“I can,” I say. “But I won’t. Not for them.”
Her shoulders slump. She looks genuinely disappointed, and I can’t tell anymore whether that disappointment is hers or theirs.
A soft chime sounds in the room.
Lena flinches, hands clenching. “That’s…that’s their signal.”
Another chime. Gentle. Almost pleasant.
“Adjustments,” she whispers.
The warmth increases. Not much. Just enough to make the skin flush. A faint, sweet scent threads through the air – vanilla, honey, something designed to calm.
My stomach lurches. The scent hits like nostalgia. Like a kitchen. Like someone baking when the world is safe.
My throat tightens.
My body responds before my mind catches it: shoulders loosening, breath deepening, a tiny, stupid sense of ease seeping in. It’s chemical. It has to be.
I thrust my hands into my pockets and grip the material inside hard enough that my fingers ache.
Lena’s eyes widen as she notices my reaction. “It’s in the air,” she whispers urgently. “I told them you’d notice.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, not unkindly. I can’t blame her for trying to survive.
The scent thickens.
My heart rate slows in spite of me. Calm rolls through my blood like warm water. My eyelids feel heavy. The room feels soft, forgiving.
My mind whispers: Just rest. Just sit. Just let it happen. You deserve a break.
I grit my teeth.
This isnotkindness. This is compliance forcefully delivered through chemistry.
I force my eyes open wider, fixating on something sharp – the edge of the picture frame, the corner of the table – anything to anchor myself.
Lena stands abruptly, panic in her face. “They’re going to ask me how you’re feeling,” she says, voice shaking. “They’re going to want me to reassure you.”
My chest aches with the urge to reassureher.
The urge is so strong it makes me feel sick.
“No,” I say, harsher than I mean. I soften it immediately because I can’t help myself. “No, Lena. Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s alright. Tell me it’s happening.”
She nods, tears spilling again. “It’s happening,” she whispers.
The chime sounds again.
A voice – different from before, colder, more precise – fills the room. “Facilitator Lena. Report subject status.”
Lena’s shoulders tense like a marionette whose strings have been pulled. She looks at me, helpless.
I meet her gaze and try to put something steady into my eyes without offering comfort. Steady is not comfort. Steady is information.
“I—” she begins, then swallows. “He’s…he’s responding to the environment.”
“Specify,” the voice says.
