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And I know I finally have his attention.

And just like that, Vanya's special visits stop.

By now I've realized what Miles seems to be looking for—the test subject who performs best on his experiments.

And if that ensures that my sister will be left in peace, then I'll be the very best one.

No matter what I have to do.

I know my plan works when the following day I'm the one called to his office.

Stepping inside, it's nicer than anything I've ever seen. Everything is so shiny and new, and there are lots of devices everywhere.

As soon as I'm pushed inside by a guard, Miles rises from his chair, his smile wide as he takes in my small form.

"Vlad, wasn't it?" he asks, and there's a fake air around his entire demeanor. But knowing that this is the only way to spare Vanya even more pain, I nod, playing along.

"Yes, Sir," I answer, and he motions me to a chair next to him.

I sit down, trying to ignore the way my dirty clothes or my even dirtier body stains the shiny leather, or how Miles flares his nostrils when he catches a whiff of me.

After all, whose fault is it for my sorry state?

"I've been watching you, Vlad." Miles crosses his legs, bringing his arms forward and resting his chin on his hand. "And I think you've been hiding your potential from me."

"I don't know, Sir," I answer, trying to seem baffled at his question.

"Here," he says, grabbing my recently sutured arm roughly. I internally wince at the pain, but on the outside, I don't show it.

I just blink once, staring at Miles and showing him exactly what he wants to see—no reaction.

"I thought your sister was above average. But you my boy," he whistles, "you might just be my little miracle."

"What is this for, Sir?" I ask before I can help myself.

He narrows his eyes at me before chuckling.

"An inquisitive mind. I like it," he says, getting up from his chair and telling me to follow.

Pressing a few buttons on a keyboard, another door opens in the back of the office. As we step inside the room, I see computers and other machines, all surrounded by rows and rows of books.

"Interesting, but you're the first one to ask me for the purpose," he notes, and I can tell there's an underlying pleasure in his voice.

He stops in front of a huge blackboard, the entire surface scribbled in white signs.

"This." He pulls down on a paper, bringing it down and showing me an illustration. "Is the brain," he starts explaining. "And this," he points to a region in the center, "is the amygdala. To put it simply, it regulates some of the basic emotions in humans—particularly fear."

He walks around, chatting enthusiastically.

"You see, there are people out there, psychopaths, who do not have the full function of the amygdala, and as such they cannot feel what regular people feel. They don't know fear and they don't know remorse. But there's one catch. Psychopaths are unpredictable. Too unpredictable," he mutters under his breath.

He stops and I wait for him to continue, curious what the point of this was.

"But then there's also people like you. Intermediaries," he says, his mouth curving upwards. "Your amygdala is developed in such a way that while you're not as far gone as a psychopath, you're not completely normal either."

"You mean my emotions are not so strong," I comment.

"Right and… wrong. I've studied your kind for a long time." He smirks. "I'm older than I look," he sneaks in a joke. "And while not every specimen is the same, I've noticed a pattern. There isn't a lack of feeling per se, but there is a difference inwhatyou can feel. Everyone is different." He shrugs. "Some people don't know love, some don't know hate, and others just don't know fear."