I stood in the center for a moment, letting the stillness settle around me. Then I sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting in my lap, posture perfect.
Because that’s what they expected.
Even now.
Even after everything. And I gave it to them. Not because I wanted to. But because I didn’t know how not to.
The view out the window was the same, too. The tall sunflowers swayed in the breeze, their faces lifted up to the sun as though they were happy to see it’s warmth basking on them.
Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my torso, trying and slowly failing at holding it all together.
I didn’t belong here. I didn’t belong with Alpha Harris either.
The calendar alarm went off. I didn’t check the time, since it didn’t matter. I existed on someone else’s schedule—told where to go, when to move, what to be.
The tablet kept beeping, sharp and insistent. I wasn’t in a hurry to answer it, but I didn’t have the luxury of ignoring it either. It summoned me with the same authority a client did.
Maybe more.
I walked over and glanced at the screen. Updated again, too fast, too efficient.
Of course there was a client waiting. There always was.
I used to wish the calendar showed names. Just a hint of who I’d be facing, what they might want, how to brace myself. But it never did. No notes.
Just preferences and a time.
I changed into the standard uniform—neutral, forgettable, and compliant. Then I left for the service house. Not because I wanted to. Because that’s what the schedule demanded. And I was nothing if not obedient.
Each step dragged heavier than the last. Like my feet had forgotten how to lift. Like the floor itself was trying to hold me down.
My stomach churned, solid and aching, like someone had poured gravel into it and let it settle.
No movement. Just weight. And the kind that didn’t go away.
I wanted to turn and walk away. Walk right off this compound, even though the stupid bracelet was stillwrapped around my wrist. It was as though they feared I’d tried to do just that.
By the time I made it to the service house, The Vale Index, words written in gold above the entryway, sweat was coating the back of my neck.
“Charles. Good to see you, boy. Room ten today.”
I dipped my head before rounding the desk. I knew the room numbers by heart, but it wasn’t a room I was in before.
Sometimes, clients like to change things up, but over the last year, they hadn’t used any of the rooms but the color coded ones.
I adjusted my posture—shoulders relaxed, spine straight, chin neutral. Then I opened the door and stepped inside.
The pause was involuntary. A full-body freeze as my eyes swept the room. Maybe this would be the day. Maybe they’d finally decide I wasn’t worth the upkeep.
The air was cold, but it wasn’t just the temperature. The room itself felt sterile, hollow. Four walls. No windows. Just a single metal X bolted to the center of the floor like a promise.
The rubber flooring squeaked beneath my shoes with every step. Loud. Unavoidable. Like the room wanted to announce my presence—wanted me to hear myself coming. I hated that sound. It made everything feel more real. And I wasn’t ready for real.
I moved in further, shutting the door behind me. The click was louder than I intended, but it was too late to fix that.
I stayed standing. Posture perfect. Hands at my sides. Eyes forward, but not locked on anything. Just enough presence to be seen. Not enough to be remembered.
The door opened behind me slowly. I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. I knew better.
