The office is vast, but devoid of warmth. Everything is silent and heavy, like a threat held barely in check. A single window dominates the room-huge, like an eye gazing out over the country. No sound. Just that long table, and the man at the end of it, who has not looked up since she entered.
Octavia remains standing.
Vlad Gagarin finishes signing a document with a smooth, deliberate gesture. His face is expressionless, his hand unhurried. He is dressed in black-plain suit, thick wool. No jewelry, no insignia, nothing that gleams. Everything about him seems to say he needs nothing to remind anyone of who he is.
He does not look up when he speaks.
"You let two subjects out."
The silence thickens instantly, like a lid snapping shut.
Octavia tenses, just slightly.
"The loop's security was reestablished within forty-eight hours. The rest of the program can proceed. The servers were cleansed. We've identified the breach point."
He finally raises his gaze.
His eyes are pale-almost gray-and cold like a frozen surface. He says nothing. He just watches her.
"The hack was stopped," she continues. "We've regained contact with the on-site teams. The remaining subjects have been secured. Losses are within acceptable margins."
Each word is chosen like a chess move. Precise. Controlled. Proud.
"We'll need new subjects. But the criteria are clear. I can get them."
"Children of convicts," he says. "Yes. You can take them. They won't be missed."
He slowly straightens in his chair. Takes his time folding his hands before him.
"What matters to me, Octavia, isn't the loop. It's the two who got out. 036 and 047. If they fall into the Hawk's hands... if someone gets them to talk about what they saw..."
"They don't know anything. They lived through the effects of the tests, not the purpose. They never had access to the program's objectives. Even with their memories, they can't understand."
Silence.
Vlad stares at her, unmoving.
Then, almost gently:
"Perhaps... I should have put Mikel in charge."
A hollow moment.
Octavia doesn't move. Barely breathes.
It's a gut-punch. Cold. Unexpected. Calculated.
"Mikel has nothing to do with this project," she replies. "I supervised every step. I selected the subjects. I built the loop. From the very first day."
He tilts his head slightly, amused.
"That's true. He doesn't have your ambition. He doesn't have your hunger."
Another silence settles.
"He's useful," she adds. "But for administration. He's not... suited for fieldwork, Sir. You know that."
She doesn't say it. But she thinks it, loudly:
You would entrust a population control program to a boy whose mother was institutionalized for speaking out?
And he knows. He hears it. It's a language they've always shared. The unsaid. The knife edge.
Vlad rises. He slowly walks around the table, soundless. He approaches.
She doesn't step back.
"You are brilliant," he says. "But you're shaking. You can't afford to shake."
She holds his gaze. Clenches her jaw.
"I'm not shaking."
He smiles. A pale smile. False, like polish on a blade.
"You call him sir, too?"
He means Mikel.
She doesn't answer.
He leans just close enough for her to feel the weight of his voice.
"Bring them back, Octavia. Or erase them. I don't want a mess."
Then he's already walking away, back to his seat. To him, the meeting is over.
She inclines her head, barely. Back straight. Face carved from marble.
She leaves without a word, without a glance behind.
But inside, the emptiness rises. And the rage-cold, slow, deep. The kind he planted there in childhood. The kind that's always kept her moving.
The door closes behind her with a muted thud. Octavia walks straight ahead, her heels sharp against the polished concrete. The corridor is as orderly as the rest of the complex. Perfectly lit. Perfectly empty.
Almost.
Mikel comes from the other direction, a few folders in his arms. He looks up as he sees her and slows, just enough to greet her.
"Octavia."
She stops. Inevitable.
"Mikel."
He nods, offering that awkward half-smile he thinks is polite. Always a little too soft. Always a little too human.
"I was going to see Father," he says. "He summoned me, I think it's about the allocation statistics."
She doesn't reply.
She watches him. The black hair, the eyes full of naive purpose, the slouched shoulders. He doesn't resemble her in the slightest. Not even his posture.
And yet here he is. Walking freely through these corridors, breathing this air, imagining he stands on her level.
A traitor's son.
She wonders, for the hundredth time, why he wasn't sent away with his mother. Why Vlad made him a pawn instead of a discard.
Because he's useful. Because they need his skills. Because he never knew. Because they told him she died.
And he believed it. Naturally. Stupidly.
He's still talking.
"I thought I could offer my help with the loop. For the analysis. Maybe we could cross-reference the biometric data with the old reports, it might reveal a correlation between the missing subjects and-"
"That's not your field."
Her voice cracks down. Neutral, but final.
He stops, slightly thrown. His eyes drop to the folders, then lift again.
"I know. I didn't mean to overstep."
"If your help is required, it will be formally requested. Until then, stick to what's expected of you."
A silence falls. Not awkward. Just empty.
He never knows how to talk to her. He's known her all his life, and yet she remains a stranger. Like a door he's never figured out how to open.
Still, he tries.
"Are you alright?"
She stares at him without answering. Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
What does are you alright even mean?
They aren't a family. There's no need for softness.
"I have work," she says simply.
She's about to leave, then turns back to him once more. Not out of concern. Not out of affection.
Just to remind him of his place.
"You'd do well to keep your energy for what you're good at, Mikel. Emotion won't help you."
He stays there, motionless, while she walks away already-her silhouette sharp and black, receding into the corridor.
He says nothing.
And she doesn't look back.