Don’t talk. Just stay here.” I shifted them carefully, rolling them more onto their side. Stone scraped their shoulder blade. They winced, and the next breath came a fraction easier. A low chime rang out. Not from the screen. From the walls. Something stamped itself into the air: INTERFERENCE. My next inhale stopped halfway, like someone cinched a belt around my lungs. Iron surged across my tongue again, thick and metallic. The person’s eyes widened as they watched me struggle, and they tried to pull away—weak, frantic—as if they understood I was being punished for touching them. “No.” I caught their wrist, gentle but firm. Their skin was cold as a winter rail. “Don’t waste it. Stay with me.” Pressure stabbed behind my eyes. Spots sparked at the edge of my vision. The alcove seemed to shrink with every breath, stone inching closer. Rafe’s boots stopped at the alcove’s edge. He stayed outside the screen, like he could observe without being responsible. “Cease.” I didn’t look at him. “They can’t breathe.” “They are held,” Rafe returned, flat. “They are accounted.” “Accounted doesn’t mean alive.” I leaned in, voice low and steady, the way you talk to someone on the edge. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Like you’re blowing out a candle.” They followed me for half a cycle. Small. Stolen. Enough. The air tightened again. My throat burned. The court collected payment in real time. I had a choice, and it wasn’t philosophical. Back off and let the person on the floor become a problem someone else filed. Or keep stabilizing them and accept whatever got cut out of me next. My hands didn’t leave them. I slid my palm under the back of their head and lifted it a fraction, keeping the airway open. Damp hair clung to my fingers. Gooseflesh climbed my arms, and not from the temperature. “You’re okay,” I lied softly, because sometimes you have to. “You’re here. I’m here. We just need this minute.” Their fingers clutched my sleeve like it was the last rung on a ladder. Tears gathered but didn’t fall. The chime rang again, harsher. My tongue stung. The iron taste went thick, like I’d bitten hard enough to bleed. I swallowed and kept breathing through it. After three breaths, the air loosened a hair. Not mercy. Math. The court let me do a little, then leaned in to see what I’d pay for more. “Can you squeeze my hand?” I asked. They did. Weak. Real. “Good.” I nodded like we were on a subway platform, not in a hidden alcove built for suffering. “Any chest pain?” A tiny shake of their head. “Dizzy?” A pause. Then a small nod. “Okay.” My skull throbbed with each heartbeat. “You been like this long?” Their lips trembled. A whisper scraped out, ragged and broken. “Don’t… make it… mad.” My skin prickled. Not superstition. Experience. “I’m already on its bad side,” I muttered. “That’s not on you.” Rafe’s silence pressed at the edge like weight. I looked up at him, finally. “You’ve got an infirmary.” His eyes didn’t change. “Yes.” “Then why are they on the floor behind a screen like a dirty secret?” A flicker crossed his gaze and vanished. “Orders.” “Whose?” He held my stare. “The Crown issues directives.” Thorne. My stomach tightened around the name like a fist. “Tell the Crown,” I said, voice cutting, “that if he wants his collateral alive, he needs medical oversight. Real oversight.” The chime softened into a low vibration underfoot, deep and steady. The stone itself seemed to hum, like the court had turned its attention fully onto me. Rafe’s head angled a fraction. “You will not issue demands.” “Oh, I’m issuing them.” I stood, knees protesting against the cold. “And I’m not leaving until someone brings water. A blanket. Something.” The person on the floor jerked, panic flaring at my movement. Their nails dug into my sleeve. I covered their hand with mine. “Stay down,” I told them. “Save it.” The vibration deepened. Shadows gathered at the corridor edges, swallowing shine. The cold sharpened until my teeth wanted to click. A voice slid in behind me—smooth, precise, like it had been waiting at the top of a document. “Your interference is noted.” I turned. Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood stood in the corridor beyond the screen, framed by polished stone and dark inlay. No crown. No cape. Just black clothing that drank candlelight, hands folded behind his back like emotion would be a breach of protocol. His gaze landed on me first. Not the person on the floor. Assessment. Ownership dressed as etiquette. “I am providing care,” I said, and my mouth felt dry around the words. “Provided you remain within your assigned routes,” he replied, calm as a verdict, “your presence is tolerated. Beyond that, consequences are enforced.” “Consequences for who?” The question scraped out. “Me? Or them?” Thorne’s eyes dipped—brief, controlled—toward the person behind me. His jaw tightened so slightly I almost missed it. “Collateral is a resource,” he said. “You are not authorized to alter its condition without record.” “Record.” Disgust turned my tongue sharp. “Your ledger. Your registry. Your list of stolen people.” The word stolen hit, and his gaze sharpened. He didn’t flinch. He just let the pause stretch until it became pressure. “I will attend your courtesy appearance,” he said. “Thereafter, you will be returned to your chambers.” “No.” The clean certainty of it surprised me. “You will.” His voice didn’t rise. The vibration under my feet surged. Then sound vanished. Not muffled. Gone. Like someone cut the cord. Hearth crackle, distant metal, even my own breath—swallowed whole. My ears rang in the empty space, and panic came up hot and fast, sweat crawling down my spine. Inside my head, New York flickered. Streetlight on wet asphalt. Sirens weaving between cars. Exhaust and halal carts. A specific corner in the Bronx where Leni and I used to grab empanadas after a shift— It went dark. A clean excision, like a page torn from a bound book without damaging the cover. My mouth opened. Nothing came out. I grabbed for the memory like it was a railing, and my fingers closed on air. Thorne watched through the silence, face unreadable. Like a warden waiting to see if the cage works. Sound slammed back in a rush. My inhale came too loud, too desperate. “You just—took something.” My voice shook. “I did not.” Thorne’s tone stayed precise. “The court enforces. It collects.” “From me.” I tasted iron again. “Because I did the right thing.” “Right and wrong are not the court’s categories,” he said. “Compliance and breach are.” Behind me, the person on the floor made a small noise, a whimper swallowed halfway. My body pivoted toward it without thinking, hand reaching back for their wrist. Thorne’s eyes tracked the movement. Something tightened in his face, then smoothed over. He looked toward the alcove like it offended his sense of order. “You have introduced risk,” he said. “To yourself. To the court.” “Good.” The word came out too sharp. “Because this is already danger. You just polished it.” A pause. He didn’t deny it. I stepped closer to him and stopped where the ward had screamed at me earlier. The invisible line held. My skull remembered. “You want me to cooperate?” I asked. “Then give me access to the taken-human ledger. Full access.” “No.” Cold and immediate. “Why?” My hands curled at my sides. “Afraid I’ll read the numbers?” “Afraid you will misunderstand them,” he replied. “And act.” “Yeah,” I said. “That’s kind of the point.” Thorne’s gaze slid, brief, to the screen, then back. “Continued insistence will incur further collection.” “Let it.” My voice trembled—not fear. Something worse. “You can’t store people like furniture and act shocked when they break.” His eyes narrowed, calculation sharpening the edges. “You are not furniture. You are a guest under my roof. Henceforth, you will conduct yourself as such.” “Guest?” A laugh ripped out of me, sharp and ugly. “Guests get to leave.” His mouth tightened. For a heartbeat, something like weariness crossed his face, then vanished. “Guests do not dictate the house.” I dragged in a breath and forced my hands open. Anger wouldn’t get me the ledger. Not today. Not like this. “Okay,” I said, and made my voice go flat. “One data point. One.” I held up a finger, steady. “How many humans are held here?” Thorne’s eyes fixed on my raised finger like it was a blade. Down the corridor, Rafe shifted, his hand settling near his sword hilt—still sheathed, still ready. “Fewer than the rumors claim,” Thorne said slowly. “More than you would accept.” “That’s not a number.” I kept my voice even. “Try again.” A nearly imperceptible glance toward the screen. Then back to me. “Seventeen.” The number hit my gut like stone. Seventeen wasn’t an accident. It was a system. “Where are they