Panic seizes my chest in an iron grip, making it hard to breathe.

I cannot get caught here.

Under any other circumstance, I'd only be worried about the threat of Isolation, but that punishment will be nothing compared to the fact that the Handlers will start to keep a much closer eye on me if I'm found snooping in Records, especially since they'll then check in with Nurse Barrett and find out that I drugged her.

If the Handlers start watching me, there will be no more sneaking off to my blind spot down by the fence.

There will be no more Roan.

Frantically, I cast about the room, but there's only one place to hide.

As the door-handle turns, I shut the file and push it back into the stack, and then I duck under the desk, wedging myself as far back into the small space as I can.

If someone is just coming in for a file, or any other kind of documentation, then I stand a good chance of not being seen. The light isn't great in this little room, and the space beneath the desk is a pool of shadow. But if someone sits at the desk . . . the moment they pull the chair up and try and get their legs under here, they'll find me.

My heart is frantic, a trapped bird hurling itself against a window, over and over again, and I try to concentrate on taking slow, silent breaths.

The door opens.

". . . hope you understand that I'm taking a big risk here," a voice says.

It's Fletcher.

I press myself even harder against the back of the desk.

"I know, I just . . . thought it would be fun," says another voice, and my pulse stutters.

That's Cole.

What is she doing here?

What's going on?

Then I hear the sound of kissing, and things grimly click into place.

Fletcher and Cole.

Fletcher and Cole.

This is . . . this is wrong.

Relationships are not encouraged among Seconds, but they are absolutely forbidden between Handlers and Seconds for obvious reasons. Handlers are here to train and teach and monitor and take care of us.

The desk jolts slightly as if someone has hit it, and someone – I think it's Cole – gives a faint moan.

"You like that?" Fletcher says.

I've never had much love for the man, but something about his voice right then makes me shudder. It feels like oil sliding over my skin.

"Y-yes," Cole whimpers.

"You want more?"

She doesn't answer, but I guess she nods or something, because then he says, "You know what to do."

There's the faint jingle of a belt buckle and then a zipper sliding down.

I close my eyes.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to be hearing any of this.

I want to plug my ears with my fingers, but I'm afraid to move, even for that.

Seconds are taught about sex from the moment we hit puberty, at the same time that we are put on mandatory birth control, so even though I've never had sex, or anything close, I know what's happening on the other side of that desk.

Fletcher's groans fill the room, and I clench my teeth until my jaw aches.

I can't see anything, but I still want to scrub my eyeballs until they're raw.

Several agonising minutes pass, and then Cole makes a startled little noise; I don't know why.

"Turn around," Fletcher says, his voice huskier than normal. "Hands on the desk, bend over."

I spare a moment to be unspeakably grateful that they're on that side of the desk and not this one. Even if, by some miracle, they still couldn't see me, I'd be able to see them, and there's nothing that I want less.

A steady slapping noise starts up, punctuated by more of Fletcher's horrible groaning.

I bite my lip, trying to focus on the pain, trying to focus on anything else.

How has this happened?

How long has it been going on?

Does anyone else know?

A spark of anger surfaces through the disgust.

Cole is sixteen. Fletcher is at least twice her age, but worse than that, he is a figure of authority in this place. Surely this is an absolutely gross misuse of that authority.

Cole is moaning now, high and breathy, and I stare fixedly at my knees, trying not to think about what's happening right over my head.

Finally, Fletcher makes a noise like a wounded animal, and the desk jolts a couple more times, then stops. The only sounds in the room are ragged, heavy breathing.

"What do you say?" Fletcher says.

"Thank you," Cole murmurs.

I can't see either of them, but I am sure he is smiling, and I'm just as sure it's not a nice smile.

"Right," Fletcher says, suddenly brisk. "I'd better get something to clean up. You stay here and don't touch anything."

I silently groan. Why can't they both leave?

How long am I going to be trapped here?

My limbs are already stiff and complaining, but I can't risk moving a single inch until I'm alone.

I hear the sound of the door opening and closing – presumably Fletcher leaving.

For the span of a heartbeat, Cole doesn't move, then papers rustle above me. She's looking for something.

Whatever it is, she's so engrossed in it, that she doesn't hear what I hear – the faint noise of the door opening again.

"What are you doing?" Fletcher says, his voice winter-cold, and Cole gasps.

I wonder if she realises what I do – that Fletcher wasn't gone long enough to clean himself. I doubt he went further than the corridor outside. It's almost like he was testing Cole – testing her to see if she would obey him. If that's the case, Cole just failed.

Fear tangles up my throat.

What will he do to her?

