The summons comes during breakfast.
Not announced. Not explained.
An attendant stops beside Alexander's table, taps the surface once with her knuckle, and says his name like it's a chore.
"Office. Now."
Alexander sets his spoon down carefully. Too carefully. He stands without looking at anyone.
He already knows.
The hallway to the office feels longer than it did yesterday. Or maybe he's counting more now—steps, tiles, the spaces where sound echoes differently. He registers everything because there's nothing else to do with the anger coiling under his ribs.
The door closes behind him.
Same smell as before. Paper. Something burnt. Stale authority.
Two adults this time. A man behind the desk. A woman standing near the window, arms crossed, watching the reflection instead of him.
The man doesn't bother with small talk. "You and Ira seem… close."
Alexander keeps his face blank. "We sit near each other."
"You watch her," the woman says. "Often."
He doesn't deny it. Denial invites questions.
"She's been reassigned," the man continues. "And yet you're still involved."
Alexander lifts his gaze. Meets the man's eyes directly. "She didn't stop existing."
The woman's mouth tightens.
"You're very articulate when you choose to be," the man says. "Your family mentioned that."
Alexander's jaw tightens at the word family.
"They mention a lot of things."
The man leans back. "We're trying to understand your influence."
"On what?"
"On her behavior. On others." He flips a page.
"You block attendants. You redirect attention. You interfere."
Alexander says nothing.
Silence stretches. The woman shifts her weight, impatient.
"You think you're protecting her," she says.
"But what you're doing is disruptive."
"She's not disruptive," Alexander replies.
"She's observant."
The man smiles thinly. "And you?"
"I'm careful."
The man studies him for a long moment. Then: "Wing C is not permanent. But reassignment depends on progress."
"Whose progress?
The woman answers this time. "Hers."
Alexander's chest tightens. "So you punish her for my behavior."
The man's smile fades. "We correct systems."
Alexander understands then. Fully. Cleanly.
This isn't about Ira breaking rules.
It's about her becoming someone worth watching.
"You may go," the man says.
Alexander turns and leaves without another word. He doesn't trust himself to speak.
Wing C is quieter than he expected.
Not silent. Controlled.
Ira sits at a table near the wall, back straight, hands folded. She looks up the moment he enters the common area, like she's been counting his steps without realizing it.
Their eyes lock.
Just for a second.
Then she looks away.
He moves toward her anyway.
"You shouldn't be here," she says softly when he sits across from her.
"They didn't say I couldn't be," he replies.
Her fingers twist together. "They talked to you."
"Yes."
She doesn't ask what was said. She already knows enough to be afraid.
"They're watching us now," she says.
"They were already watching," he replies.
She huffs a quiet, humorless breath. "I was trying not to talk."
"I noticed."
"I failed," she says. "Twice."
"You didn't," he says immediately. "You adapted."
She looks at him then, searching his face.
"They're using me."
"Yes."
"To get to you."
"Yes."
That lands heavier.
A girl at the far table laughs too loudly. An attendant looks over. Ira's shoulders tense automatically.
Alexander notices.
"Don't," he says quietly.
She stills. "Don't what?"
"Shrink."
Her throat works. "I don't know how not to."
"I do," he says. Then, softer, "I'll help."
That promise hangs between them, dangerous and intimate.
That afternoon, an incident happens.
Small. Controlled. Calculated.
During study hour, an attendant deliberately assigns Ira to read aloud.
Her voice falters on the first sentence. Not because she can't read—but because reading aloud here is exposure. Every word measured. Every mistake remembered.
Alexander watches from across the room.
Her second sentence steadies.
Her third is clear.
On the fourth, the attendant interrupts. "Louder."
Ira inhales.
Alexander stands.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively.
Just enough to draw attention.
"She's audible," he says.
The room freezes.
The attendant turns slowly. "Sit down."
"No," Alexander says.
A ripple moves through the room—fear, curiosity, anticipation. Samir's smile fades. Meera's eyes widen.
"This is not your concern," the attendant snaps.
"It is," Alexander says. "You made it so."
The silence is electric.
The attendant steps closer. "Do you want to be reassigned too?"
Alexander doesn't look at her. He looks at Ira.
And that is when something in him cracks.
"Don't use her to manage me," he says. "If you want compliance, take it from me."
Ira's breath leaves her in a rush.
The attendant's face hardens. "You think you're in a position to negotiate?"
"No," Alexander says. "I think you're in one to expose yourself."
That's when the second attendant enters the room.
And the decision is made.
That night, Alexander is not returned to his bed.
He's escorted elsewhere.
Ira watches from the doorway as they take him down a corridor she's never been allowed to walk.
He doesn't look back.
That scares her more than if he had.
Later, Samir sits beside her on the steps. "He knew that would happen."
"I didn't," Ira whispers.
"Yes, you did," Samir says gently. "You just didn't want to believe he'd choose it."
She curls her hands into her sleeves.
"They're going to punish him."
"Yes."
"For me."
Samir doesn't contradict her.
The night is unbearable.
Wing C hums differently after dark. Sharper. Louder.
Ira lies awake, staring at the ceiling. The coin is cold against her skin now. Useless. Heavy.
She thinks of Alexander standing in that room. Choosing. Knowing.
For the first time since she arrived, Ira does something reckless.
She gets out of bed.
She walks to the corridor door.
It's locked.
She presses her forehead against the metal and breathes.
"I won't disappear," she whispers into the dark. "You don't get to decide that."
Footsteps approach.
An attendant's voice cuts through the silence. "Back to bed."
Ira doesn't move.
The attendant grabs her arm.
Ira flinches—but doesn't pull away.
"Don't touch me," she says, very clearly.
The attendant hesitates.
That hesitation is everything.
Across the building, Alexander sits alone in a small room with no windows.
A single chair. A single light.
The door opens.
The man from the office steps inside.
"You made a choice today," the man says.
Alexander lifts his eyes. Calm. Cold.
Controlled.
"Yes."
"You chose her."
Alexander doesn't hesitate. "I did."
The man studies him. "That makes you predictable."
Alexander leans back slightly. "No. It makes me dangerous."
The man's smile disappears.
Outside, thunder rolls—distant, heavy, promising.
And somewhere between the locked doors, the watched rooms, and the choices already made, both Ira and Alexander understand the same thing at the same time:
This is no longer about surviving quietly.
It's about what happens when restraint runs out.