Oleander still couldn’t believe the notification on his BeepAir. He opened the hologram screen just to confirm it.
[Mental energy +100.]
He had only taken two or three bites. A full ration box usually gave him ten at most. How could a few mouthfuls of her modified food jump that high?
A superpower? Impossible.
Had she been telling the truth about the dream? He needed to have her examined immediately.
Even while confusion and caution sat heavy in his chest, his eyes kept drifting to the way she ate. Focused. Unbothered. The box was nearly empty.
He almost asked for what was left.
"Jasmine..."
She looked up mid-chew, expression flat in a way that clearly said interrupting her meal was a crime.
"What?"
Oleander swallowed. "Your food..." Pride locked the rest of the sentence in his throat. "Is it pos—"
The doorbell cut him off.
He clicked his tongue, crossed the room, and opened the door. A middle-aged woman in a gray uniform bowed and held out a black box.
"Your order, sir."
"Thank you."
He took it with a serious face and shut the door. By the time he turned back, Jasmine was already putting the last bite in her mouth.
Oleander held his breath, then let it out as his shoulders dropped.
Jasmine closed the lid with quiet satisfaction. Her stomach felt alive again—warm, steady, properly fed. That alone was enough to put her in a better mood.
She watched him walk to the bed and set the black box down.
"What were you about to say? Something about my food?"
His sharp look landed on her without a word, like she had already done something wrong.
"Are you sure that food is safe?" he muttered. "My stomach feels off."
One of her brows lifted. Doubt aimed at her cooking always hit the same nerve.
"If something is wrong, blame the ingredients. We both know I only used what you gave me. In your room."
He scoffed, clearly frustrated. "Did your dream also tell you to talk back and act like you are always right?"
"Because I am."
Oleander frowned and looked away. His jaw flexed once, then again. Annoyed. She didn’t blame him. People in her old life had worn that same face around her, especially higher-ups and government types. Fine. They could be frustrated. They just didn’t get to insult her food.
There was no point wishing she hadn’t landed here. She hadn’t asked for this weak body either. Anyone dealing with her now would have to take her as she was, the same way she was taking this new reality. Her new life.
She intended to use it properly, on her terms, without bowing to anyone else’s control again.
Oleander stayed quiet, face tight, hands moving through the contents of the box like he needed somewhere to put the restlessness.
Jasmine cleared her throat. "Is food here always like that? Whole and plain?"
"Yes." He didn’t look at her.
"Even without salt? Just bland?"
"Salt is expensive. Only the rich use it freely. Most people go without."
"It’s rare?"
"Of course."
Her eyes lit a little. If salt was scarce, she could get rich off it. In her old world she had a natural brine spring that produced more than enough. Useful information. She noted it with quiet interest.
"So what now?" she asked, breaking the quiet. "I’m still a suspect, right? Are you turning me over to the authorities?"
Oleander turned with a cold look.
"The Warden. That’s what they call the authority here. They’re handling Rosalie’s death. They’ll question you soon enough."
He said it like he expected her to flinch. She only sat there in her torn pants, watching him steadily.
Right. Memory loss. He pinned that explanation down so he could stop being surprised.
"Your status is still a witness under supervision," he continued. "You don’t need to worry too much. The Sentinel Bureau will deal with you first, and you’re under my direct watch. No one will bother you easily."
That much was clear. For now, Oleander was her best route through this world. She would follow his lead while she figured out what to do with this body. She still couldn’t reach her old mental space—the place where G-69’s real power lived. Cooking earlier had stirred something, like her old core pushing up from under the surface, but she couldn’t access it yet. Maybe the weak body was blocking it. Until then, she needed to learn this place faster.
"That’s reassuring," she said, then stood and walked closer. "So are we going to the Sentinel Bureau now? To meet the professors?"
Oleander sighed and nodded at the box. "After you change."
Jasmine looked inside. New jacket. New shirt. New pants. Even new underwear. In her old life, no one handed her clean clothes. She had spent days in bloodstained gear, and nobody cared. Something about this careful kindness sat oddly under her skin.
A low hum came from the wall. Oleander stood in front of an open titanium panel.
"Clean up and change in there."
She had almost started changing right where she stood. Old habit. The politeness made her pause half a second longer than she liked. She wondered, briefly, if everyone here was kind and nice like him.
She took the black box and disappeared into the bathroom.
When she finished cleaning up and putting on the new clothes, she spread the old torn pants out in front of her. The rips looked like bites. Beast or monster. And there was blood. She took a slow breath. Whatever had happened to this body’s leg while she was unconscious, someone else must have witnessed the whole tragedy from beginning to end.
She exhaled and stepped out quickly.
"Ole—"
The man at the window turned at once, his face tightening with concern as though whatever he’d just heard through his earbud was bad news.
"They found your DNA under Rosalie’s nails. The Warden is raising your status to suspect."