kept?” I pressed. “In accordance with their classifications,” he replied. “Distributed.” “Where is the infirmary?” I narrowed it down, made it specific, made it harder to wriggle. “Where.” Thorne’s attention cut sideways down a corridor beyond him. Candle wax smell bled into crushed herbs—medicinal, sharp. Under it, a faint rhythmic click echoed, like wheels rolling over seams in the floor. He didn’t answer. The building did, by accident. Thorne’s gaze returned to me. “You have asked your one point. Now you will proceed.” “I asked three.” I didn’t smile. “You answered one and a half. So I’m still owed.” “You are not owed.” “Then I’m not cooperating.” I let the boundary hang there, plain and solid. “You can drag me to your clerks. I’ll make noise. I’ll make it messy. And you hate messy.” Rafe’s eyes flicked to Thorne—first time I’d seen him look for direction like that. Thorne held my stare. “Provided you proceed to the clerks without further breach, you may deliver a written medical recommendation to Beatrice Pemberton.” Beatrice. Archivist. Treaty library. My pulse kicked, not relief, not hope—just a door cracking open. “And the infirmary?” I asked. “Where.” “You will not be escorted there.” “I didn’t ask for an escort.” I kept my tone steady. “I asked where it is.” Silence stretched, thick with control. “At the end of the eastern service corridor,” Thorne said at last, words clipped. “Below the wax hall. Marked by rosemary.” Rosemary. Medicinal. Trackable. I nodded once. “Good.” Behind me, the person’s hand tugged weakly at my sleeve. I crouched, ignoring the ward’s itch at the edge of my skull, and spoke low. “Hey. I’m gonna move you a little. Then I’m gonna get you water. You keep breathing.” Their eyes fluttered. “Don’t… leave.” My jaw clenched until it ached. “I’m not leaving you behind.” The promise tasted like danger. The court loved promises. It loved receipts. Thorne’s voice cut in, controlled. “You will not make vows you cannot keep.” I looked up at him. “Try stopping me.” For a moment, something shifted in his gaze. Not anger. Something that looked too close to recognition—like he understood the shape of a vow you’d rather die than break. Then the polished mask slid back into place. “Rafe Nash,” Thorne ordered, “ensure she does not breach again. Provided she complies, obtain water and cloth.” Rafe dipped his head once. “Yes.” I didn’t thank anyone. Gratitude in this place felt like surrender. I adjusted the person’s position again, careful, using the screen as cover. Their breathing stayed rough but steadier. My sleeve became a makeshift pillow under their head. “Stay on your side,” I murmured. “If you start coughing, spit it out. Don’t swallow.” A tiny nod. When I stood, the ward’s pressure eased, like it had gotten what it wanted. Not mercy. Payment. Back in the main corridor, the thorn inlay guided me away from the archway, away from records, away from anything I actually wanted. Direction without bars. A cage that didn’t need to clang. Rafe walked beside me now, not behind. Close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed mine. “You should not do that,” he said. “Let me guess.” My voice came out tight. “It costs. It hurts your king.” “It does.” My step stuttered. The words landed hard. “You mean when I push back, it—what.” I kept my voice low, like the walls weren’t already listening. “It drains him?” Rafe’s jaw tightened. “The curse charges. It collects from the Crown.” My stomach rolled. So the court wasn’t just punishing me. It was using me like a lever. Every act of defiance pressed a blade somewhere it didn’t belong. “You telling me that as a warning,” I asked, “or a threat?” “It is fact.” No comfort. No softness. Just truth, set down like a weight. The corridor opened into a bright hall lined with desks carved from pale material that looked too much like bone for comfort. Clerks sat behind them, quills scratching. Paper rose in neat towers. Ink layered over wax and herbs, clean enough to choke on. Thorne moved ahead, greeting no one. He didn’t need to. The room seemed to shift around him like it recognized ownership. Beatrice Pemberton stood at the far end, posture straight, hands folded. Her clothes looked severe, like she’d dressed herself in rules. Her gaze flicked to me, then to Rafe, then—briefly—to Thorne. “Collateral Sofia Reyes,” a clerk intoned, “presents for courtesy