Mood:Vulnerability & Clinical Intimacy.
The walk from the music room to the clinical wing is a descent.
We leave behind the scent of beeswax and old money, crossing a threshold into a world that smells of ozone and sterility. The floors change from warm parquet to white terrazzo, polished to such a high sheen that it looks like walking on ice. The lighting shifts from the golden glow of chandeliers to the unforgiving, shadowless white of recessed LED strips.
Alaric does not hold my hand. He does not touch me at all. He walks a step behind me, his presence a heavy, physical weight pressing against my shoulder blades. I can hear the rhythm of his footsteps—heavy, deliberate, inevitable.Click. Click. Click.It is the sound of a predator herding its prey into a trap.
"Door on the left," he commands.
I stop. The door is frosted glass, marked with a simple silver plaque:EXAM 1.
My stomach twists, a cold knot of dread tightening around my ribs. This is where the pretense ends. In the bedroom, he was a captor. In the music room, he was a tormentor. But here? Here, he is the Doctor. And I am just a biological machine that needs to be calibrated.
"Open it," he says.
I reach out, my hand trembling slightly, and push the handle. The air inside is cooler than the hallway. It rushes out to meet me, carrying the sharp, chemical tang of isopropyl alcohol.
The room is terrifyingly pristine. In the center sits an exam table, covered in crinkling white paper. Beside it, a rolling metal tray holding instruments that gleam under the lights: a stethoscope, a reflex hammer, a penlight, and other steel tools I don’t recognize and don't want to. Along the wall, glass cabinets display rows of amber bottles and labeled jars, locked away like dangerous jewels.
"Sit," Alaric says, closing the door behind us and locking it. Theclickof the lock echoes in the small space, sealing my fate.
I walk to the table. The paper crunches loudly as I hoist myself up, my legs dangling over the edge. The grey wool dress bunches around my thighs, and I smooth it down, desperate for the meager armor it provides.
Alaric walks to the sink. He turns on the tap—a motion-sensor faucet that hums to life—and begins to scrub his hands. He doesn't look at me. He focuses on the ritual, soaping his fingers, his wrists, his forearms, with methodical precision.
"Height?" he asks, his back to me.
"Five seven," I answer automatically. My voice sounds small in the acoustic sterility of the room.
"Weight?"
"One hundred and eighteen pounds."
He pauses. He looks at me in the mirror above the sink, water dripping from his hands. "Light," he murmurs. "For your frame. We will need to adjust your caloric intake."
He dries his hands on a paper towel and throws it away. Then, he opens a box on the counter and pulls out a pair of black nitrile gloves. The sound of them snapping against his wrists makes me flinch. It is a sound associated with pain. With needles. With intrusion.
He turns to face me. The gloves make his hands look artificial, dangerous. "The intake exam is mandatory for all new residents," he explains, his voice dropping into that professional, detached register that somehow makes everything worse. "I need to establish a baseline. Heart, lungs, neurological function, and physical inventory."
He steps between my spread knees. I instinctively try to close my legs, but his thighs block me. He is too close. He towers over me, blocking out the light, blocking out the rest of the room.
"Undress," he says.
The word hangs in the air. I stare at him. "What?"
"The dress," he says calmly. "Take it off."
"No." I cross my arms over my chest, gripping my elbows. "You can check my heart through the fabric."
"I cannot check your skin through the fabric, Elodie. Nor can I check for self-harm marks, bruising, or skeletal alignment." He steps closer, his shins pressing against the front of the table. "Do not make me repeat myself. We discussed compliance."
"I am not stripping for you," I spit out, panic rising in my throat like bile. "You’re enjoying this. This isn't medical. It's perverted."
Alaric’s face doesn't change. He doesn't get angry. He doesn't shout. He simply reaches out and grabs the hem of the dress at my knee. "You are confused," he says softly. "You think you have a vote. You think this is a democracy."
He leans down, his face inches from mine. "This is a dictatorship,petite. And I am the state. Now. You can take it off, and retain some shred of dignity by controlling the action. Or I can cut it off with the shears in that drawer. And I promise you, if I have to cut it off, the exam will be significantly more... invasive."
I look into his eyes. He means it. He would strip me bare and check every inch of me without blinking. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely feel them. Defeat tastes like copper in my mouth.