Handlers are allowed to physically discipline Seconds, but that's for when we break the rules. They can't knock us about just because they feel like it.

But the fact that Cole and Fletcher are here together is proof enough that he doesn't much care for the CC's rules.

Cole is far from my favourite person in this world, but I think of her crying in the shower this morning, I think of the weird atmosphere in the room now, the sense that Fletcher has all the power in this relationship while Cole has none, and find that I actually don't want anything to happen to her.

Not over this.

"I . . ." Cole stutters into silence. Then she speaks again, and there's a hardness in her voice that I'm more familiar with. Maybe she's afraid, but she's still standing up him, in a way.

"Why hasn't my designation been changed yet?" she asks, and my ears prick up.

Cole must have been going through the same file that I was, but unlike me, she seems to know what it all means.

"I am a Predator," Cole continues, "and you should know that by now."

Fletcher laughs, and it's a hard, ugly sound. "What, you thought that bullying a couple of disfigured girls would change anything?"

The storm in my chest turns to fire, blazing so hot and bright that I'm amazed neither of them can see it, bursting out from beneath the desk.

"I can do this," Cole says, but her voice is quieter now, all the hardness bleeding away.

"It's not just up to me," Fletcher says. "You know that."

"But you don't believe in me." She sounds so small then, so lost, and so young.

Fletcher sighs, as if she's annoying him. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Because I need you to." Her voice cracks, and I think she's on the verge of tears.

"Why?"

Is this another test?

I can't tell, and I doubt Cole can either.

"Stop snivelling," Fletcher snaps.

Cole goes quiet.

I hear the shuffle of feet.

"Now listen," Fletcher says, and though his voice is softer now, it still disgusts me. Can't Cole hear how patronising he is?

"I do not have the power or the authority to change your designation. I can recommend you, which I have done, but I cannot force anyone to make a decision yet," Fletcher says.

"But I am a Predator, and I need you to believe in me," she says, so low I almost can't hear her.

"And I need you to do as you're told, but you don't seem to have mastered that yet." Fletcher's voice is hard again, sharp as a blade.

Cole mumbles something.

"I didn't hear that," Fletcher says.

"I'm sorry."

"Again."

"I'm sorry."

Cole makes a stifled squeak, like maybe Fletcher has grabbed her, but I can't be sure.

"That's better, but the next time I tell you not to do something, you will listen to me. Do not test my patience, Cole."

"I'm sorry," she whispers again.

"Good girl."

There's a coppery taste in my mouth, and I realise I've bitten the inside of my cheek so hard I've drawn blood.

I want to get out of here.

But I'm stuck under the desk as they kiss again, and for a horribly long moment I think that it will lead to something more, then Fletcher says, "You'd better get back to the others."

His tone of voice makes it clear that it's a demand, not a recommendation.

Cole leaves without another word, but Fletcher stays, and I hear more paper rustling. I hope it's just him rearranging the file that Cole was going through.

My spine is starting to ache from being curved over like this.

Finally, finally, Fletcher leaves the room and firmly shuts the door.

But even then I don't move. I remember how quickly he came back when he told Cole that he was going to clean up, and even though he can't possibly know that I'm here, I still don't dare move.

I count off seconds in my head.

One minute passes.

Two.

Three.

It's not until I've counted five minutes, that I think it's safe to move.

I unfurl from my hiding place with a little groan, and crawl out from under the desk. My head is spinning. I came here in the hopes of learning about the Trials, and I've learned something entirely different instead.

I need time to process all this, and I realise with a sudden jolt that I've completely track of time. How long have I been under the desk? How long has Nurse Barrett been asleep?

The filing cabinet stares back at me, taunting me. Do I risk going through more of them?

With a sinking feeling, I realise that I don't.

A couple of mouthfuls of drugged coffee has sent the nurse to sleep, but I have no idea how long it will last. It might only be half an hour, and I'm sure I've been here longer than that. If I don't get back to the infirmary before she wakes up, then this will all have been for nothing.

But if I don't find anything concrete, won't this have been for nothing anyway?

I dither, even though I don't have time for that.

Now that I'm in Records I can see there are more filing cabinets and therefore more paperwork than I anticipated – more than I could have gone through even without Fletcher and Cole's interruption. I can take a gamble and go through as many as possible in what little time I might have left, but I will not have time to properly investigate everything.

Reluctantly I decide that it's not worth the risk. At least now I have a better understanding of this place and how it works, and I can use that if I ever get a chance to get back inside. I don't know how I'll manage it, but I've done it once; I can do it again.

The photo I stole feels like it's burning a hole in my pocket, as I creep out of Records and back into the infirmary.