Today was big—my first face-to-face with Ashur.
I paused outside the door, forcing my pulse to slow. Every glimpse of the man in that glass cube spiked my nerves. Deep breath—then into the hall.
Three guards, one in each corner of the triangular chamber, their ballistic uniforms flashing under the cold lights. But the only thing that mattered was the cube at center.
Five-year prisoner, zero spoken words.
Under the guards' stare I strode toward the glass. I skimmed the file in my hand.
" I need him to hear me. How do I talk to him?" I asked the nearest guard.
Through the smoked visor he stepped over, slid a small metal drawer in the cube's frame—the speaker channel.
Ashur sat exactly as before: motionless, sculpted, carved from stone. His head was bowed… didn't his neck ever ache?
"Why's his gaze always down?" I asked.
"He rarely makes eye contact," the guard answered.
Great. This would be fun.
I edged closer. That serpent tattoo coiled from his waistband up the spine and over his skull. I snapped the file shut, tucked it beneath my arm—so much the Union and the doctor didn't know, but Rose had briefed me well.
"It's been over five years," I said into the mic. "They say you've never spoken a single word."
Silence.
The guard smirked and went back to post.
Arms now unstrapped—yet Ashur stayed absolutely still, eyes fixed on the floor. A block of marble. I'd scoured his file for weaknesses and found none.
One brow lifted. "File says you move your lips in silence—keep your speech muscles alive? Worried about a stammer?" I leaned in; my heart thumped. Up close his size was worse—pure menace.
"Why not say something? Let's find out if your mental chess worked—see if you stutter."
Nothing. Even his breathing felt measured, scheduled—as if blinking, too, was on a timer.
This freak—what was he?
I swallowed hard.
"Ashur, I know they've made you a machine… but I'm here to help."
Still nothing. My gaze caught an old split at his brow stretching toward the ear, the countless suture scars threading across tattooed muscle. He was a weapon all right.
"How hasn't his body wasted away?" I asked the guard.
"Three days a week his arms are free," the man replied. "Runs isometric routines like a robot. Diet's tight—high protein. Union can't let a prize killer go weak. Five years, though… still just a useless puppet." His tone held fatigue—five years of babysitting the monster.
Truth was, those guards were prisoners too—only their cages were duty rosters and stun batons.
I step closer to the glass.
His index finger twitches—just a fraction.
I take another pace. Squinting, I fix on his chest: breathing like a metronome, every cycle measured, precise—mechanical precision. Like a snake whose defenses trigger only when it truly senses danger.
He isn't afraid of me.
He isn't afraid of anyone.
What exactly is his edge—genius, brute strength? I only know that, for all his almost mythic looks, he's hollow inside: five years and every torture, every psych test, every chemical probe has failed to crack him.
My only bridge to more time in this room is to show we're on the same boat. If Ashur realizes I'm Rose as well, his behavior might shift. I have to make contact—prove to the doctor I'm useful to the project or lose my chance to break Ashur out forever.
Connection is the key.
I soften my voice.
"I know you're scared… you have every right."
No reaction. Truth is, I'm the one who's scared of him.
"Okay—you're not scared of anything. If you felt fear, five years of this torture would have crushed you."
I lay my palm gently against the glass.
"I'm not like the others… I want to help you."
Not a lie. No one here knows I really am different—and that I plan to spring him, mission or not. One way or another, we're on the same team.
What rattled me most: he wouldn't even meet my eyes.
I glanced up at the corner-camera—no time to waste; the doctor was probably watching. If I played my trump card on this first… well, second… meeting and Ashur reacted, it could get messy fast—and the doctor might start asking questions.
Better to let them think I'm useless for now.
I drew a long breath and stepped back from the glass.
Not the slightest response.
His pale skin looked almost lacquered under the white lights, thick lashes casting shadows on hollow cheeks.
Another breath. I murmured,
"I'd really like to know what you think I look like."
For a heartbeat I thought those lashes twitched.
A thin smile crept across my face. I tucked the file under my arm, pivoted on my heel.
"Too bad—you missed your chance. Not every day a girl like me pays a visit… Piranha."
Long strides carried me toward the exit.
For me, the game was only just beginning.