"I'm sorry," Suzune said, and she meant it. "But you've been containing the wrong thing."

"Correct." The warden slid a tray through a slot in her cell door. On it: a single origami crane, folded from silver leaf, and a vial of clear liquid. "Your daily choice. The crane or the draught."

Whir. Click. Unfold.

The lock on her door snapped open.

Today, she took neither.

The warden's voice boomed from overhead speakers: "ENTRY NO. 012. Return to your cell. Lethal countermeasures authorized."

"Containment," Suzune whispered. Her voice was soft, like wind through dry bamboo. "Not rehabilitation."