They tell Ira at morning count.
Not gently. Not privately. Just her name spoken aloud, followed by a pause that lasts too long.
"Alexander has been transferred," the attendant says, as if announcing a schedule change. "Return to your places."
Transferred.
The word rings in Ira's ears, hollow and wrong. It doesn't come with a direction.
No wing. No explanation. Just absence.
Her breath stutters.
"Where?" she asks before she can stop herself.
The attendant's eyes flick to her—surprised, irritated. "That information isn't necessary."
Necessary.
Ira feels something tear loose inside her chest. Not loudly. Not all at once. Slowly, like fabric pulled too hard.
She opens her mouth again.
Nothing comes out.
That frightens her more than if she'd shouted.
She sits through breakfast without tasting anything. The spoon trembles in her hand. She doesn't bother correcting it. No one is watching closely anymore—not her, not now.
Across the room, Samir watches her instead.
"He didn't disappear," Samir says quietly when they're dismissed. "They want you to think he did."
Ira doesn't look at him. "Why?"
"Because you're quieter when you're scared," Samir replies. "And louder when you're angry."
Her throat tightens. "I don't know which one I am."
Samir studies her face. "Neither do they."
Alexander wakes in a room with no windows.
The light hums overhead, harsh and white.
The walls are bare except for a single camera mounted too high to be accidental.
His wrists ache.
Not restrained. Just sore—like he's been held too long by something invisible.
The door opens.
The man from the office steps in, folder under his arm. Calm. Curious. Controlled.
"You slept?" the man asks.
"Yes," Alexander lies.
The man smiles faintly. "Good. That means you're adaptable."
Alexander doesn't respond.
"You know why you're here," the man continues.
"You overstepped. You challenged authority.
You disrupted order."
"I protected someone," Alexander says.
The man tilts his head. "You became attached."
Alexander meets his gaze fully now.
Unblinking. "You noticed."
"That was the problem," the man replies.
He opens the folder. Slides a photo across the table.
Ira. Sitting on her bed in Wing C. Knees drawn to her chest. Eyes unfocused.
Alexander's jaw tightens.
"She's not coping well with the separation,"
the man says mildly.
"She hasn't spoken since breakfast."
Something inside Alexander snaps—not outwardly, not yet—but the control he's built fractures.
"What do you want?" he asks.
The man leans back. "Compliance."
Alexander laughs once. Sharp. Empty. "You already took me."
"Yes," the man agrees. "Now we see how much she costs."
Wing C feels different without Alexander.
Too open. Too exposed. Like the air itself has thinned.
Ira doesn't speak during lessons.
When she's called on, she stands—but no sound comes out. The attendant waits. Presses. Finally sighs and moves on.
At lunch, a boy from another table sits too close.
"Why are you quiet?" he asks, grinning. "Cat got your tongue?"
Ira's fingers curl around her cup.
Before she can decide whether to answer, an attendant intervenes. "Move."
The boy scoffs but obeys.
Ira realizes then—Alexander used to intercept these moments before they reached her.
She swallows hard.
That afternoon, she's called to the office.
Same glass walls. Same smell of burnt paper.
Her mother isn't on the screen this time.
Instead, the man from before waits.
"You're struggling," he says kindly.
Ira says nothing.
"You've lost your anchor," he continues.
"That happens when children rely on the wrong people."
Ira lifts her eyes slowly. "He didn't make me weaker."
The man smiles. "No. He made you visible."
Her heart thuds painfully.
"You want him back," the man says. "That's understandable."
Ira's hands shake now. She doesn't hide it.
"There's a way," he continues. "You cooperate. You soften. You stop interfering with others."
"And then?" she asks.
"And then we consider reunification."
Consider.
She understands the trap immediately.
"He won't agree to this," Ira says.
The man nods. "That's why this choice is yours."
That night, Ira lies awake staring at the ceiling.
The coin is cold in her hand. Useless. Heavy.
She thinks of Alexander standing in that white room. Being watched. Being measured.
She thinks of all the times he stood between her and something worse.
She sits up.
Quietly, deliberately, she swings her legs off the bed.
She walks to the corridor door and waits.
An attendant notices. Approaches.
"You're not allowed out," she says.
Ira lifts her chin. "I want to cooperate."
The attendant pauses.
That pause feels like betrayal.
Alexander is returned to the room with the table.
The man is waiting.
"She's agreed," he says.
Alexander's stomach drops. "Agreed to what?"
"To behave," the man says. "To detach."
Alexander's voice goes very quiet. "You threatened her."
"No," the man replies. "We offered her relief."
Alexander stands.
The chair screeches back violently.
"If you touch her—"
"We already have," the man interrupts.
"Through you."
The realization hits Alexander with brutal clarity.
This was never about control.
It was about leverage.
And Ira has stepped into it to save him.
The man gestures toward the door. "You'll see her tomorrow. Briefly. Supervised."
Alexander's chest heaves once.
He nods.
Because nodding costs less than refusing.
The next day, they're brought into the same room.
Opposite chairs. Too far apart.
A table between them.
An attendant stands close enough to hear breathing.
Ira looks thinner. Paler. Controlled to the point of breaking.
Alexander's gaze locks onto her.
She doesn't look away.
"You shouldn't have done it," he says quietly.
"I know," she replies.
"You don't understand what they'll do with that."
"I do," she says. "I chose it anyway."
The attendant clears her throat.
Ira's eyes flicker—but she doesn't stop.
"If I disappear," she continues, "it'll be quiet. If you disappear—" Her voice catches.
"There won't be anyone left to hear me."
Alexander's restraint finally cracks.
He stands abruptly, chair scraping hard against the floor.
"That's not your decision to make," he snaps.
Her eyes fill—but she doesn't cry.
"It is," she says. "Because you taught me how."
The room freezes.
The attendant steps forward. "Enough."
Alexander sits back down slowly. Carefully.
Like any sudden movement might destroy what's left.
They are escorted out separately.
But as Ira passes him—
Their fingers brush.
Deliberate this time.
Brief.
Enough.
That night, Alexander makes a decision.
And Ira feels it—somewhere deep in her chest—before anything changes.