We emerged into a wide, pristine hallway—white walls, gleaming floors, and strategically placed plants that looked too perfect to be real. The contrast to Brightfield's homey, sometimes cluttered halls, was jarring. This place felt sterile in a different way—not medical sterility but emotional. Like someone had designed a hospital to look like a luxury hotel without understanding what made either one comforting. I wanted to see childish drawings pinned to cork boards. I wanted hearts hanging from the ceilings, long past Valentine’s Day. I wanted the Christmas tree they never put in storage because someone would decorate it for each holiday, even the silly small ones like National Ice Cream Day.
"Your suite is this way," Doctor Swann said, leading our little parade down the corridor. "We've prepared it according to Doctor Mercer’s specifications, with additional accommodations for your improving condition."
Suite. Not room. The distinction wasn’t lost on me. Would it have a comfortable little sofa? A proper television? A full bathroom with a soaking tub? How long had I existed in hospital rooms? Brightfield was bigger and nicer than most facilities could offer, but it was still first a place of healing and second a place of comfort. I didn’t have high hopes though, not if the minimalist, spotless corridors were any indication of what the rooms beyond offered.
“Would you like to walk now, Lucy?” The Alpha doctor’s voice floated down to me.
My wheelchair wasn’t moving, and I had no idea when the person behind me had stopped pushing forward. I blinked up at the doctor’s angular, thin face. I nodded.
“Wonderful. I want you to walk into this room knowing that when you walk out again, it’ll be like you were never sick to begin with.” She curved one hand loosely over my left shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze, and then stepped away so I had a clear path to the door right in front of me.
It was just as nondescript and pure white as everything else I’d so far seen in the building, save for the fact that my name was written on a little card slotted into a holder at the top center of the door, right above a frosted glass panel.
“Do you need help, Lucy?” The person behind me moved around into view. They offered me their arm for support. I glanced at their face, but features didn’t register. I was feeling… strange. I was feeling… like walking through the door in front of me was the real point of no return.
“No, I’m fine,” I said firmly, letting my shoes slip off the footrests and land on the solid floor below. Taking a deep breath, I pressed my palms against the wheelchair arms and hoisted myself upwards.
My legs trembled slightly with the effort of walking. I’d basically been seated the entire day—first on a wheelchair leaving Brightfield, then on the plane, then once again on a wheelchair to travel from airport to Eros. Beyond the fatigue, my body was still so weak. I knew that the gene therapy had rebuilt the broken bits of me—both the ones I could see, and the ones I could not—but I’d been so sedentary most my life.
This was a short journey though. I could manage it. Look at everything else I’d so far endured to get to this moment.
One step after another, I focused on keeping my balance. Even a gentle sway made the bulky suit feel like it might topple me over, but I was determined to walk into my new "home" under my own power.
Doctor Swann moved, faster than I was, and pressed her palm against a panel that blended seamlessly with the wall.Though the door looked like a normal one, handle and all, it gave a hiss, pushed a few inches back into the room, then slid left.
As the room beyond was revealed, I was hit by a rush of air from inside—clean, slightly cooler than the hallway, carrying a faint floral scent that reminded me of the flowers I'd sometimes glimpse outside my window at Brightfield. In that garden I’d wanted so desperately to enjoy on warm summer days.
I hesitated at the threshold, suddenly overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all.
The suite was beautiful. Despite the cloud cover outside, light seemed to stream brightly through floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated one entire wall. The space was easily three times the size of my room at Brightfield. The walls were painted a soft sage green, not that pale, cheery yellow patients were supposed to pretend made us feel better. The floors were a warm honey-colored wood rather than institutional tile. A modern, gray sofa was positioned facing a table holding a sleek television. A plush-looking bed dotted with what had to be a dozen pillows sat against the far wall. I spotted a door that must lead to a bathroom, and another that looked like it might be a closet.
I couldn’t move. I felt frozen.
This seemed too good to be true.
I wasn’t expecting my new prison to be so nice.
"Go ahead," Doctor Swann urged from behind me. "It's all yours. Well,” she gave me a wink when I looked over at her, “it’s yours until you don’t need it anymore.”
Until I didn’t need it anymore.
I wondered if she meant it was mine until I was fully cured.
Or if she meant it was mine until I was shipped off to my next cage… the one with my scent matched Alpha or pack.
I took another shaky step forward, that feeling of no return flooding back into my system. There was nowhere else to go, yetthere was no turning back. So, I moved over the threshold and turned around to face the people in the hallway.
“What happens now?” I didn’t mean to ask the question, but it fell from my lips anyways.
“Your life begins, Lucy.”
26
LUCY
{Eight weeks later}
The Eros Institute.
