Flat.
Detached.
Clinical.
“Interesting.”
I smiled.
It probably looked terrible.
“You say that like people don’t fantasize about stabbing you during normal conversations.”
He made another note.
“Humor compensatory.”
“Your face is compensatory.”
He moved to the monitor again and tapped through something on the screen. I craned my neck enough to see numbers, graphs, labels too small to read properly from my angle.
One word caught.
INTEGRATION.
Then another.
CONDUCTIVITY.
My pulse jumped before I could stop it.
His eyes shifted toward the monitor.
Then to me.
Damn it.
He had seen the reaction.
I looked bored immediately, which was difficult while restrained, drugged and freezing, but I had committed to worse lies in my life.
“So,” I rasped, “is Seven your real name or did
