Nathalie is the only person here who does not hate me.

She still spends the majority of her time annoyed by my presence, but somehow shehas no interest in overthrowing my position. I can feel it, though I don't understand it. She's likely the only person in this building who's pleased that I'm not dead.

I hold up a hand to keep away the soldiers who rush forward as I open my door. It takesan intense amount of concentration to keep my fingers from shaking as I wipe the slightsheen of perspiration off my forehead, but I will not allow myself a moment of weakness.These men do not fear for my safety; they only want a closer look at the spectacle I'vebecome. They want a first look at the cracks in my sanity. But I have no wish to bewondered at.

My job is to lead.

I've been shot; it will not be fatal. There are things to be managed; I will manage them.

This wound will be forgotten.

Her name will not be spoken.

My fingers clench and unclench as I make my way toward the L Room. I never beforerealized just how long these corridors are and just how many soldiers line the halls.There's no reprieve from their curious stares and their disappointment that I did not die. Idon't even have to look at them to know what they're thinking. But knowing how theyfeel only makes me more determined to live a very long life.

I will give no one the satisfaction of my death.

"No."

I wave away the tea and coffee service for the fourth time. "I do not drink caffeine,Nathalie. Why do you always insist on having it served at my meals?"

"I suppose I always hope you will change your mind, sir."

I look up. Nathalie is smiling that strange, half-cold smile. And I'm not entirely certain, but Ithink she just made a joke.

"Why?" I reach for a slice of bread. "I am perfectly capable of keeping my eyes open. Onlyan idiot would rely on the energy of a bean or a leaf to stay awake throughout the day."

Delalieu is no longer smiling.

"Yes," she says. "Certainly, sir." And stares down at her food. I watch as her fingers pushaway the coffee cup.

I drop the bread back onto my plate. "My opinions," I say to her, quietly this time,"should not so easily break your own. Stand by your convictions. Form clear and logicalarguments. Even if I disagree."

"Of course, sir," she whispers. She says nothing for a few seconds. But then I see her reachfor her coffee again.

Nathalie.

She, I think, is my only course for conversation.

She was originally assigned to this sector by my father, and has since been ordered toremain here until she's no longer able. Nathalie and my father were very close, but that was then, now whenever they cross paths there's a certain tension that I'm sure everyone in the room can feel. And though she's likely in her mid 20's or early 30's, she insists on remaining directly below me. I've known Nathalie's face since I was a child; Iused to see her around our house, sitting in on the many meetings that took place in theyears before The Akuma took over.

There was an endless supply of meetings in my house.

My father was always planning things, leading discussions and whispered conversations Iwas never allowed to be a part of. The people of those meetings are running this world now,so when I look at Nathalie I can't help but wonder why she never aspired to more. She wasa part of this regime from the very beginning, but somehow seems content to die just as she is now. She chooses to remain subservient, even when I give her opportunities to speakup; she refuses to be promoted, even when I offer her higher pay. And while I appreciateher loyalty, her dedication unnerves me. She does not seem to wish for more than what shehas.

I should not trust her.

And yet, I do.

But I've begun to lose my mind for a lack of companionable conversation. I cannotmaintain anything but a cool distance from my soldiers, not only because they all wish tosee me dead, but also because I have a responsibility as their leader to make unbiaseddecisions. I have sentenced myself to a life of solitude, one wherein I have no peers, andno mind but my own to live in. I looked to build myself as a feared leader, and I'vesucceeded; no one will question my authority or posit a contrary opinion. No one willspeak to me as anything but the chief commander and regent of Sector 45. Friendship isnot a thing I have ever experienced. Not as a child, and not as I am now.

Except.

One month ago, I met the exception to this rule. There has been one person who's everlooked me directly in the eye. The same person who's spoken to me with no filter;someone who's been unafraid to show anger and real, raw feeling in my presence; the onlyone who's ever dared to challenge me, to raise her voice to me-

I squeeze my eyes shut for what feels like the tenth time today. I unclench my fist aroundthis fork, drop it to the table. My arm has begun to throb again, and I reach for the pillstucked away in my pocket.

"You shouldn't take more than eight of those within a twenty-four-hour period, sir."

I open the cap and toss three more into my mouth. I really wish my hands would stopshaking. My muscles feel too tight, too tense. Stretched thin.

I don't wait for the pills to dissolve. I bite down on them, crunching against theirbitterness. There's something about the foul, metallic taste that helps me focus. "Tell meabout Couffaine."

Nathalie's eyes widen as she knocks over her coffee cup.

The dining aides have left the room at my request; Nathalie receives no assistance as shescrambles to clean up the mess. I sit back in my chair, staring at the wall just behind her,mentally tallying up the minutes I've lost today.

"Leave the coffee."

"I-yes, of course, sorry, sir-"

"Stop."

Nathalie drops the sopping napkins. Her hands are frozen in place, hovering over her plate.

"Speak."

I watch as she puts a strand of hair behind her ear. "We don't know, sir," She clears her throat."The building should've been impossible to find, much less to enter. It'd been bolted andrusted shut. But when we found it," she says, "when we found it, it was . . . the door hadbeen destroyed. And we're not sure how they managed it."

I sit up. "What do you mean, destroyed?"

She shakes her head. "It was . . . very odd, sir. The door had been . . . mangled. As if somekind of animal had clawed through it. There was only a gaping, ragged hole in the middleof the frame."

I stand up entirely too fast, gripping the table for support. I'm breathless at the thought ofit, at the possibility of what must've happened. And I can't help but allow myself thepainful pleasure of recalling her name once more, because I know it must've been her. Shemust've done something extraordinary, and I wasn't even there to witness it.

"Call for transport," I tell her. "I will meet you in the Quadrant in exactly ten minutes."

"Sir?"

I'm already out the door.