The lights went out at nine sharp.

  I stayed awake anyway, turning over data with no conclusion yet. It’s only the first day—most experiments take years—but the lack of answers irritates me. I tell myself it’s fine. That I don’t need everything mapped out yet. The thought doesn’t help.

  I estimate it’s close to midnight when a chaperone enters the cabin.

  He walks the aisle slowly, stopping just long enough at each bunk to confirm stillness. Not safety. Stillness. There’s a difference. I watch the pauses, the angles of his shoulders, the way his shadow stretches and shrinks across the floorboards. He lingers longer at certain beds. Shorter at others.

  Interesting.

  If my math is right, he’s the counselor from earlier. And he has a preference. That’s useful information.

  Eventually, he stops at the redhead’s bunk.

  I don’t feel surprise. Surprise is for people who haven’t been paying attention. This is confirmation. I keep my breathing steady as he kneels, his hand sliding beneath the blanket, fingers pressing against her legs.

  I tell myself I’m not going to do anything. Watching is enough. Documentation matters. Acting would be emotional, and emotion makes people sloppy. If I intervene now, I lose clarity. If I stay still, I learn more. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  The counselor leans closer.

  For a moment, nothing happens. Just his outline bending into her space, the cabin holding its breath with me. Then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—and covers her mouth.

  Her eyes snap open.

  The look on her face isn’t surprise. It’s something older. Fear—sharp and animal. Cornered. I can’t hear what he’s saying, only that whatever it is makes her body go rigid beneath him.

  My feet hit the floor with a soft thump before I can rationalize it.

  I don’t rush. I don’t need to. Each step is measured, instinct wrapped in precision, my body moving ahead of my permission. The aisle feels longer than it is, the dark thick and close, but I pass through it cleanly.

  The knife is already in my hand.

  I don’t remember grabbing it. I don’t remember opening it. I only register the weight—familiar, grounding—as the blade presses into the soft place beneath his jaw. I angle it just enough for him to understand how little pressure it would take.

  He freezes. His hand slips away from her mouth.

  In the silence that follows, something uglier than fear surfaces. I realize I want him to move. To fight back. I want resistance—an excuse. The thought sends a sharp, unwelcome pulse through me, a craving I didn’t plan on acknowledging.

  Blood would make this simple.

  That’s the thought that stops me. I tighten my grip and force myself to breathe. This isn’t righteousness. It isn’t justice. It’s instinct—raw and human—and I’m not exempt from it just because I know better. Intelligence doesn’t erase violence. It just gives it vocabulary.

  I lean in close enough for him to feel the blade shift.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I whisper. “You’re going to leave. If I ever see you touch another helpless girl in this cabin, I’ll make sure you’re the one they put on missing posters.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “I know your secret now,” I continue. “You won’t retaliate. You won’t make our lives harder. You’ll make sure we get water privileges when we ask.”

  I let the knife press in just a fraction more.

  “There’s nothing but woods for miles,” I say quietly. “If you disappear, they won’t find you. And if they do, it’ll be a closed-casket funeral.”

  I pause.

  “Blink twice if you understand.”

  He does what I ask. Most men like him do. Only the weak prey on kids.

  The realization makes something twist in me—not fear, not hesitation, but a violent clarity I don’t like examining too closely. I understand now what my guidance counselor was worried about.

  I’m worried too. Not because my heart is racing—that’s expected—but because it isn’t racing out of fear. It’s racing at the idea of ending something. Of how easy it would be. I breathe in slowly, grounding myself, counting until the edge dulls.

  I won’t cross that line. Not tonight.

  I give him a shallow cut beneath the collarbone—precise, controlled. A reminder of our agreement. Or maybe a reminder to myself that I’m still the one in control. Either way, he understands.

  I let him stand, the knife pointed at him.

  He looks at me the way I looked at him—measuring, calculating. Weighing the odds of taking the blade. Something in my stance must have settled the equation.

  He turns and runs for the exit. The door closes behind him, the sound swallowed by the cabin’s quiet.

  For a moment, nothing happens.

  Then Renna’s breath shudders out of her like something breaking loose.

  She sits up too fast, tangled in her blanket, and before I can step back—or think better of it—she grabs my sleeve and pulls me down beside her. Hard. Like she’s afraid if she lets go, the dark will take her back.

  She doesn’t say anything. She just folds into me and cries.

  It’s not loud. No sobbing. Just shaking, breath hitching against my chest, tears soaking into my shirt like they’ve been waiting all night for permission to fall.

  I freeze. I’ve handled threats. Leverage. Fear. I have no idea what to do with this.

  My hand hovers, uncertain, then lands awkwardly between her shoulders. I pat once. Then again, like I’ve seen people do. It feels wrong. Insufficient. But she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t lash out. She’s quiet, cataloging survival instead of defiance. Fascinating. The reaction I expected—the eruption of fire—is absent. Instead, she clings to me, tense and calculating, alive in the aftermath of fear.

  Minutes—or seconds—pass. She remains coiled, aware, processing, adjusting. Her pulse is the missing piece to her behavior change. Her grip tightens.

  The knife is still in my other hand.

  She glances briefly at the knife, then back at me, and I can see her brain working—evaluating, measuring, calculating risk—but the sharp edge of her rage is gone. Whatever the counselor whispered hit harder than her anger ever could.

  Minutes—or seconds—pass. She remains coiled, aware, processing, adjusting. Her pulse is fast. Her grip tightens, but she isn’t panicking. She’s tracking. Adapting. Observing.

  I shift slightly, careful, knife angled away from her, just enough to stay ready. She doesn’t react. Still alive. Warm. Present. Every micro-variable logged. Survival matters. Not morality. Not sympathy. Control. Continuity.

  She clutches my shirt tighter, like I’m something solid, something real.

  I stare into the dark, counting my breaths, waiting for the shaking to stop.

  Eventually, her shudders settle into ragged, shallow breaths as she drifts back to sleep—still clinging to me like an octopus.

  I can’t move. Shit.

  She murmurs something incoherent, tight against my chest. I pat her back again, awkwardly, because my body wants to do something, and it seems safer than doing nothing. The room is empty. I check. Everything in place. Safe, for now.

  Minutes—or seconds—pass. I don’t track. I only track her. Breathing. Still. Motionless, but still present. Survival matters. Not for morality. Not for sympathy. For control. For continuity. She doesn’t stir. My hand pats her back once more, awkward and deliberate, enough to register presence without inviting movement. This much physical contact makes my skin feel hot and itchy. Not a fan.

  Eventually, I start planning my next move. What to do with the knife. How to keep her from cutting off my circulation. How to keep the night under control.

  Everything else—fear, relief, guilt—is irrelevant. Only the experiment continues.

  The sun starts to rise when I leave her bed and make my way to my own bunk. I put my knife in a different hiding spot—there will be another inspection—and I plan to keep the counselor on edge during my time in this place. I need him as leverage. And he just gave me the winning hand like a common fool.