registration—” “No.” My voice snapped. Quills paused. Heads didn’t lift, but attention sharpened. A hundred silent witnesses. Beatrice’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Thorne didn’t look at the clerk. “Proceed.” I stepped up and planted myself in front of the desk like a barricade. “I’m not giving you my life story so you can file it. I’m here because you made it required.” I leaned in. “Write this down instead.” The clerk’s quill hovered. “State your—” “Medical recommendation,” I cut in, louder. “For the human held behind the west decorative screen. Respiratory distress. Hypothermic skin. Dehydration. Needs water, cloth, warmth. Observation. Infirmary access.” Beatrice’s gaze snapped to Thorne. A question, sharp and unspoken. “It will be recorded,” Thorne replied, expression smooth. “Good.” I leaned closer to the clerk. “And record that if they die, you’re liable.” The quill scratched faster. The sound crawled under my skin. “You do not comprehend liability,” Thorne noted. “I comprehend dead bodies.” I didn’t look away. “Try me.” The air between us tightened, charged like a held breath. Control versus care. His need to keep everything running clean grinding against my need to keep people alive. Beatrice cleared her throat—quiet, sharp. “Sofia Reyes. Your recommendation will be filed. You will submit it in writing.” “I don’t have paper.” Beatrice’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. Dry. “A predictable obstacle.” She slid a sheet across the desk without looking at the clerk. The paper felt thick under my fingers, almost like fabric. The pen smelled faintly of briar-ink and old leather. Thorne watched the exchange like words were weapons. In this place, they were. I wrote fast, block letters, like I was back in a rig filling out a patient care report. Clear. Specific. No room to twist. When I shoved it back, the clerk stamped it with a thorn-shaped imprint. It looked like a bruise on paper. Beatrice’s voice lowered, meant for me alone. “That was a defining choice.” “Don’t.” My throat tightened. “Don’t make it noble. It was the bare minimum.” “In this court,” Beatrice murmured, “the bare minimum is often treason.” Thorne’s voice carried across the desks, calm as winter. “She is dismissed.” Rafe gestured toward the exit. Not force. Direction again. I went, because I had what I needed: seventeen, eastern service corridor, rosemary. A route you could track by scent. My skull still throbbed from the ward’s bite, and the blank spot where Leni’s coffee should’ve been felt wider, like rot creeping. Back in my contained room, the tray sat where I’d left it. Steam still curled from the broth, stubborn. Warmth offered like a bribe. This time my hands shook when I lifted the bowl. Heat seeped into my palms, aching fingers thawing around ceramic. Ginger and smoke rose up, and when I sipped, the flavor hit deep—salty, simple, grounding. I ate slow. Deliberate. Refusing to let the court rush me with hunger. Rafe stood by the door, silent. Watching. He didn’t look at the tray. “Do you eat?” I asked, because silence made my thoughts too loud. “I do.” His voice stayed even. “But not here.” “No.” I tore the bread in half. The crust cracked loud in the quiet. One piece stayed in my hand, and I pictured cold fingers clutching my sleeve. “Water,” I said. “Now.” “It is coming.” “And cloth. And a blanket.” I swallowed another mouthful. “And if anybody says ‘collateral’ like it’s normal, I’m gonna lose it.” Rafe’s expression didn’t change. “Lose what.” A laugh almost slipped out—sharp, startled. The bluntness hit like a hand on my shoulder. Not comfort. Something real. “Never mind,” I muttered, and kept eating. When the water came, anonymous hands set down a pitcher without meeting my gaze. I poured it into a cup. The cloth followed. I wrapped bread in a napkin and carried it all to the corridor. Rafe trailed me, a quiet shadow. The ward tried to nudge me away again, that subtle bend in the hall’s intention. I didn’t shove back hard. Not yet. I walked the allowed route until I reached the screen’s edge. Then I slipped behind it with the ease of someone who’d learned to find privacy in public places—ambulance bays, stairwells, crowded ER hallways. The person lay where I’d left them. Breathing, still rough. Eyes half-open. “Hey,” I whispered. “I brought stuff.” Their fingers twitched toward