Morning in the controlled wing felt artificial. The lights hummed unevenly, pretending to be sunlight, but the color was too white, too careful. Ketaki sat on the edge of the bunk with her feet bare against the cold floor. She had not slept. She doubted she would sleep for several nights.
Leela was still asleep across the room, curled like someone trying to protect a part of herself that no one else could see. Haria stood by the console, scrolling through the previous day's interference logs with the seriousness of a man reading a holy text.
Ketaki rubbed her face, then let her hands fall.
She felt the shift immediately.
Yoddha was awake.
Not pushing. Not shouting. Only awake.
You will speak today, he murmured inside her mind.
Ketaki shut her eyes. No. I will answer what is necessary and nothing more.
You still believe restraint is a virtue, Yoddha said. I admire your persistence. I do not admire the delusion.
Ketaki opened her eyes again. The room was the same. It was she who was changing.
Haria glanced over. "You alright?"
"Yes." She gave the answer automatically.
But inside, the commentary continued.
You lie poorly to him. You always have.
Ketaki ignored him. She stood, stroked down the wrinkles of her tunic, and walked toward the mirror built into the wall.
The officials had called it a "visibility panel."
Ketaki called it what it was: a one-way eye.
Behind that mirror there were always watchers.
She leaned close enough that she could see the faint signs of age around her eyes. That felt grounding, almost comforting.
Then the reflection shifted.
It was still her face, but the expression was not hers. The jaw was tighter. The gaze was sharper. The shoulders held an invisible weight.
Yoddha looked out from her bones.
Her breath shortened.
"Not now," she whispered.
In the glass, her own reflection smiled back.
You cannot hide me here, he said. Not from them. Not from yourself.
Ketaki stepped back sharply and the reflection snapped back to normal. Her own eyes. Her own exhaustion.
Haria noticed her movement. "Ketaki?"
"I am fine," she said again. She hated the word fine. It tasted like glass.
Leela stirred on the cot and blinked awake. "What time is it?"
"Nearly eight," Haria replied. "They will start the evaluation soon."
Ketaki felt the word evaluation sink into her chest like a stone. The Council wanted controlled demonstrations. They wanted to see Yoddha. They wanted to measure him.
They wanted her to open the door she had spent her entire life learning how to keep closed.
She breathed slowly.
The Observation Ritual
They led her into the central observation chamber. Not chains. Not guards. The pretense of choice was part of their method. The Council seldom forced what they could persuade through bureaucracy.
A ring of seats surrounded the chamber, raised so that each official could look down into the space like teachers evaluating a misbehaving student. The Shatterer stood in the center, humming faintly in its copper cage.
Ketaki took her position beside it.
Leela and Haria stood just outside the inner circle, allowed to observe but not interfere unless explicitly invited.
The lead official, a tall man with pale eyes, cleared his throat.
"Ketaki," he said, "we are initiating a Level Two Internal Consciousness Evaluation. You understand the protocol."
Ketaki nodded.
Inside her mind, Yoddha laughed softly.
Look at them. So eager. Even fear becomes ceremony for them.
I will not engage you, she told him internally. I will answer what is necessary.
And I will answer what is true, he replied.
Ketaki's jaw tightened.
The official continued, unaware of the inner contest. "We will begin with non-invasive questioning. When you are ready, we will ask to speak with the emergent consciousness."
Leela's hand tightened on the rail. Haria frowned openly.
"I will respond myself," Ketaki said.
The official nodded, writing something down.
Inside her head, Yoddha whispered:
A lie again. You know they will not accept your voice alone. They want the monster, not the maker.
Ketaki felt her nails dig into her palm. She kept her face neutral.
The questioning began.
They asked about sensations. They asked about memory overlap. They asked about her emotional states. They asked whether she felt "invaded," as if the word could capture something as intimate as this.
She answered calmly, steadily, though each question tugged at Yoddha like a rusted hook.
Then the lead official said, "We request demonstration of partial emergence."
Ketaki breathed once, deeply.
"I do not recommend that," she answered.
The official raised an eyebrow. "For clarity, not for instability. We need to witness the separation."
Ketaki shook her head. "There is no clean separation."
Let me speak, Yoddha whispered.
No.
They will force the issue. Better to meet their curiosity on your terms than theirs.
You have no terms, she thought sharply.
On the contrary, Yoddha said, voice soft and terrifying, I have only terms. You are the one carrying consequences.
A flicker went through her fingertips. The Shatterer pulsed.
The official spoke again, voice firmer. "Ketaki. We request emergence."
The air thinned.
Leela stepped forward slightly. "She said it is not safe."
"That is not your determination to make," the official snapped.
Leela opened her mouth to argue, but Ketaki shook her head sharply. She did not want Leela punished for defiance.
She exhaled.
"I will allow partial emergence," she said, "for ten seconds."
Haria muttered a curse under his breath.
The officials leaned forward. Pens poised. Eyes hungry.
Ketaki closed her eyes.
I am here, Yoddha said.
Do not harm anyone, she warned.
I only speak. For now.
Ketaki let the boundary loosen just a fraction. Just enough for the Council to taste the thing they wanted.
Her posture changed first. Her shoulders squared. Her breath steadied. Her eyes opened and they were hers only in shape. The warmth was gone.
The officials froze.
One woman whispered, "Incredible."
They were not prepared when Yoddha spoke through her mouth.
His voice was still hers, yet it carried weight that did not belong to her at all.
"This is the part where you will think you understand me," he said, "and you will be wrong."
The officials scribbled furiously.
Yoddha continued, "You sit above us on your raised seats and pretend to hold control. But you are afraid. Afraid of what lies inside your own people. Afraid of any power that does not belong to your categories."
The lead official interrupted. "What is your purpose? State your primary directive."
Ketaki screamed inside her own head.
Do not answer that. Do not give them a weapon.
But Yoddha answered anyway.
"My purpose is recognition."
He stepped closer to the rail. Officials flinched.
"My purpose is what she denies. My purpose is to correct the stories written about us."
Ketaki fought to pull back control.
Not yet, Yoddha said quietly.
Enough.
You hide too much, he said. Let them fear honestly or not at all.
Ketaki yanked the boundary closed.
Her knees buckled.
Leela and Haria rushed to her at once.
The officials whispered intensely to one another.
Ketaki's breath came ragged.
Inside her, Yoddha retreated into a cold silence. Not defeated. Not angry.
Only waiting.
You see, he said softly, they will never let this end with observation. They want ownership. They want a claim. And you will try to control it. You will fail.
I will not fail.
We will see.
Ketaki lifted her head toward Leela, who looked terrified.
"Are you hurt?" Leela whispered.
"No," Ketaki said.
But inside, she heard Yoddha's final quiet sentence echo like a warning carved into bone: