System loading… Host: Marina Flynn. Mission: Atticus Ballard — stabilize blackness.
"Welcome back, Host," Haisley said. Her voice was calm and clinical, the small serpent on my shoulder shifting like a warm coin. "You have thirty seconds before the wing alarm registers lethal deviation."
I blinked at the ceiling, damp concrete pressing a smell of metal and old smoke. My throat was dry. "I didn't sign up to die," I whispered.
"Nobody asks you," Haisley said. "You volunteered by stepping into a supporting role. Rules are rules. Blackness ticks on failure."
The light in the cell was a single barred bulb. Opposite me, a broad back hunched on the narrow bunk. Atticus Ballard did not move. He smelled like leather and salt and a cleaner whose name I did not know.
I sat up slow. My hands found the wooden baton shoved under the bed like a forgotten promise. It was splintered at the end. It would sting, which was all I had.
"Remember," Haisley said. "You have one objective. Stabilize him. Do not make him darker. Killing permitted only if his blackness is the control variable. Do not let the cell kill you."
"That is useless without instructions," I said. I pushed my feet into the cracked floor and rose. "Tell me one thing useful. Is he supposed to be rescued, or do we break him?"
Haisley clicked. "You can try either. Start with not dying."
I stepped up behind his shoulder. My breath ghosted across his neck. The
