He cried in the morning.
Not loud—not the way he had the night before, when the dark was thick enough to hide how human he'd become. No, these tears were different. Smaller. Quieter. Like they didn't belong to him. Like they were just leaking out from somewhere deeper than even he could reach.
He was already kneeling by the door when I woke up, back straight, head bowed. Obedient.
Conditioned.
The guards hadn't arrived yet, but he was ready. He always was.
"Nine…" I sat up slowly, the heaviness of the night dragging through my limbs. My voice felt like it would shatter if I used it wrong.
His shoulders twitched at the sound of my voice, but he didn't look at me.
I slid out of bed and knelt beside him. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." His whisper was raw. "You know I do."
He wouldn't meet my gaze, and for a moment, I almost wanted to make him. But I didn't. He was holding himself together like porcelain. One crack, and he wouldn't be able to gather the pieces.
So I sat with him in silence. I reached for his hand. He let me hold it.
The bond fluttered weakly between us. A quiet pulse. A reminder.
"You promised."
I nodded, even though he hadn't spoken aloud.
"I remember."
His head tilted, just barely, toward my shoulder. I felt the weight of it like gravity. Heavy. Fragile. Trusting.
We stayed that way until the knock came.
It was polite. Controlled. Two sharp raps and a pause. The kind that didn't ask. The kind that expected.
Nine didn't flinch this time. He rose to his feet smoothly, eyes on the floor. But his hand lingered in mine for just a moment longer.
"I'm a good boy," he said, and the way he said it made my stomach twist.
I pressed my forehead to his, just once. Just enough.
"You're mine," I whispered. "That's what matters."
He nodded, eyes shining. And then he let go.
The door opened, and the guards didn't say a word. They didn't have to.
Nine walked out between them like he belonged there.
Like he was property on loan, being returned.
But just before the door shut behind him, the bond sparked again—brief and desperate.
"Two weeks."
I didn't answer out loud.
I didn't need to.
He would feel it in the silence. In the quiet, feral promise curling through the thread that tied us together.
Two weeks.
I would keep my word.
Even if it killed me.