We’re met in the austere lobby by a woman in a crisp white coat, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She bows deeply to Logan, then straightens, her professional smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Your Majesty. Welcome to Facility Three. I’m Director Harlow. We’re honored by your presence.”
Logan nods, his royal mask firmly in place. “Director. These are my companions, Maya Tantamount and Cillian Frost. They have my complete confidence and are to be given full access to everything I see.”
The director’s smile falters slightly, her gaze lingering on Maya’s purple hair with poorly disguised curiosity. “Of course, Your Majesty. If you’ll follow me, I’ve prepared a tour of our operations.”
She leads us through sterile corridors that smell of disinfectant and fear. The walls are institutional green, the floors polished to a high shine that reflects the harsh fluorescent lighting. Everything is clean, orderly, and profoundly wrong. My skin crawls with each step deeper into the facility.
“As you requested, we’ve maintained most of the original structure while repurposing the spaces,” Director Harlow explains as we walk. “The examination rooms have been converted to medical offices, and the... processing chambers are being renovated into recovery suites.”
Processing chambers. The clinical euphemism makes my stomach turn. I glance at Maya, finding her face carefully blank, though the slight tremor in her hands betrays her distress. Without thinking, I move closer to her, our shoulders brushing—a silent reminder that she’s not alone here.
“And the test subjects?” Logan asks, his voice carefully neutral. “The women who were held here?”
“Those who were physically able have been relocated to the royal hospital for comprehensive care,” the director replies. “Those requiring more intensive treatment remain here under the supervision of physicians approved by the royal medical council.”
“And how many were there?” Maya asks suddenly, her voice sharp enough to make the director blink in surprise.
“Thirty-seven adults were being held at this facility when your forces liberated it,” Director Harlow answers after a moment’s hesitation. “Twenty-nine have been relocated. Eight remain under our care.”
“Thirty-seven,” Maya repeats, the number hanging in the air between us. So few, and yet each representing a life disrupted, a person violated in the name of the former king’s twisted vision.
But I’m stuck on the emphasis the director placed on the word adults.
We continue through the facility, the director pointing out changes and improvements with the detached efficiency of someone who sees rooms and equipment rather than the suffering they once contained. Logan asks appropriate questions, his royal mask never slipping, but I can feel his anger simmering beneath the surface, a low burn that matches my own.
“And here,” Director Harlow says as we approach a set of double doors at the end of a long corridor, “is what I believe you came to see, Your Majesty.”
She pushes open the doors, revealing a large, brightly lit room that stands in stark contrast to the institutional sterility of the rest of the facility. The walls are painted a soft yellow, the harsh fluorescents replaced with gentler lighting. And arranged throughout the space are cribs—perhaps two dozen of them, each attended by a nurse in a pale blue uniform.
A nursery. They built a nursery in the heart of this house of horrors.
Logan steps forward, his expression unreadable as he surveys the room. “How many?” he asks, his voice so low I barely catch it.
“Seventeen,” Director Harlow replies, her professional demeanor softening slightly. “That survived, I mean.”
These are the results of the former king’s breeding program—children born to captive Omegas, intended to be raised as a new generation of perfectly controlled subjects.
“The mothers?” Maya asks, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.
“Six mothers will be reunited with their children,” the director says, her clinical tone returning. “Four women died in childbirth. The others are in no condition to care for an infant or have chosen not to do so. We’ve established a rotation of attendants to ensure the babies receive proper care while we locate suitable placements.”
Logan moves further into the room, and after a moment’s hesitation, Maya and I follow. The nursery is oddly quiet for a space containing so many infants. A few cry softly, but most lie silent in their cribs, watched over by attendants who move between them with practiced efficiency.
“They’re undernourished,” I observe, noting the thinness of the tiny limbs visible in the nearest crib. “And understimulated.”
“We’re doing the best we can with limited resources,” Director Harlow says defensively. “These children have complex needs, and qualified caregivers are difficult to find given the... unusual circumstances.”
“Unusual circumstances,” Maya echoes, her voice flat. “You mean the fact that they were bred like livestock by a mad king?”
The director flinches visibly. “I merely meant?—“
“I know what you meant,” Maya cuts her off, turning away to approach one of the cribs where an attendant is feeding a baby with mechanical precision, no warmth or connection in the interaction.
Logan catches my eye, a silent message passing between us. He knew this is something we would never forgive him for keeping to himself.
I move through the nursery, observing the attendants at work. They’re competent enough, ensuring the babies are fed, changed, and physically cared for. But there’s a coldness to their efficiency, a distance that speaks to how they view their charges—not as children deserving of love and attention, but as problems to be managed.
