I considered refusing. Standing here naked and dripping until they came to dress me by force. But the bathroom was cold, and the dress was soft, and choosing my battles seemed smarter than fighting every single thing.
The dress fit perfectly. Of course it did. They'd probably calculated my measurements from surveillance footage or some equally creepy method. It was comfortable, I'd give them that. Soft cotton that moved with me, hitting just above my knees. The kind of thing I might have worn voluntarily if it didn't represent everything wrong with this situation.
"Five minutes remaining for bathroom privileges."
I brushed my teeth with unnecessary violence, glaring at my reflection in the too-small mirror. My hair was already starting to curl as it dried, going wild without product or tools to tame it. Dark circles under green eyes that looked too big in my pale face. The collar sat like a accusation against my throat, black leather and silver hardware that should have looked kinky but just looked like ownership.
The bathroom door clicked locked the second I stepped out.
"Wonderful. You're learning already. Breakfast will be delivered shortly. Please wait patiently."
Patiently. Like I had a choice. Like I could storm out of here and grab a McMuffin instead of waiting for whatever nutrition they'd calculated I needed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap in mockery of good behavior, and catalogued everything I could about my prison. The carpet was thick enough to muffle footsteps. The walls had no visible seams—probably soundproofed. The air recycled through vents too small to crawl through, maintaining a perfect temperature that made it impossible to tell if it was summer or winter outside.
A soft chime, and another panel slid open. This time revealing a tray with actual food: scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, fresh fruit, orange juice, and a small cup with two pills.
"What are the pills?"
"Daily vitamins formulated for your specific nutritional needs."
"Right. Vitamins." I picked up one of the pills, examining it. Small, white, no markings. Could be vitamins. Could be sedatives. Could be birth control, given what I'd stupidly agreed to in that contract. "And if I don't take them?"
"All meals include required supplements. Refusal affects future meal privileges."
So take the mystery pills or starve. Cool. Great. Fantastic research ethics on display.
I ate the food—which was annoyingly good—and pocketed the pills when I thought the cameras couldn't see. Sleight of hand from my bartending days finally coming in useful.
"Meal finished. Please place the tray back in the compartment."
I complied, watching the panel slide shut with a soft click that sounded way too final.
"Excellent. Your morning session begins in ten minutes. Please sit on the bed and wait quietly."
"Or what?" I stood instead, pacing the room like a caged animal. Which I was. "What happens if I'm not quiet? If I don't sit? If I tell you to take your morning session and shove it up your—"
"Language. Final warning. Continued defiance will result in correction protocols."
Correction protocols. That sounded ominous enough to make me pause. But only pause. Not stop.
"You know what? Fuck your warnings. Fuck your protocols. And fuck whoever's listening to this." I spun in a circle, addressing every corner of the room. "You want to study me? Study this: I don't care how much money I took or what I signed. You can't keep me here. This is kidnapping, false imprisonment, probably six other crimes I can't name. So open the fucking door before I—"
The lights went out.
Complete darkness. The kind of black that made me wonder if I'd suddenly gone blind. I froze, heart hammering, hands outstretched like a child playing Marco Polo.
"Correction protocol initiated. Please remain still."
"Turn the lights back on." My voice came out smaller than intended. "This isn't—"
A door opened. Not the bathroom. Somewhere else. Footsteps on carpet, measured and deliberate. Male. Large.Moving with the confidence of someone who could see in the dark.
"There's really no need for theatrics, Miss West."
That voice. Smooth as aged whiskey, cultured without being pretentious, with an undercurrent of amusement that made me want to punch something. Dr. Gabriel Mire, in the flesh.
"Turn. The. Lights. On." Each word came out through gritted teeth.
