Echoes in Glass

Vanessa's POV

I stood behind the one-way glass, arms crossed tight, biting down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

He screamed again.

The sound didn't penetrate—these rooms were designed to absorb that. Nothing bounced back. It just... dissolved. Like him.

He was maybe eleven. Small. Blonde hair plastered to his scalp with sweat. His fingers curled like claws around the restraints bolted to the chair. A medtech was asking questions between shocks, but I didn't listen. That was all I ever heard in these rooms. Not the questions, not the screams. Just the silence of boys breaking.

Dr. Nadir scribbled notes beside me like we were evaluating a new car. "High nociceptive threshold," he murmured. "This one might hold up."

I nodded. That's all I ever did around him. Nod. Agree. Pretend the voice in my head wasn't trying to scream louder than the boy.

When the boy passed out, I pretended my fingers weren't trembling. I dropped them into my coat pocket and waited for permission to move. When Nadir finally waved me off, I walked out fast, like the hallway would scrub my memory if I kept moving.

It didn't.

Somehow, I made it to my office. The boy sat across from me, small frame lost in the oversized leather chair. He looked older now—more from pain than time. Eyes ringed with violet bruises. Skin pale. That wild look hadn't left, though. That mattered.

I softened my voice.

"We're not your enemy," I said gently, folding my hands. "Lynx is here to help you. We're... the ones who make sure things don't fall apart."

He stared at me. Not at the office. Not the trophies or the polished desk or the glowing Lynx logo in the corner screen. Just me. Like he knew something I didn't.

"Help me?" he repeated. "By frying my brain?"

"Logan, I know it's confusing. You're scared—"

"I'm not scared," he snapped.

I flinched. Not because of the tone. Because he was right. He wasn't scared. He was furious.

So I dipped into it. Just a little. The ability they'd trained into me. Not overt. Nothing obvious. Just a soft pulse of suggestion, gently wrapping around my words.

"You're here because you're strong," I said. "What they did—it was to unlock what's already inside you. To help you control it, understand it. You're important."

His brow furrowed. I could feel him leaning into the words, the way most do. Like falling asleep in warm water.

But then something snapped. His eyes cleared, focused. He leaned forward.

"If I'm important, why do I feel disposable?"

The suggestion shattered like glass. My throat caught. I forced a smile, but it felt crooked on my face.

"You're not disposable," I said. "You're part of something bigger than yourself."

"Then why are you lying to me?"

My hand twitched. Just once. He caught it.

"I can tell when someone's lying," he said. "You lied the moment you walked in. Even now—you're trying to sell me something you don't even believe."

I tried again. Softer. "You've been through trauma. It's normal to—"

"No," he said. "This isn't trauma. This is abuse wrapped in a mission statement."

I stared at him. He didn't yell. Didn't cry. Just sat there, broken but unbending, like something vital inside him refused to die quietly. I couldn't look away.

"You used to be like me," he said, voice lower now. "You just forgot."

And just like that, the room cracked.

I woke up staring at the ceiling, chest tight, mouth dry.

The light in the room was too perfect—flat and even. No shadows. Just that sterile glow Lynx favored for all their "residences."

My hands were trembling.

I sat up slowly, the sheets still cool around my legs. No restraints. No wires. Just a sleek room dressed as freedom.

I looked around and said it aloud:

"Who said all prisons have bars?"

There was a dent in the wall across from my bed. Faint. Like someone had punched it years ago and no one bothered to fix it.

My boots were by the door, polished. My ID badge was already clipped to the coat hanging beside them. The system always prepared for me. That was the terrifying part. It knew me.

I dressed like I was sleepwalking. Muscle memory. The dream lingered. His face. That damn sentence echoing over and over.

You used to be like me. You just forgot.

I walked the hallway in silence, nodding at no one. The artificial morning piped through the walls with fake birdsong. I hated it.

My office greeted me with a gentle blue glow. Temperature calibrated. Desk freshly ordered.

And then, just as I stepped inside, the door hissed open behind me.

Another girl walked in.

Young. Hollow-eyed. Quiet rage simmering beneath the surface.

Another victim.

I looked at her, and for one terrifying moment... I didn't know what I was going to say.