Convenience of Marriage

Silence settled like dust until Soren turned his head, just slightly, and glanced at Sebastian.

"Ah, before I forget," he said, with the air of someone plucking a passing thought out of the air, "congratulations on your engagement."

Sebastian's jaw locked.

"I heard your fiancée is quite the beauty," Soren continued, tone light and almost admiring. "Green eyes, dark hair, soft milky skin they say. A fascinating combination. You've done well for yourself, brother."

The Duchess bristled. The Duke said nothing.

Soren smiled, tilting his head. "Although... now that I think of it, wasn't the engagement originally meant for the eldest Sinclair son?" He let the words hang for just a beat, then blinked in mock confusion. "But you're younger than me, aren't you, Sebastian?"

Sebastian's throat bobbed.

"Oh well," Soren sighed, feigning nonchalance. "It must've slipped your minds. Such trivial things, lineage. This family has clearly never had a single regard for propriety" He looked at the Duke now, eyes glinting. "But then again, propriety means nothing when desperation is gnawing at your ribs, does it?"

"Soren," the Duke warned, his voice low and sharp.

"No, no, let me finish," Soren said, holding up a hand. "It's just... impressive, really. How quickly a noble family can sell their own son to claw back power. Dress it up however you like, an alliance or the last foundation of a decades long friendship between the families. But we all know what it really is."

He looked at Sebastian directly now.

"You were sold, brother."

Sebastian took a step forward, fury crackling just beneath his skin, but the Duke's arm snapped out, halting him.

Soren smiled wider.

"And here I was, thinking I was the disposable one. The bastard. The unwanted. But at least I was never put up for auction with a ring and a smile."

The Duchess let out a quiet gasp. The tension in the room had turned suffocating.

"I suppose," Soren said, turning to the window now, speaking more to the night than to them, "it's nice to have a group of people to call your family and bask in all their love and attention."

He looked over his shoulder, eyes dark but bright with something dangerous and old.

"But to be sold while wearing their name? That's something I could never swallow. You're awesome, my dear brother."

He turned back toward them and buttoned his coat with casual ease.

"Anyway. I won't keep you long. I came to remind you I'm still alive, still kicking, and still, unlike some of us, not in the business of being bought like a gigolo at a brothel."

He made it three steps before pausing again.

"Oh, and do give Miss Whitmore my regards." His voice dipped into something sharper. "She really knows how to pick an outfit. I wonder which one she'll wear on your wedding night, Sebastian." If it even happens. 

Then he left through the same main entrance he entered through.

--------------

She stared at the thin folder for a long time before touching it.

The cover was nondescript. No title, no classification stamp. Just a plain charcoal-grey sleeve tucked neatly among the casual clothes she barely remembered packing. She had no recollection of placing it there.

Then her gaze landed on the small label tucked into the corner.

Her heart stuttered.

SERAPHIM — ARCHIVE COPY — PERSONNEL ACCESS: L4 — Weiss, C.

Her blood turned cold.

It wasn't hers. This was Weiss's file. One of the lead developers. She must have grabbed it in the chaos of her departure and stuffed into her bag blindly, unthinking, running on fear and adrenaline and the sound of alarms.

She hadn't realized it was still with her. She hadn't dared look at anything she brought back from the labs. Not after all she'd signed off on with eyes wide shut.

Until now.

Cecelia lowered herself to the floor, the file in her lap like it might explode if moved too quickly. Her breath was shallow. Her fingers hovered over the edge, trembling as they undid the clasp.

She opened it.

And hell spilled out.

PROJECT SERAPHIM — INTERNAL LOG: WEEKLY CYCLE 34

Two subjects expired during neural graft experimentation. One suffered a total cerebral collapse 2.4 seconds post-implantation. The other bled out mid-procedure. Organs salvaged where viable. Remainder disposed via incineration. Medical waste quota exceeded. Adjustment recommended for next batch.

Subject 117-A remains intact. Vital signs fluctuating, but functional. Resistance level increased. Psychological deterrent measures proving ineffective.

Cecelia's knuckles turned white as she gripped the folder tighter.

WEEKLY CYCLE 38

Thirty-seven test subjects purged after batch failure. Compound "Lazareth-8" proved unstable. Subjects exhibited high-speed necrosis within 90 seconds of exposure. Resulting breakdown rendered tissue unusable. Disposal handled by Unit C. Toxic fumes noted. Air filtration compromised in holding block.

Security advised full sweep of hallway D following Subject 124's suicide. Blood contamination reached ceiling tiles. Floor tiles cracked from cranial impact.

She covered her mouth with her palm, nausea tightening her gut.

WEEKLY CYCLE 39

New skill observed: rapid reflex mapping. Subject disassembled entire security lock system with foreign object (a wire taken from a broken cot) in under 19 seconds. No training provided. Memory-motor connection possibly enhanced.

Security breach avoided. Subject punished via voltage exposure.

No scream again. Unresponsive post-recovery for 6.5 hours. Physicians advised reduced dosage next cycle.

This was real. This wasn't speculation she had. This was fact, documented with bullet points and black ink. It wasn't written like it was about death. It was written like writing a review after watching a movie with heavy gore scenes. 

She turned the page.

WEEKLY CYCLE 41

Subjects 117-A, 109-B, and 031-F exposed to continuous sensory distortion for a 46-hour cycle. Results: 031-F developed visual hallucinations and gouged out own eyes with fingernails. 109-B chewed through tongue and suffocated. Subject 117-A did not react verbally. Remained conscious. Eye contact maintained with observation cameras for full duration. No rest. No food.

Vitals after cycle: pulse at 201 BPM, dehydration critical, retinal hemorrhaging observed. Rehydration ordered via IV. Sedation failed. Sedation failed. Subject was fully aware during thoracic scan dissection.

Supervisor notes: Fascinating.

Cecelia's lips parted, but no sound came out.

She dropped the file onto the floor. Her hand was trembling so badly she couldn't hold it any longer. Her legs wouldn't move. She sat there in the center of her closet, surrounded by the luxurious designer items that dug deeper into the guilt she felt. 

Sedation failed. Subject was fully aware.

This wasn't just a report.

It was evidence of something she had turned a blind eye to for so many years.

She reached forward again, unwilling but unable to stop herself. One last page. Her hand shook as she turned it.

WEEKLY CYCLE 44

Subject 117-A transferred to Holding Cell 03-C due to containment concerns. Subject demonstrated abnormal stamina after undergoing five consecutive spinal injections. No screams recorded. Blood loss extreme. Muscle fibers in legs remained active despite being severed from nervous command. Subject stood without assistance.

Subject sang during final evaluation.

There was no elaboration or context. No detail about the song. Just that line, and then beneath it was a line written in capital. 

Audio corrupt. File deleted.

Cecelia pressed her hands against her face and sobbed, full-body, raw sobs that came without any elegance or dignity. The type that cracked open a soul from the inside. She cried for what she saw, for what she'd known but never faced, for the boy who sang when they broke his spine and deleted the proof like he'd never existed. 

She cried because she was alive, and he died as a mere number. 

And then… she stopped.

Bit by bit. The tears dried. The grief closed back in on itself like a blade folding into its sheath.

Cecelia stared at the last page of the file, her face pale and rigid.

There was no going back. Not after this. Not when she had proof in her hands and blood on her conscience. The only thing left now... was war.