Her eyes locked on mine and didn't blink.
I'd seen silence break people in a hundred different ways: the twitch in the jaw, the dart of a glance, the dry swallow they hoped you wouldn't notice. I'd seen soldiers stiffen under it, prisoners fidget, killers wear that thin, deflecting smirk.
She gave me none of that.
Nothing to read.
Nothing to take.
The stillness was unnatural...
Not the calm of someone at peace, but the kind that felt wound tight, balanced on the edge of a blade.
Then I caught it.
A tiny tremor in her fingers.
One twitch.
Small enough to vanish if you blinked, but real enough to send a faint ripple up her wrist before she locked it down again.
She leaned forward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The chair didn't even creak. For a second, I thought she was finally going to speak.
Her mouth parted and the focus in her gaze shattered.
It was subtle at first. Her pupils didn't track right. Her shoulders began to lose shape, softening as if the bones inside had decided they'd had enough. Her head dipped forward in increments, as though gravity was winning a fight she didn't even know she was in.
Then her forehead touched the table with a soft, final thud.
It wasn't fear that took her.
Not shock.
I knew the sound.
I caught her before she slid off the chair. Her skin was hot, fever-warm, the kind that burned against my palms. Her breath came in shallow pulls, uneven and light, her pulse fluttering like it wasn't sure if it wanted to keep going.
The poison was still in her.
Still working.
I told myself the order for medics was protocol.
Logistics.
I can't interrogate a corpse.
When she arrived at the ward, the lights were harsher.
The air carried that sterile bite of disinfectant, but underneath it I caught something faintly metallic.
The poison was still in her blood.
A few days pass.
She didn't speak unless I addressed her first.
She didn't ask for food, water, or the time.
She ate when it was put in front of her, slow and methodical, as though measuring the worth of each bite.
And always her eyes tracked movement.
Not like a nervous person.
Not scattered.
She followed people the way a predator follows the brush for the thing that will step wrong.
I kept my distance for the first few days, letting her settle into the rhythm of the ward. Letting her think maybe she'd been forgotten.
On the fourth day in the ward, one of the younger guards, John, made the mistake of testing her. A harmless test or so he thought. John dropped a clipboard near her table, let it slide close enough that it brushed her knee before he bent to get it.
She didn't move until his hand crossed the invisible line between them.
Then her fingers were in his collar, not yanking, not choking, just holding him there. And when she let go, it wasn't because he pulled away.
That's when I knew.
It wasn't luck that had her alive when we found her in that basement. It was her choice.
I didn't step in when she grabbed John.
Didn't raise my voice, didn't bark an order.
I just watched.
The pressure of her grip wasn't enough to bruise, but the message was there:
She could have. She could have broken him in half the time it took for him to blink. And she wanted him to know it.
When she let go, she smoothed the front of her shirt with a small, precise motion, like she was dusting away the entire exchange. John backed off, face flushed, muttering something about "accident."
I dismissed John for the day.
She glanced at me then brief and calculated.
Not a challenge.
Not submission.
Just a reminder: I decide what happens to me.
I stayed in the doorway, arms crossed, letting the quiet work between us. The ward's hum filled the space. The low buzz of fluorescent lights, the distant roll of a med cart's wheels, the slow drip of something into an IV bag across the room. She didn't fidget, didn't shift her weight.
"You've got control," I said finally.
No answer.
"That's rare. People like to pretend they do. They tell themselves they'd react the right way when it matters." I took a step forward, my boots steady against the tile. "You don't pretend. You just… do."
Her gaze followed me as I pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat.
"You still don't know your name?" I asked.
Nothing.
Not a blink.
I leaned forward on my elbows. "Names are anchors. Without one, you're just… the ghost."
She tilted her head a fraction.
Not curious but measuring.
Like she was deciding whether my words were bait or truth.
"You don't want to give me yours?" I continued. "Fine. But I'm giving you one."
Her eyes narrowed, not much, just enough for me to catch it.
"Anna," I said.
I let it hang there, watching for any sign it landed.
"Until you tell me different," I added, "that's who you are."