the bread. I set it within reach, then guided the cup into their shaking hands. Water sloshed over their knuckles. “Slow,” I murmured. “Tiny sips. Don’t choke.” They obeyed. Relief softened their face, and it hit me hard—not joy. Just terror loosening its grip. I draped the cloth over their shoulders. It wasn’t a blanket, but their body leaned into it like it was the difference between living and not. “Thank you,” they rasped. “Don’t thank me.” My voice came out rough. “This is what people do.” Their eyes held mine, glassy and exhausted. “People… forget.” My throat tightened. “Not me.” A chime rang—soft, warning. The court noticed. Air thinned a fraction, testing the boundary. I kept my breathing even and anchored to what I could touch. Cloth. Bread crust. Cool ceramic. Pulse under their wrist—still there. A memory tugged at the edge of my mind. Something warm. New York. Sirens and streetlight glow and— Nothing. The hook found empty space. My body still jolted with panic, reacting to a theft I couldn’t even name. I clenched my jaw until it ached and forced my mouth to move. “That broth back there? Tastes like someone tried to copy hospital food and got mad halfway through.” Their lips twitched. Not a smile. Almost. “Hospital,” they whispered, like the word opened a door. “Queens,” I said, voice gentler. “Night shift. The kind where you don’t sit down for twelve hours and you still end up eating crackers like they’re a feast.” Their eyes softened a fraction. Normalcy had weight. It could tether you when everything else tried to float away. “Listen.” I leaned closer. “Watch for rosemary. If you smell it, you’re near the infirmary route. You understand?” They blinked, slow. “Rosemary,” I repeated. “Green. Sharp. Like Thanksgiving stuffing.” A nod, small but there. Footsteps sounded outside the screen. Rafe’s boots, steady. He paused. Didn’t enter. Seconds, handed over without admission. I lowered my voice. “When I move, you move. Save your strength. Watch the doors.” Their fingers tightened in the cloth. “You… can’t.” “I can.” My stomach twisted around the lie and the truth inside it. “Not today, maybe. But soon.” The chime rang sharper. The court didn’t like plans spoken out loud. I drew back, face neutral. “Drink. Eat. Breathe.” When I slipped out from behind the screen, pressure flashed behind my eyes again—quick, stinging—a tally mark. Rafe waited, gaze pinned down the corridor. “You are done.” “For now,” I said. The contained room welcomed me with heat that felt like permission. The tray sat half-finished. Steam from the broth had thinned, but warmth still clung to it. I sat. Took two bites. Forced my body to accept fuel, because I’d need it. In the bowl’s surface, the room’s shine warped my reflection. Pretty surface. Ugly truth underneath. I tried, on purpose, to reach for what was missing. Leni’s coffee. The smell. The joke she always made about it tasting like burnt tires. The way she’d shove the cup at me anyway, grinning like she owned my morning. My mind reached. It found a clean blank. My grip tightened around the spoon until my knuckles whitened. My teeth ached with the wrongness of it. Rafe’s voice came from the door. “The Crown will summon you again.” “When?” “Soon.” I stared down at tiny ripples in the broth. My reflection stared back, mouth tight, eyes too bright. “How much does it take?” The whisper scraped out. Court or curse—I didn’t know which I meant. “How many pieces.” No one answered. The quiet didn’t feel empty. It felt like a ledger waiting for ink. A faint vibration ran through the floor, deep as a subway rumble, then cut off abruptly. File closed. Decision made. The door chimed once. Assignment updated. Leash tightened. I swallowed the last of the broth. Heat slid down my throat and stopped short of the blank space in my head. When I stood, my knees held steady. My hands didn’t. Seventeen. Rosemary. Eastern service corridor, below the wax hall. Proof the court could collect parts of me as payment. And one more thing, newly sharp: every time I acted like an EMT, every time I did the bare minimum of care, the court charged me in memories. Saving everyone meant spending myself down to nothing. Somewhere out there, Thorne Ashworth-Blackwood paid too—each time I refused to be obedient. The risk between us burned like a fuse, shortening with every breath I stole back for someone else.