Drugged.
Cold metal straps cutting into my wrists while white-coated doctors stand around me writing notes.
A voice says:
“Subject Thirteen demonstrates elevated emotional retention.”
Another voice responds:
“Begin memory fragmentation.”
Needles.
Bright lights.
Music.
Always music.
“Hannah!”
Clay shakes me gently.
His face swims in and out of focus above me.
Blue eyes.
Rain-soaked hair.
Fear.
So much fear.
Not of Sentinel.
Of losing me.
The realization cuts through the conditioning haze for one tiny second.
And suddenly—
I don’t want to disappear.
Not when he’s looking at me like that.
The doctor laughs weakly from the floor nearby.
“The sedatives won’t affect your military team immediately,” she says through bloodied lips; she must have bitten her lip.
“But Subject Thirteen’s neurological conditioning is far more responsive.”
Clay turns toward her slowly.
Dangerously.
“If she stops breathing,” he says quietly,
“I will kill you with my bare hands.”
