The Institute’s lobby felt less like an edifice of healing and more like a mausoleum for living ambition. Polished obsidian floors reflected my scuffed boots with a judgmental gleam, and the air conditioning hummed a sterile, perpetual sigh. I was Emil Orłowski, Wislany’s most 'talented' mood-tuner, according to some—usually me—and its most 'reckless nuisance' according to the ruling regime. Today, my assignment was to rubber-stamp the inevitable: Zofia Niemczyk, the 'Shrike of Ostrów,' was incurable.
“Therapist Orłowski,” a crisp, utterly joyless voice cut through the silence. Szymon Brzezicki, my personal cross to bear, strode down a gleaming corridor, his immaculate charcoal suit practically radiating disapproval. His hair was slicked back, every strand aligned with military rigor, unlike my own untamed black curls. “Running late, as expected. The Shrike awaits.”
“Always a pleasure, Brzezicki,” I offered with a grin that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Keeping the Dissonants on edge, you know. Builds anticipation.”
He just scoffed, adjusting a cufflink. “Amateur theatrics. Just try not to provoke her into tearing the facility down before the pacification. Your month-long evaluation is already a concession. Don’t waste it.”
Four weeks to confirm an execution warrant. To rubber-stamp what the high council had already decided. It chafed, a burning ember under my skin. “Don’t worry, Szymon. I’m a professional. I’ll be as boring as you are.”
His jaw tightened, but he led the way without further comment. We navigated a labyrinth of security checkpoints, each door hissing open to reveal more of the same clinical perfection, until we reached the holding cells. Not cells, really. Observational units. The final stop before the ritual, or what the city rulers euphemistically called ‘pacification.’
And there she was. The infamous Shrike of Ostrów. Not a snarling beast, not a frantic madwoman pacing her confinement. Zofia Niemczyk sat on a low, minimalist bench, a thick, bound book resting open on her lap. Her gaze was fixed on the pages, long dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. The reinforced electro-glass wall hummed faintly, a silent barrier designed to contain what the city feared most.
For a flicker, her eyes, the colour of a storm-swept sea, lifted from the book. There was something there, a profound ache, a weariness that had nothing to do with rage. A ghost of grief, swift and sharp, before it vanished behind a mask of glacial calm. She knew we were there. She simply didn’t care enough to acknowledge us.
Szymon cleared his throat, a sound of practiced impatience. “She’s yours. Try not to get yourself disintegrated. The Ministry spent a fortune on that panel.”
“Charming,” I muttered, stepping into the antechamber. I tapped a control panel, and a smaller, clear door slid open into the cell, sealing behind me. No metal bars, just more transparent, unyielding barrier. I was in a glass box, facing a woman trapped in another. A tidy mirror for my life, really.
“Good morning, Zofia,” I said, my voice carrying easily in the sterile space. “Emil Orłowski. Your new therapist.”
She didn’t look up. Her finger traced a line on the page. “Another one?” Her voice was low, melodic, laced with a weariness that belied the 'monster' reputation.
“The best one,” I corrected, a smile playing on my lips. “And the last one, if we’re being honest. A ticking clock, Zofia. Barely a month on the slate.”
Finally, she closed the book, placing it carefully beside her. Her gaze, when it met mine, was unflinching, devoid of fear, or hope. “What do you want, Emil Orłowski?”
“Truth,” I said, stepping closer to the glass. “Why are you here? Why do they call you the Shrike? What happened in Ostrów?”
Her lip curled, a subtle twist of disdain. “You’ll find the official dockets illuminating. They have everything neatly categorised, every outburst tallied.”
“I’ve read the reports. They’re… dry. I prefer my truth with a bit more flavour.” I paused, leaning in, letting my voice drop conspiratorially. “Tell me, Zofia. Do you truly feel nothing? No anger? No grief? Not even a spark of righteous fury at being locked in here, waiting for the axe to fall?”
It was a shot in the dark, a deliberate provocation. I watched her closely. Her eyes narrowed. A faint tremor rippled through the air, an almost imperceptible pressure against my skin. The administration's dogma maintained that Dissonants were volatile, ruled by chaotic sentiment. But that fleeting glimpse of grief earlier told a different story.
“Emotions are for the free,” she said, her voice a whip-crack now. “A luxury I gave up a long time ago.”
“Did you, Zofia? Or did you just learn to bury them so deep, they’re festering? What would happen if I dug them up? If I poked at them, right now, with a stick?” I stepped back, spreading my hands wide. “Tell me, what do you feel about the little children in Ostrów? The ones they say you…”
Before I could finish, it erupted. Not a scream, not a roar, but a silent, violent pulse of raw Resonance. The air shimmered, distorting the pristine enclosure. The glass between us, designed to withstand a siege, groaned. A spiderweb of cracks erupted from the point directly in front of Zofia, spreading outwards with terrifying speed. The hum of the electro-glass rose to a desperate whine.
Then, with a deafening *CRACK*, the entire wall shattered. Thousands of razor-sharp shards of reinforced electro-glass exploded outwards, a deadly rain. My instincts screamed. I braced, shielding my face, but the impact never came. Not really.
The Resonance had been a directed burst. It had demolished the glass, yes, but the force, the shrapnel, everything had been meticulously, impossibly, diverted. It had missed me completely, carving clean channels through the air around me, embedding itself in the far wall and the floor behind, leaving me untouched in the eye of its destruction.
Alarms blared, a piercing shriek that dwarfed the sound of the shattering glass. Heavy security doors slammed shut. Boots pounded in the corridor outside. Half a dozen precinct enforcers, clad in gleaming, pressure-plated armour, burst into the observation gallery, weapons raised.
“Subject is unstable! Restrain her!” one barked.
Zofia stood motionless amidst the debris, her ribs expanding hard, her pupils blazing with an arc I’d only ever read about. Her mask of calm was gone, replaced by something fierce and ancient. Her gaze locked with mine, a silent challenge, a sharp, unvoiced question.
Szymon Brzezicki appeared in the shattered doorway, his face a mask of furious triumph. “You incompetent fool!” he spat, then straightened, a smirk spreading across his face. “Just received word, Orłowski. Due to the… *incident*… the council has chopped your remaining evaluation period down to fifteen days. Good luck proving her innocence now.”
Guards swarmed Zofia, bringing up energy suppressors. She didn’t resist, only watched them with that fierce, unblinking gaze. As they clamped the heavy cuffs on her wrists, forcing her to her knees, she twisted her head, her storm-sea eyes finding mine across the ruined floor.
Her voice, a mere whisper amidst the alarms and shouting, cut through the din, clear as a bell. “They’re not my ghosts.”