The next morning, the scent hit me before I opened my eyes.
Something warm. Cooked. Familiar.
Another plate.
Same spot on the table. Perfectly centered. Neatly placed utensils. A folded napkin this time, like a mockery of civility in a place that had none.
I didn't move. Just stared at it from across the room, curled up on the cold floor beside the bed, blanket wound tight around me like armor.
He'd brought it in while I was asleep. Silently. Without disturbing a thing.
The quiet obedience of that gesture. The plate, the timing, the sameness of it all made my skin crawl.
I stayed still. Waiting for the pang in my stomach to rise, for the hunger to gnaw again.
It came fast now.
Desperate.
Clawing.
But I didn't flinch. I didn't allow myself to.
He wanted something. I didn't know what. But food was his language. His tool.
So I wouldn't touch it.
Not this time either.
Not out of pride. At least, not entirely. It was more than that. A need to resist. To remain something he couldn't predict.
Letting my guard down felt dangerous. Like it would cost me something I couldn't ever get back.
The day passed slowly. Excruciatingly so. I did nothing but pace and think. Sit, stand, sit again. The hunger roared louder than my thoughts, louder than reason, but I forced it down.
By evening, something inside me snapped.
If this were a game, then fine. I'd play too.
I waited until just before his usual time. The moment he always arrived, quiet and unseen. I moved into the bathroom and locked the door.
Childish? Maybe.
Petty? Definitely.
But it wasn't just a tantrum. It was deliberate. Me drawing a line in the sand.
I needed to see how far he'd go. What happened if I refused the pattern? If I pushed first?
Would he escalate? Break in? Threaten me?
Or would he try something else?
I sat on the floor, hugging my knees, the cold tile pressing into my skin. Listening.
The room was silent. Too silent.
A click. The door. Not the bathroom door—the main door.
I gulped. He was here.
I knew them now. The subtle shift in the air that came with his presence. The quiet hum that trailed him like static through a power line.
I could hear his footsteps. Soft. Barely perceptible.
I held my breath. My hands curled into fists.
Then… the hiss.
A mechanical override. Soft whirring.
And then the bathroom door unlocked itself.
Of course it did.
Of course it did.
The door cracked open, and there he stood. Just outside. Backlit. Tall. Still.
Unblinking.
He didn't barge in. Didn't try to drag me out. Just waited. Observed.
"You locked yourself in," he said, like he was narrating a report.
I glared up at him from the floor. "Maybe I didn't want to be watched like an experiment."
"You haven't eaten again."
"Noticed that, did you?"
"I did."
"Good," I said, brushing past him, shouldering through the space between us.
He didn't stop me. He never did. But I could feel his presence behind me like a shadow that didn't move with the light.
I stopped by the table. Looked down at the food.
Still warm. Untouched.
"You need to eat," he said.
His tone was maddening. Flat. Calm. Always so calm. Like there wasn't a single scenario that could shake him.
"I'm not eating anything you give me."
"You'll collapse."
"Then let me."
A pause. Brief. Calculating.
His voice didn't change. "That isn't necessary."
I turned slowly to look at him. "What is necessary, Sentinel? Me staying alive for some data point? Or are you worried I'll spoil the aesthetic of your perfect little loop?"
He didn't react.
Didn't flinch when I crossed the room again, grabbed the plate with both hands, and hurled it against the far wall.
I won't let you win!
It hit with a satisfying crash, shattering in every direction. Food splattered like paint. Shards of porcelain danced across the tile.
The air seemed to shift. That low hum that always followed him spiked just slightly—higher, sharper, like tension behind the walls.
And still, he said nothing.
He didn't yell. Didn't blink.
He just looked down at the mess, then back at me. His expression was unreadable. Empty.
"I'll leave you alone," he said.
And then...he did. Turned and walked out.
No warning. No hesitation.
The door slid shut behind him.
And this time… he didn't come back.
In the morning, I woke up, feeling pain in my stomach and lightness in my head. But, no plate on the table.
Did I win? Did I succeed in pushing him?
I think I'd proven something. That he could be pushed away.
But the victory didn't feel clean. It didn't feel earned. It felt hollow.
I was still in this room, not knowing what to do to get out.
I tried to find something in the room. Any means, any tools that can help me crack the door or the windows open. To release myself from this "cage".
But still, I couldn't find anything.
I should have taken some shards of the plate earlier. At least I will have something sharp.
There was no remaining of the plate and food I trashed earlier. He must clean it up when I am asleep.
My eyes, then, looked at the fridge. I crawled toward the fridge, dizzy, hands trembling.
No tools. No leverage. But maybe...
I clawed under the edge, found the seal. Cold air spilled out like breath.
I yanked. Tugged. Nothing budged.
No, there must be something.
My fingers scraped along the back panel until I found a small screw. Just one.
No screwdriver. No knife.
I used my fingernails. Blood welled beneath the nail beds, but I kept going.
One piece. One piece I could use.
I didn't know what I was making. Knife, signal, distraction. It didn't matter.
Anything was better than stillness.
By nightfall, I was trembling. Whether from adrenaline, weakness, or cold, I didn't know.
The room stayed dark. Unchanged.
He didn't come back. But I didn't really care. I had something to do now. Making something to save myself from that Sentinel.
But, one thing I couldn't deny.
Humans need to eat. So, I did.
By the time I could see the sunshine through the curtains, I felt it. Trembling, my head felt like it was going to explode.
I forced myself to stand, and the floor tilted sideways.
I stumbled, hands catching the edge of the bed, only to slip and hit the ground with a dull thud.
I didn't remember passing out.
Only the quiet.
Only the ache in my bones and the scream of hunger that had long turned to silence.
And then, a different kind of silence.
Soft.
Still.
I woke to the sensation of pressure. Cool. Tight.
My eyelids fluttered. Vision blurry.
A thin tube was taped to my forearm. Clear fluid was dripping slowly from a sleek bag hung beside the bed.
IV?
I blinked again, slower this time, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Someone had placed me on the bed.
My blanket had been pulled over my chest.
My hair… braided. Loose and clumsy. But careful.
The pillow adjusted, arranged just so.
This hadn't been me. I hadn't done this.
The Sentinel.
It had to be him.
And not just because he was the only one here. It was the precision. The tenderness. The strange, quiet care.
No alarms had gone off. No loud announcements. No sterile android nurses buzzing in and out.
Only him.
Only him.
My chest tightened.
He didn't just plug a wire into my arm. He tucked me in. Braided my hair. He tried to comfort me.
Why?
Programming?
Protocol?
Or… something else?
I stared up at the ceiling, the IV dripping beside me, steady and unwavering.
My body was getting what it needed.
But my mind was spiraling.
And all I could think was:
If he wants something from me, why is he being gentle?
What kind of Sentinel treats a human like this?