Breakfast arrived an hour later, brought by the same private who'd delivered dinner. This time there were eggs, toast, some kind of oatmeal, and a cup of juice that Anaya eyed with deep suspicion.
"What is it?" she asked, poking at the eggs with her finger.
"Don't do that," Evan said automatically. "Use the fork."
"What's a fork?"
Evan demonstrated, spearing a piece of egg. Anaya watched with intense concentration, then picked up her own fork—holding it wrong, like a weapon —and stabbed at her eggs. She managed to get a piece to her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then her face scrunched up.
"It's weird."
"It's food."
"It's weird food." But she took another bite anyway, probably because she was still hungry despite yesterday's meal.
Evan ate his own breakfast, trying not to watch her struggle with those clearly designed for human hands, not delicate elf fingers. She got more food on her face than in her mouth, and the way she held the fork—like it might suddenly come alive and attack her—was almost comical.
She managed to flip a piece of egg onto her lap. Then onto the table. Then, somehow, onto her forehead.
"How are you this bad at eating?" Evan muttered, reaching over to wipe egg off her eyebrow.
"We don't use these stabby things at home," Anaya said defensively. "We use our hands. Or leaves. Mama makes plates out of big leaves and we eat berries and nuts and mushrooms and—" She paused, her expression falling. "I miss Mama's cooking."
Before the tears could start again, Evan cut a piece of toast and held it out to her. "Here. Toast doesn't need a fork."
She took it, nibbling the edge. "It's crunchy."
"That's the point."
"We have soft bread at home. Made from flour. It tastes like autumn." She took another bite of toast, clearly trying to like it. "This tastes like... crunch."
Despite himself, Evan's mouth twitched. "That's one way to describe it."
When Anaya reached for the juice and nearly knocked it over, Evan found himself catching it automatically. When she tried to cut more toast and the knife slipped, threatening to send the whole plate onto the floor, he found himself taking the knife and cutting it for her. When she got egg on her cheek and didn't notice, he found himself reaching over with a napkin and wiping it away.
It was instinctive. Automatic. The kind of thing he imagined parents did without thinking.
The realization made him uncomfortable.
Anaya beamed at him each time, like these small acts of care were the most wonderful things in the world.
"You're good at this, Papa," she said, swinging her legs under the table. They didn't reach the floor, Evan noticed. She was so small. "Mama said you used to feed me all the time when I was a baby. She said I was terrible at eating then too."
"You're still terrible at eating," Evan muttered, wiping egg off her chin again.
She giggled, the sound bright and pure. Then her expression sobered. "Mama says—" She stopped, her smile fading. "Mama says lots of things."
The sadness was back, hovering at the edges. Evan felt it coming like a storm front.
"Tell me something she says," he said quickly, trying to head it off.
Anaya brightened a little. "She says the forest provides for those who listen. And she says love is the strongest magic. And she says..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, like she was sharing a secret. "She says you have the biggest heart of anyone she ever met, even if you try to hide it."
Evan's hand froze, the napkin still pressed to Anaya's chin.
"She talks about you all the time," Anaya continued, oblivious to his reaction. "She says you were brave and kind and that you loved us more than anything. She says that's why you left—to try to make peace so I could grow up safe." Her amber eyes were impossibly large. "Did it work, Papa? Is there peace now?"
Evan's throat was tight. "Not yet, kid."
"Oh." She looked down at her plate, pushing eggs around with her fork. "Will there be?"
"I don't know."
"Mama thinks there will be. She says you wouldn't have left if you didn't believe it was possible." Anaya picked up her fork again, still holding it wrong. "I believe it too. Now that you're back, everything will be okay."
The trust in her voice was like a knife between his ribs.
She took another bite of eggs and immediately got some stuck in her hair. Evan wasn't even sure how that was physically possible.
"Kid, how—" He reached over, pulling the egg out of her tangled golden hair. "You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know."
Anaya grinned at him, egg on her face, in her hair, somehow on her elbow. "Mama says I'm special."
"Mama's being generous," Evan said, but there was no heat in it. He found himself cutting another piece of toast, smaller this time, easier for her to manage. Then he was scooping up some eggs, making sure to get just a small amount on the fork before handing it to her.
Before he quite realized what he was doing, he was feeding her. One bite at a time, patient and careful, making sure she actually got the food in her mouth instead of decorating herself with it.
Anaya accepted each bite with obvious delight, swinging her legs and humming between mouthfuls. She didn't question it, didn't find it odd. To her, this was normal—Papa feeding her, taking care of her, making sure she was okay.
To Evan, it felt like crossing a line he hadn't meant to cross.
But he kept doing it anyway.
"Open," he said, holding out another forkful of eggs.
Anaya opened her mouth obediently, accepting the bite. "You're really good at this, Papa. Did you feed lots of children?"
"No," Evan said. Just the ones I was assigned to betray.
"Oh. Then you're a natural!" She beamed at him. "Mama said you would be."
Evan's chest tightened. He focused on cutting more toast, on portioning out the oatmeal, on anything but the growing weight of what he was doing.
Morrison appeared again in the afternoon, this time with a camera crew. They set up in the corner of the room, professional equipment that looked wildly out of place in what was supposed to be a comfortable space.
"What's this?" Evan demanded, standing up from where he'd been sitting with Anaya on the bed. She'd been teaching him a hand-clapping game from her home, something about flowers and moonlight, and now she clutched his hand nervously.
"Documentation," Morrison said smoothly. "Command wants recordings of your interactions with the subject. For analysis."
"Her name is Anaya."
