Seraphina turned the book over in her hands, studying the cover: a historical mystery, the kind of thing she’d never have admitted interested her, then glanced at Felix.
"You’re judging it already, aren’t you?" Felix asked.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "No."
A pause, and then, almost begrudgingly: "True."
Felix laughed.
It was such a small exchange. A month ago she wouldn’t have answered at all. Now she was arguing with him, actually arguing. Felix counted that as progress.
"Go ahead," he said. "Read it."
She opened the book, and he settled into the chair across from her. Neither spoke for a while. He’d learned that much about her already, Seraphina didn’t respond well to being pushed.
The moment anyone tried to force something out of her, she pulled back instinctively.
So he’d stopped pushing. He just gave her the space and waited to see what she did with it.
Eventually she closed the book, a finger still marking her page.
"The protagonist is lying."
Felix blinked. "Oh."
"He’s hiding something." She tapped the cover. "Every time someone asks about his past, he brings up his wife instead, not because he wants to talk about her, but because it’s easier than answering the actual question. He’s using her as a door he can close whenever the conversation gets close to something real."
Felix stared at her for a moment, then smiled. "You really do analyze everything."
"People are predictable."
"That’s a dangerous belief to hold."
"Are you unpredictable."
He thought about it. "Absolutely."
She studied him for several seconds. "No."
He laughed. "You’ve known me for barely any time."
"You’re easy to read."
He pressed a hand to his chest. "Ouch."
Something moved at the corner of her mouth. He didn’t say anything about it. He just smiled back and let it be.
The conversation kept drifting like that for a while.
The protagonist. The author’s prose. The line between suspicion and paranoia, which Seraphina seemed to find more interesting.
Then, without any warning, she turned it on him.
She set the book down in her lap. "Why did you become a healer?"
Felix leaned back, caught off guard. "That came out of nowhere."
He looked up at the ceiling for a second, the way people did when they were deciding how much of the truth to give. "My family’s full of combatants. Frontline fighters, some of the best in the country."
Her eyes narrowed. "So you were the exception."
"Pretty much."
"Did they dislike you for it?"
He was quiet for a second. "Not exactly. They thought I was wasting my talent."
"You don’t agree."
"No." His smile came easier this time. "I like healing."
"Why?"
"Because I can keep people alive." He said it simply, like it should have been obvious.
She studied his face, looking for the seam. "You’ve killed people."
His smile faded, just slightly. "Yes."
"That doesn’t bother you? The contradiction?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because they’re different things." His voice stayed even. "Healing someone doesn’t mean I think they’re good. And killing someone doesn’t mean I enjoy watching people die."
Her eyes dropped to the book, though she’d stopped reading it. Something about that answer had caught on her, he could tell, even without knowing exactly which part.
"Then why did you kill them?"
"Some people were trying to kill others." A pause. "I stopped them."
She didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. For a while the cell held nothing but silence.
Then, quietly, she asked, "Do you hate me?"
He didn’t answer right away, not because the question surprised him. He’d known it was coming, in one form or another. Anyone in her position would want to know, sooner or later, how the person sitting across from them actually saw her.
"I know what your file says."
Her expression didn’t change. "Thirty-seven people."
"Yes."
"My parents, neighbors, classmates."
He nodded, and let the weight sit there without softening it.
"And you still come here."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He offered her a faint smile. "Because you’re here."
She stared at him, waiting for the rest of it.
He shrugged. "That’s literally my job."
"That’s not the real reason."
His smile faded. She’d caught him, she always did, faster than he expected, faster than most people managed.
"You’re right." He didn’t try to dress it up. "Because I don’t think you’re finished."
Something sharpened in her eyes. "You think you can fix me?"
"No." The answer came before she’d even finished asking, quick enough that it seemed to catch her more off guard than the question itself had. Whatever she’d braced for, it hadn’t been that.
"I don’t think you’re broken," he said.
The cell went quiet in a different way this time.
"You did terrible things," he went on, evenly. "I’m not going to pretend otherwise, and I’m not trying to talk you out of what you did. But you’re still a person. You always were."
She looked down at her hands, the same hands that, according to the file sitting somewhere in Felix’s own briefcase, had ended thirty-seven lives. For seven years, everyone who’d ever looked at her had settled on the same.
Monster. Murderer. Psychopath. Threat. Felix had never denied what she’d done. But he’d also never reduced her down to it, the way everyone else had, as if the worst thing she’d ever done was the only thing left worth knowing about her.
She wasn’t sure yet what to do with someone who could hold both of those truths at once.
The session wound down not long after that. Felix stood.
"I’ll see you next Thursday."
She looked up. "You’re not coming tomorrow?"
"No."
A brief silence.
"Why?"
"The Association wants a full debrief on the syndicate case, everyone who was on-site, while it’s still fresh. It should’ve been done already, but they pushed it to tomorrow."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the book, a small thing, easy to miss, and he did.
"Besides," he said, nodding toward it, "you need the time to finish that."
She looked down at the cover. "I’ll finish it."
"I believe you."
He turned toward the door.
"Felix."
He stopped and looked back. She hesitated, only for a second, but it was there, a rare crack in the composure she usually kept so carefully in place.
"Will you bring another one?"
"Of course."
The door closed behind him, and she stayed where she was, the book still in her hands, her eyes on the space where he’d been standing a moment ago.
Seven years had taught her how to sit with silence, how to let it stretch without needing to fill it. She was starting to realize she didn’t like it as much as she used to.
Outside, Gideon was waiting.
"How was it?"
Felix shrugged. "Good."
"That’s all?"
"We talked."
"About?"
"Books."
Gideon gave him a look. "You’ve been coming here for weeks, and you’re still just discussing books."
"People reveal a lot when they’re talking about the things they like." Felix meant it as a professional observation, the kind he’d have written into a report if anyone had asked him to.
Gideon was quiet for a moment. "Do you think she’s improving?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
Felix glanced back toward the cell door. "She trusts me a little."
"A little?"
"Don’t rush it. Trust isn’t something you can force." He started walking, and Gideon fell into step beside him.
"And what happens when she trusts you completely?"
Felix shrugged. "I guess we’ll find out."
Neither of them noticed the woman on the other side of the reinforced door, still holding the book, still watching the space where Felix had disappeared from view, because from where they stood, there was nothing to notice.
Whatever was changing in that cell was changing quietly, in the same kind of small, deliberate silence Seraphina had spent seven years learning to keep.
Felix had made a habit of reading almost everyone he met. It would be a while yet before it occurred to him to read her the same way.
For years, she had wanted nothing from anyone.
Now there was one thing she wanted.
Thursday, to come faster.