Lena’s hands tremble. “His breathing is slower. His posture is less guarded.”
The voice is quiet, almost pleased. “Proceed.”
Lena looks like she might vomit.
The scent intensifies again, and with it comes a pulse of something else – heat behind my eyes, a rush through my chest, a sudden bloom of affection so sharp it’s almost painful. It lands on Lena like a target.
It isn’t even subtle.
My body wants to step forward, to touch her shoulder, to smooth her hair back, to tell her it will be alright. My mouth wants to form words that taste like safety.
I clamp my jaw shut until it hurts.
Because if I give them that, they win. They turn my kindness into a switch.
Lena edges closer, drawn by her own script or her own fear, I can’t tell. “Honey…” she says, and the way she says my name is almost a plea.
My throat constricts. My eyes sting.
I hate them. I hate them so much it’s a physical sensation, hot under the chemical warmth.
“I need you,” Lena whispers, and her voice breaks. “Please.”
The words hit something raw in me.
The room seems to hold its breath.
My hand twitches.
I could do it. I could reach out. I could comfort her. I could let the chemical flood do what it wants and become what they’ve designed me to be: a soothing machine, a gentle hand, a warm voice. I could give her relief, and maybe that relief would keep her brother alive. Maybe.
But I can feel the hook in it. The way the system tightens around this moment, ready to record the spike, ready to reward the behaviour.
I look at Lena, really look.
Her pupils are slightly too dilated. Her skin is flushed, not from the room’s warmth but from something internal. She’s breathing too fast. She’s caught in it too.
They are dosing her as well.
They aren’t testing me with her. They are binding us both to the same chemical lie.
My stomach turns.
“Lena,” I say, and I force my voice to stay flat, factual. “They’re drugging you.”
Her eyes widen, confusion flickering. “What?”
“They’re drugging you,” I repeat. “That’s why you feel like you need me. That’s why you’re saying it like that. But those feelings…they’re not real.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. She looks at her own hands as if they might be betraying her.
“I—” she whispers. “I thought…I thought it was just fear.”
“It’s not just fear,” I say. “It’s a programme.”
Her face crumples. She makes a small sound, half-sob, half-laugh. “They said you’d help,” she whispers. “They said you wouldn’t be able to stop.”
The voice cuts in. “Subject Honey. Verbal engagement detected. Continue.”
