He came to not from the aching pain, but rather from a strange, heavy feeling under his skin. As if something was slowly boiling inside him, not causing a burn, but reminding him of itself with an obsessive insistence, returning him to reality not through a sudden awakening, but through a sticky, viscous feeling of his own body, naked and unprotected. At some point, he realized that he was no longer lying on the sofa. The unexpected depth of the mattress, along with the alien softness of the sheets, suggested that he had been transferred to a real bed. One meant for rest, but not for him. It was too comfortable and clean, as if cut out of a life to which he did not belong.
He was in no hurry to open his eyes, because his body, as if it had been through an illness, responded to movement with difficulty: each finger throbbed with its own pain, his spine ached with the slightest shift, and his lungs, filled with something heavy, exhaled only when he stopped fighting for control over them. When he finally opened his eyelids, his gaze fell on the high ceiling, slightly blurred by half-asleep vision, with intricate moldings, through which daylight slowly flowed, breaking through from behind massive, tightly falling curtains. He recognized the room, it was the same: the angle of view was different, the air was heavier, the colors were duller, as if the space had changed with him overnight. He sat up abruptly, from a feeling of anxious uncertainty, from the realization that he was in a place he had not chosen. The blanket had slipped off, revealing his legs, and under his head he could still feel the pillow, the smell of which did not belong to Alpha, but reminded him of it, as a reminder can be the haze hanging in the air after the departure of someone who left too strong a mark. There was no one in the room, no shadows, no voices, and the silence did not seem good, it was oppressive, like everything around him, which seemed frozen, as if not a few hours had passed since his last awakening, but a whole life, alien and elusive.
Only now did he notice that he was dressed differently. His body was covered by a snow-white shirt reaching to his knees, made of a fabric whose touch did not irritate the skin. He did not remember how it appeared on him. And even more so, he did not know who put it on. And from this ignorance, a heaviness rose in his chest, as if every step of his body was the result of someone else's will, and not his.
He grabbed his shoulders to make sure he could at least control his own movements. His fingers were dry, cold, his heart was beating deeply, as if from afar, and in each beat there was a quiet: "you were touched again, without your permission, like an object, like a thing. you could not protect yourself." He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest seemed not to open completely. The air in the room did not allow him to breathe, and his thoughts stuck together, not allowing him to formulate anything except one: "where is he, who saw him, and why was he left alive?" The door opened so quietly that it was not a sound - more like a movement of air. No creaking, only a slight shift of space, as if the wall itself decided to let in someone who should not be noticed.
Serak stood by a round pedestal, above which, at arm's length, hung a living projection. This projection was a smooth, silent surface in which real shadows moved, not reflections, but a slice of reality. The image was clear, as if space itself had opened up to him, allowing him to peep.
He did not approach. And certainly did not touch the projection. He just stood there, clasping his hands behind his back, and watched. Long. Intently. Concentrated—the way hunters watch a wounded but elusive creature.
Omega moved slowly on the bed, as if afraid that someone would interrupt his sudden solitude. He was wary, but not as desperately as in the first days. It was irritating.
Serak did not look away. He did not allow himself to feel irritation openly.
Emotions, in his opinion, were for those who could not afford strength. But the way this boy had not yet given up or broken, but simply... breathed, made him tense. Not because it was a hindrance, but because it was interesting. Interest in when he would finally open up.
He didn't know exactly what was trembling inside him every time he looked at this fragile figure. Was it anticipation? Disgust? Or some third, unspoken thing? But every time he watched Omega, he had this strange feeling that he was not watching a test subject, but something unpredictable, ready at any moment not to explode, but... to come to life.
Serak raised his hand, and the projection moved a little closer, as if it obeyed only one thought. He looked down at Omega, like a god looks at a mortal who has been granted the right to live under his attention.
He did not touch the crystals. He did not give orders. Everything had already been set: the servants knew when to enter, knew what to check. He had distributed the protocol himself. He did not want to touch it himself until he was sure that this was not a mistake. That his instincts had not failed him.
That this boy really was not just a commodity.
And if he was wrong...
But if he was right...
He leaned a little closer, studying the smallest movements: the tension of the shoulders, the turn of the head, the microgestures of fear that even Omega himself did not notice. And at that moment, Serak felt something almost irritating in his chest, a desire to intervene.
"Let him think for now that there is silence here."