Chapter 4
What the Silence Takes
The silence was wrong.
Sixteen realized that before he opened his eyes.
It wasn't the peaceful kind—the kind that comes after exhaustion, or relief. This silence pressed in, thick and deliberate, like padding wrapped around sound to make sure nothing escaped.
He lay still, counting breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
His chest rose and fell without effort, which meant he was no longer sedated. That, in itself, was unsettling. They never left him awake without a reason.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was unfamiliar again.
Not the cracked white from the first room. Not the seamless metal from the second. This one was darker, segmented into rectangular panels with thin seams that glowed faintly blue. The light was softer, indirect, designed not to strain the eyes.
A recovery room.
The thought came easily.
Too easily.
His stomach tightened.
He turned his head.
No glass wall.
No adjacent room.
No hum.
The absence hit him like a physical blow.
His heart rate spiked, sudden and sharp, and he sucked in a breath that felt too loud in the quiet. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling reflexively.
Restraints.
Lighter again. Just the wrists. Magnetic cuffs, this time—he could feel the faint vibration where they touched his skin.
His head ached.
Not the blinding pain from before, but a deep, spreading pressure, like a bruise inside his skull. He swallowed and tasted copper.
She's gone, he thought.
The realization slid into place with terrible certainty.
"She's gone," he whispered.
The sound of his own voice startled him. It felt unused, fragile, as if it might break if he raised it.
He searched his mind for her image.
Dark eyes. Shaved head. Blood at her nose.
That was all.
No name.
No voice.
The edges of her face blurred when he tried to hold onto them, like an image dissolving in water.
Panic flared.
"No," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, no—"
His head throbbed harder, pain spiking in warning. He forced himself to stop, breathing shallowly until the ache receded.
Don't pull too hard, something inside him cautioned.
He didn't know where that knowledge came from.
The door hissed open.
He flinched.
The woman entered alone this time. No technicians. No clipboard. Her coat was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up slightly, as if she'd been working for hours without pause.
She stopped just inside the room, studying him.
"You're awake," she said.
"Yes," he replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt.
"How do you feel?"
The question felt absurd.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't have the words. He wasn't sure he ever had.
"My head hurts," he said finally. "And… I think something's missing."
She nodded once, as if that confirmed something.
"That's expected," she said.
"What happened to her?" he asked.
The woman's gaze sharpened.
"Who?"
"You know who," he snapped, sharper than he'd intended. The sound of anger in his own voice startled him. "The girl. The one in the other room."
A pause.
"She is being stabilized," the woman said carefully. "She experienced a significant neurological event during the last session."
His chest tightened.
"Is she alive?"
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"Yes."
Relief flooded him, so sudden and intense it made him dizzy.
He sagged back against the table, eyes closing briefly.
"Good," he whispered.
The woman watched him, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.
"You diverted a high-energy interaction," she said. "That prevented catastrophic injury."
"I didn't mean to," he said.
"I know."
The word landed heavier than he expected.
"You know?" he echoed.
She stepped closer, stopping just out of reach.
"I've been reviewing the data," she said. "Your response wasn't aggressive. It was… corrective."
He frowned.
"I don't know what that means."
"It means," she said slowly, "that you didn't try to overpower her. You didn't try to dominate the system. You compensated."
The words slid past him, half-understood.
"I just wanted it to stop," he said. "I didn't want her to get hurt."
Something shifted in her expression.
"That," she said quietly, "may be the problem."
Before he could ask what she meant, the door behind her opened again.
The man entered.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
Sixteen's muscles tensed automatically, a spike of unease running down his spine. He couldn't explain it—something about the man's presence felt heavier than it should have, like standing near a machine with too much power.
"How is he?" the man asked.
"Conscious. Stable," the woman replied. "Reporting pain and subjective memory loss."
"Subjective?" the man repeated mildly.
She didn't respond.
The man turned his attention to Sixteen.
"You performed beyond expectations," he said. "You should be pleased."
Sixteen stared at him.
"I don't feel pleased," he said.
"No," the man agreed. "You wouldn't."
