Page 213 of The Devil May Care

Honestly, that makes it worse. I’ve done those. Awkward silences. Questions designed to box you in. Smiles that are too sharp around the edges. They ask who you are, but only want what fits the form. They’re looking for specific answers but not about to hand you a hint. The hum returns. The same one from before. Faint, but persistent. Not outside me now, but inside. A low vibration in my bones.

“You may speak,”she says gently.“Or not. Silence is also an answer.”

The parchment flips. The chair beneath me shifts—just slightly—adjusting to the angle of my hips, as if it wants me to be comfortable. I’m not. Am I supposed to be? She folds her hands atop the papers and finally meets my gaze.

“Do you believe in peace?”

I blink.

“I—of course.” My voice breaks. I clear my throat. Her eyes are every color and no color. I squirm. “What kind of peace?”

The woman inclines her head,“Peace.”

The quill dances across the paper, but no ink appears. I grip the arms of the chair. My pulse flutters. The hum is growing louder. Not painful. Not aggressive. Just present. Like the realm is listening. Not for what I say, but for what I mean. The woman doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Onlythe page before her changes, the quill scratching along its surface like a heartbeat.

She speaks again. Calm. Measured.

“Would you choose comfort, or truth?”

I exhale slowly.

“Truth,” I say. Too fast. “Or I’d try.”

The quill pauses. My pulse kicks. The woman makes no comment—just waits.

“Would you rather protect one life you love, or save a hundred strangers?”

I flinch.

“That’s not—” I stop myself. Swallow. “Depends on the situation.”

She nods, serene.“You must choose.”

“I can’t.”

How could I? How could anyone? Do I have to be the one to end them? Do I know any of the people being saved? Does it matter? One life versus a hundred? It’s that stupid train problem all over again, but I have questions. Do I pull the lever? Do I know what I’ve done? Am I being honest with myself? A hundred lives. One I love.The arena. George. Caziel.

The woman waits. The brand on my back burns.

“I’d save the hundred,” I whisper, hoping it’s the truth.

The quill writes it down. My spine prickles. There’s no reaction. No visible judgment. But something’s wrong. It feels wrong. Like the answer doesn’t belong to me anymore, just to the page. Just to them.

“Would you rather be understood, or adored?”

“Understood.” Even as the word leaves my lips I think of Caziel. His fingers brushing a lock of hair behind my ear, his eyes boring into mine. I swallow hard.

The questions keep coming.Black or white. Right or wrong. Love or justice. Sacrifice or surrender. Fight or flight.Each one feels like it lops something vital off of me, shrinking me, flattening me into checkboxes. There’s no room for breath here. No space for the maybe, the gray. I lose track of the questions and stop answering out loud. My thoughts spiral faster than I can contain them, but still the quill records… something.

Why does this feel so clinical? I am not in danger, and I still feel like I’m unraveling.

“Would you rather lose your voice or your vision?”

The quill scratches, ready.

My mouth opens. Then closes again. My voice, the only thing I have left that’s mine. The way I talk back, keep people at bay, keep myself from unraveling. But my vision—I need it to fight, to see the thread, to recognize friend from foe.

Can I be heard if i can’t talk? Yes. Unequivocally. Speech isn’t the only way to communicate. And I don’t need my eyes to see, at least not to see things as they are, without the veneer of civility or the shine of lie. Is this a trick question?