Morrison's eyebrow raised. "Interesting. You're using her name now."
"What else would I call her?"
"Most handlers use 'subject' or 'target.'" Morrison's smile was cold, calculated. "But if using her name helps you bond with her, by all means. Whatever works."
Anaya was watching them from behind Evan's leg, the stuffed bear clutched to her chest. "Papa? Who is that man?"
"That's Captain Morrison," Evan said, keeping his voice neutral even as his jaw tightened. "He's... he works here."
"He doesn't smile right," Anaya said with the blunt honesty of a five-year-old. She peeked around Evan's leg, studying Morrison with those too-large amber eyes. "His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Mama taught me to watch for that. She says people who smile wrong are usually lying."
Morrison's smile didn't waver, but something dark flickered behind his eyes—something cold and predatory that made Evan's hand instinctively move toward Anaya, protective. "Smart child. I can see why command is so interested in her."
"We're done here," Evan said flatly. "Get your cameras and get out."
"Actually, we're just getting started." Morrison nodded to the crew, who continued setting up their equipment. "Cross, act natural. Pretend we're not here."
"Morrison—"
"That's an order, Cross."
Anaya slid around Evan's leg and pressed against his side, her small hand sliding into his. She was staring at Morrison with an expression that was somehow both wary and defiant—remarkable for someone so young, so small.
"I don't like him, Papa," she said, not bothering to lower her voice. "He feels wrong. Like..." She paused, searching for words. "Like dead leaves pretending to be alive."
Morrison's smile finally slipped. For just a moment, Evan saw something ugly cross his face—something cold and calculating and utterly devoid of humanity. His eyes, when they settled on Anaya, held a flatness that reminded Evan of a snake watching a mouse.
A resource to be exploited. A tool to be used. Nothing more.
"Children often have irrational fears," Morrison said, but his voice had an edge now. "I'm sure she'll adjust."
But Anaya pressed closer to Evan, her fingers tightening around his hand. "No," she said quietly, with absolute certainty. "I won't."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Morrison's eyes narrowed, his professional mask slipping further to reveal something darker underneath. "Cross, a word. Outside."
Evan looked down at Anaya, then at Morrison. Every instinct he had was screaming at him not to leave her alone with the cameras, with Morrison's cold eyes still fixed on her like she was a problem to be solved.
"I'm not leaving her with the cameras."
"They're just cameras, Cross. They can't hurt her."
"Papa, don't go," Anaya whispered, and there was real fear in her voice now.
Evan squeezed her hand. "I'll be right outside the door. You can see me through the window. Just like before, remember?"
She looked up at him, uncertainty and trust warring in her expression. Finally, slowly, she nodded. Evan extracted his hand from hers—feeling her reluctance to let go, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers—and followed Morrison into the hallway.
The moment the door closed, Morrison's professional mask dropped completely.
"We have a problem," he said, his voice low and hard.
"What problem?"
"The child." Morrison pulled out his tablet, showing Evan footage from earlier—Anaya telling him about how elves could "see inside" people, how she knew things about their intentions and emotions. "Command is concerned that her abilities might extend beyond what we initially assessed."
"She's five," Evan said. "She's probably just intuitive."
"Or she's reading you somehow. Reading all of us." Morrison's expression darkened, his eyes flat and emotionless. "Command wants to run tests. See exactly what she's capable of. We need to know if she poses a threat."
"What kind of tests?"
"The necessary kind."
Evan felt something cold settle in his stomach. "No."
"Excuse me?"
you'd like to be removed from the assignment?"
"And replaced with who? Someone who'll hurt her to get answers?"
"If necessary." Morrison's eyes were flat, empty—shark eyes in a human face. "This is war, Cross. Sometimes casualties are necessary. Even young ones. Especially ones that might pose a security risk."
Through the window, Evan could see Anaya. She was pressed against the glass, watching them, her expression worried. The camera crew was adjusting their equipment, and she kept glancing at them nervously. When she saw Evan looking, she waved—a small, uncertain gesture that made something crack in his chest.
"Get your cameras out of my room," Evan said quietly.
"That's not your call to—"
"Get them out, or I walk. And you can explain to command why your prize asset refused to cooperate."
For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Morrison smiled—that cold, empty smile that Anaya had immediately identified as wrong.
"You're getting attached, Cross. That's dangerous. Very dangerous." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Don't forget what she is. Don't forget what they've done to our people. And don't forget that your loyalty is to humanity, not to some elf child who's playing on your sympathies."
"I'm doing my job."
"Are you?" Morrison tilted his head, studying Evan like he was an interesting problem. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're forgetting which side you're on. It looks like you're forgetting that creature in there isn't human. Isn't yours. Isn't anything but a means to an end."
He walked away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor. But he called back over his shoulder, "The tests will happen, Cross. One way or another. Think about whether you want to be there to make sure they're humane."
Evan stood there, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under him. Through the window, he could see the camera crew packing up—Morrison must have signaled them somehow. And he could see Anaya, still pressed against the glass, her small face anxious and afraid.
He pushed open the door. Anaya immediately ran to him, throwing her arms around his legs.
"I don't like him, Papa," she said again, her voice muffled against his thigh. "Please don't let him come back. Please."
Evan looked down at her—at this small, trusting creature who called him Papa and believed he was here to save her—and felt the last of his carefully constructed walls begin to crumble.
"I won't," he said. And meant it.
Behind them, the camera in the corner kept recording, its red light blinking steadily.
A reminder that they were never really alone.
That every moment was being watched, analyzed, studied.
That Morrison's cold eyes were always there, waiting.