He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back.
"Tell me," he said. "What do you remember about the event?"
Sixteen hesitated.
The room felt very quiet.
"I remember… the sphere," he said slowly. "Moving. Too fast. And her—" He stopped, brow furrowing. "I remember her standing there. I remember… fear."
"Yours or hers?" the man asked.
Sixteen swallowed.
"I don't know," he admitted. "They felt… close."
The man smiled faintly.
"That's what concerns me."
"What did you do to her?" Sixteen demanded.
The woman stiffened.
"She is being monitored," she said quickly. "No permanent damage has been observed."
"But?" Sixteen pressed.
The man raised a hand, silencing her.
"But," he said, "her response to you was… amplified."
Sixteen's heart sank.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," the man said, "that proximity matters."
A chill ran through Sixteen.
"You're not going to hurt her," he said. It wasn't a question.
The man regarded him thoughtfully.
"Hurt," he repeated. "Is a subjective term."
Rage flared, sudden and bright.
"Don't," Sixteen snarled, pulling against the restraints. "Don't talk about her like that."
The restraints hummed softly, tightening just enough to remind him they were there.
The man didn't flinch.
"There it is," he said softly. "Attachment."
The word felt like an accusation.
"She's a person," Sixteen said through clenched teeth.
The man's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"So are you," he said. "In theory."
The woman looked away.
Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, the man straightened.
"Isolate him," he said. "Observation only for the next forty-eight hours. No testing."
The woman looked up sharply.
"Sir—"
"I want to see what the silence does," the man continued. "If separation increases degradation."
Sixteen's breath hitched.
"No," he said. "Don't—please."
The man didn't look at him.
"Proceed," he ordered.
The woman hesitated, then nodded once.
The man turned and left without another word.
The door sealed behind him with a final hiss.
The woman lingered.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"For what?" Sixteen asked bitterly.
"For what this place does," she replied. "Not just to your body."
He studied her face, searching for something—sympathy, maybe. Guilt.
He found both.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"That," she said, "is a long story."
"I have time," he said.
A sad smile tugged at her mouth.
"You won't remember it," she said gently.
She turned and left.
The lights dimmed.
The door sealed.
Silence rushed back in.
Time lost meaning.
The lights cycled—brightening, dimming—marking intervals he couldn't track. Food arrived through a slot in the wall, bland and soft, eaten more out of obligation than hunger.
No voices.
No tests.
No hum.
At first, the absence was unbearable.
He strained to feel something—anything—reaching outward with senses he didn't understand, searching for that strange pressure, that sideways pull that had accompanied her presence.
Nothing answered.
The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute.
Then, slowly, something worse crept in.
Forgetfulness.
It started small.
He forgot the taste of the food moments after swallowing it. Forgot the exact shade of the lights. Forgot whether he'd slept or simply closed his eyes for a while.
Then it deepened.
He forgot the sound of his own voice.
Forgot the feeling of fear.
Forgot why he was afraid.
Panic followed each realization, sharp and disorienting, but even that began to dull with repetition.
On the third cycle—he thought it was the third—he woke with a jolt, heart racing.
Something was wrong.
He lay still, listening.
There it was.
Faint.
Distant.
A hum.
Not in the room.
Not in the walls.
In him.
His breath hitched.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation, afraid it would vanish if he acknowledged it too strongly. It pulsed weakly, like a dying heartbeat.
She's still here, he realized.
The thought felt like an anchor.
He clung to it.
The hum wavered, then steadied.
The air in the room felt… heavier. Not oppressive—aligned. As if something had shifted into place.
His restraints rattled softly.
Just a tremor.
But it was real.
He stared at his hands, heart pounding.
I didn't move, he thought.
The room was still.
And yet—
The hum grew stronger.
Not loud.
Clear.
Purposeful.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, unbidden.
"I'm here," he whispered. He didn't know who he was speaking to. He didn't care. "I'm still here."
The hum answered.
Somewhere deep inside, something shifted—tiny, precise, like a compass needle finding north.
For the first time since waking in this place, Sixteen smiled.