The knock came again.
Three soft, deliberate taps this time.
My heart clenched automatically, like a reflex. Stupid. Stupid. It had been a week, and still I held out hope that the next time would be him.
That the next time the door opened, it would be Nine.
But when the lock clicked and the assistant stepped in, I already knew it wouldn't be. The cold glint in his eye told me before I even saw what followed.
The hybrid behind him was barely more than a toddler
Five, maybe six years old. Dressed in a translucent slip that hung limply off one bony shoulder, feet bare and bruised. Hair brushed but dull. Eyes too wide. Too empty.
They looked up at me and smiled.
Something inside me cracked open.
"I don't want this," I said sharply, my voice like ice. "Take them away."
The assistant merely offered his thin, meaningless smile. "The Supreme Leader was hoping to ease your stay. He thought you might enjoy a… gentler companion."
Gentler companion.
The words made me nauseous.
The child looked up at me with a faint tilt of their head, uncertain, blinking through long lashes. "Do you want to play?" they asked, sweet as sugar. "I'm very good. I practiced a lot."
I took a step back, as if their words had physically struck me.
"No," I said immediately. "No. You shouldn't be— You shouldn't know how to say that."
They blinked again, confused. Their posture was perfect, eerily still. "I can do whatever you want. I won't cry. I'm not scared."
God.
They sounded like Mira.
That hopeful eagerness, as if love could be earned through obedience.
The same fragile innocence, dressed up like a performance.
Nyx's growl curled low and deep inside me. This is wrong. This is filth. We should tear their throats out.
I didn't move. Couldn't. My limbs were locked, muscles tight with the effort of not destroying everything in sight.
The assistant raised a brow. "Is there a problem?"
"You brought me a child."
"They're a hybrid," he replied coolly. "And entirely functional. Their mental imprint was designed to optimize compliance and satisfaction. If you don't want them, I can always pass them along—"
"You will not touch them," I snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "They stay here. In this room. And you tell the Supreme Leader that if he sends me one more breathing example of his sickness, I'll find a way to repay the favor."
The assistant's mouth tightened, but he didn't argue. He stepped back, let the door swing shut behind him, and locked it again with a soft click.
I exhaled, shaking.
The child was watching me carefully. "You're angry."
"I'm not angry at you," I managed to say, though my throat felt raw. "I'm angry at them. You didn't do anything wrong."
They tilted their head, soft confusion blooming across their face. "They said you'd like me. That I'm pretty. Like a doll."
I turned away before the sound I made became a sob.
I grabbed the nearest vase and threw it hard against the far wall. It exploded in a burst of porcelain shards. The echo was loud, satisfying, violent. But it did nothing to ease the hollow ache in my chest.
The child didn't even flinch.
I walked back slowly, crouched in front of them, hands up. "What's your name?"
They paused. "Do I need one?"
Gods. My fingers trembled. "You deserve one."
They gave me a tiny smile. "Can I sleep next to you? I don't like being alone. I had a big sister once. But they took her away."
My heart stopped.
So many little things reminded me of Mira—the unsteady smile, the trust, the way they looked for safety in me like it was something I could give them.
"Yes," I whispered. "You can stay."
I wrapped a soft blanket around them and pulled them close to the bed, settling them onto the floor with a pillow. Their body leaned naturally into mine, warm and trusting.
Like a child.
Because that's what they were. No matter what this place tried to say.
No matter how they tried to dress it up or erase it or break it.
They were a child.
I sat there for a long time, hand on their small back, listening to their breath even out as they fell asleep.
Nyx paced furiously beneath my skin. This is why we fight. This is why we cannot give up. Not ever.
I stared at the shattered pieces of porcelain across the floor and thought about how easy it would be to kill them all.
The next day – when I woke up – the child was gone.