They moved him to a different room the next morning.
This one had a window.
Not a real one—Aren could tell. The sky beyond it was too perfect. Too still. A looped projection of blue and drifting clouds.
Cruel.
He stood in front of it anyway.
"You're staring at pixels," a voice said behind him.
Aren turned.
She wasn't wearing armor.
No uniform. No tablet. No guarded expression.
Just jeans, a dark sweater, and tired eyes that looked like they hadn't slept in days.
She carried a tray.
Food.
"Unless the sky in here means something to you," she added.
Aren said nothing.
She walked in fully, the door sliding shut behind her. No guards followed.
That was new.
She set the tray on the small table.
"You should eat," she said. "Your vitals dropped last night."
He studied her carefully. "You're not one of them."
She gave a small, humorless smile. "Depends who 'them' is."
Silence settled between them.
She didn't fidget. Didn't rush. Didn't avoid his eyes.
Most people did.
"Who are you?" Aren asked finally.
"Mira Sen."
The name meant nothing to him.
She seemed to notice.
"I'm a systems analyst," she explained. "I monitor containment protocols. Environmental stabilizers. Energy dampeners."
Aren's gaze flicked to the ceiling.
"So you're the reason I can't feel the wind."
She nodded once.
"That's part of my job."
"Then why are you here?"
She hesitated.
Then: "Because you looked different."
Aren's jaw tightened. "Different how?"
"Angry," she said. "But not cruel."
He almost laughed at that.
"You don't know me."
"No," she agreed. "But I've seen the others."
Her voice softened.
"Most of them break in two ways. They either beg… or they explode."
Aren leaned back against the wall.
"And me?"
"You're waiting."
Their eyes locked.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Not trust.
But recognition.
Mira glanced at the fake sky projection.
"They're trying to teach you stillness," she said quietly.
"They're teaching me obedience."
She shook her head. "No. They're afraid."
That caught him off guard.
"Of what?"
"Of someone who can move faster than their control systems can predict."
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
"That's almost flattering."
"It shouldn't be."
She stepped closer—not too close, but enough to lower her voice.
"Director Hale believes containment is mercy. She thinks if she can measure you, regulate you, limit you… she can save you from yourself."
"And my mother?"
Mira's expression shifted.
A crack in composure.
"She's being held off-site," Mira said carefully. "Alive. Monitored. Unharmed."
"For now," Aren replied.
She didn't deny it.
The silence grew heavier.
"You shouldn't be in here alone with me," Aren said after a moment.
Mira's lips curved faintly. "You're dampened."
"Still."
She met his eyes again.
"I don't look away," she said simply.
That line hit harder than it should have.
Aren felt something inside him shift—not the wind, not the pressure of speed.
Something human.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
Mira studied him for a long moment before answering.
"Because someone has to see you as a person," she said. "Not a weapon. Not a threat. Not a project."
The fake sky flickered faintly above them.
Aren looked at it again.
Then back at her.
"And if I become what they're afraid of?"
Mira didn't hesitate.
"Then I'll still look at you."
The door chimed softly.
Time was up.
Mira stepped back, expression returning to neutral professionalism.
"Eat," she said. "You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
She paused at the door.
"For when you decide to stop waiting."
The door slid open.
She left.
Aren stood alone again.
But the room felt different now.
Not smaller.
Not safer.
Just…
Less empty.
He looked at the untouched food.
Then at the false sky.
And for the first time since his capture—
He didn't feel alone.