One Tolerable.
Lily Malen
They don't warn you.
They don't knock kindly, don't call ahead, don't whisper that this is it-the moment everything changes. That's not how the House works.
Control is sweetest when it catches you off-guard.
The sound comes at 11:02 a.m.-sharp and surgical. Not a fist. Not a knuckle. Fingernails. Tapping.
Tap, tap, tap.
Three soft clicks like a scalpel against glass.
It's not a sound that startles. It lingers. Creeps under your skin like cold water, soaking the spaces between your ribs. A summons dressed in silence. A reminder that your time isn't yours.
I'm upright before my brain catches up.
Thinking here is dangerous. It makes you hesitate. Makes you ask why. And why doesn't matter in the House.
The air slices at my skin as I rise, bare legs prickling in the artificial chill.
The floor meets my feet like ice laid over stone-sharp, indifferent, punishing.
Every step draws out a long, mournful creak from the floorboards, like the bones of the house are sighing under the weight of me. A warning.
My fingers tremble as I smooth the hem of my skirt. It doesn't need smoothing. It's already neat. Pressed. Clean. We sleep in uniform because it saves time. Because nakedness is a luxury. Because they prefer us ready-always. Easy. Accessible. Immediate.
It makes things simpler for them.
When I open the door, she's already there. Of course she is.
Miss Renna.
A woman carved from stone and steel, with a face that's been scrubbed of expression.
Her white-blonde hair is pulled so tightly into a knot at the back of her head it gleams like bone under the hallway light.
Her eyes are winter-flat, silver, unblinking.
She smells like antiseptic and pressed linen.
Not clean-sterile. Like something that's trying too hard not to rot.
She doesn't speak.
She never wastes her voice on softness.
The clipboard in her gloved hand snaps up as if of its own will. Her fingers curl around it like a tether. Like she's holding a leash I didn't know I wore.
A pause. A moment stretched too long.
Then, flatly: "Room Three."
That's it. No explanation. No praise. No warmth.
She turns.
And I follow.
Of course I do. There are no questions here. Only instructions.
The hallway stretches before us-pale walls the color of dried bones, lit by ceiling lights that hum too loud and flicker just often enough to make you doubt your eyes.
Every footstep echoes. Every shadow presses in.
The air is thick with a kind of quiet that feels conscious.
Like the House is listening. Like it knows.
Room Three is worse than the others. Not dirtier-cleaner. Spotless, almost obsessively so. No smudges on the mirror, no lint on the floor. Not even the smell of skin or sweat. Just bleach. And beneath that, something deeper. Something metallic. Like old pennies or rusting chains.
The lights don't flicker in here. They burn. A sterile, surgical white that peels at the corners of your vision.
The moment I step inside, I feel it-that electric pause, like the room is holding its breath.
And he's already there.
The man stands facing the two-way mirror, still as cut marble. His coat is slate gray, tailored with brutal precision. His hands are buried in the pockets, posture straight, unnervingly relaxed. He doesn't turn. Doesn't shift. Doesn't acknowledge us.
He's watching something. Maybe me. Maybe the room. Maybe nothing at all. But he watches like it's sport.
Miss Renna gestures toward the metal chair.
I sit.
It's cold, of course. Cold in a way that feels intentional. Deliberate discomfort.
I keep my head down. Shoulders aligned. Knees together. Hands folded in my lap, just the way they taught us. I don't look at the mirror. I don't speak. I barely breathe.
Still, the room feels... different. Thicker, somehow. Like the air has teeth.
And when he finally turns to face me, I understand why.
His face is clean-shaven. Calm. Almost gentle. The kind of face you instinctively trust-sympathetic eyes, a mouth that looks like it knows how to smile. The kind of man who might read bedtime stories. Teach piano. Counsel the grieving.
It's the wrong face for this place.
Which makes it all the more dangerous.
"Good morning, Lily," he says.
His voice is smooth. Velvet pulled tight across a blade. Gentle cadence, even tone-measured like everything else here.
"Do you know why you're here?"
I shake my head. Small movement. No frown. No tilt. Too much expression is defiance. And defiance has a cost.
His smile touches the corners of his mouth, but not his eyes. Like he's pleased I don't know. Like ignorance is part of the test.
"This is your first simulation."
He sits across from me, folding his hands like he's about to offer a prayer-or a sentence. "Your first time out."
Out.
The word hits like a bullet with a silencer. No sound. Just impact.
Out of the House. Out of the walls. Out of the air that smells like bleach and fear. Out into something else-something worse.
A test, then. A performance.
"We want to see how you handle yourself. In public. If you remember your training." He pauses. "If you behave like a good girl."
The phrase lands heavy in my chest. Good girl. It's not praise. It's permission. A spell. The kind of language used to tame animals. And like every girl here, I want it-despite myself.
I nod.
"Yes," I say, but it's a whisper, and it isn't enough. I feel the failure before he corrects it.
"Yes, sir," I repeat, louder. Straighter. And this time, his smile deepens.
The praise is chemical. Brief and burning. Like adrenaline. Like poison.
Miss Renna steps into view and places something on the table with the delicacy of a ritual. A necklace.
Thin silver chain. A single pendant. Small. Unassuming.
"Camera," she says.
Of course it is.
They never stop watching.
The rooms. The halls. The plates and mirrors and glinting fixtures. Everything has eyes.
I don't touch it. I don't move. I wait.
And when they guide me out-not through the usual hallway but through the gray door-I feel it again. That twist deep in my gut.
Girls go through that door.
Some don't come back.
The hallway beyond is brighter than expected. Not clean, not exactly, but... different. Like someone tried to make it look normal. Safe. The way a wolf might wear human skin.
Outside, the light stings. Unfiltered sunlight pressing against skin that's grown used to artificial glow. I don't squint. I don't wince. I keep still as the man fastens the necklace around my neck.
It clicks shut like a collar.
One of them touches the back of my head. A push, not hard, but definite. A reminder.
I climb into the van.
And the doors close behind me.
No one speaks on the drive. Not them. Not me. The silence settles like dust, clinging to everything, thick and unmoving.
I sit in the back seat, spine straight, hands folded tightly in my lap like I've been trained to-like I'm trying not to take up space.
The seatbelt cuts across my chest. I don't fidget.
I don't blink too much. I keep my eyes on the window, watching the outside world pass like a film that's been left to play without sound.
A slideshow of unfamiliar streets and too-blue skies I'm not sure I believe in.
The sun is too bright.
Too golden.
Too far away to be real.
It presses against the windowpane like something alive and mocking, heat bleeding through the glass in gentle pulses.
My skin flinches at the warmth, unsure how to react.
It's been months-maybe longer-since I felt sunlight that wasn't filtered through the bars of a basement window or softened by pills.
I don't know how long it's been, not exactly.
Time slips when you're given things that make the edges of everything blur.
When your memories become soft and unreliable.
When sleep tastes the same as obedience.
They don't talk. I don't ask where we're going. I try not to count the turns.
That was one of the first things they taught us-Don't memorize the roads.
You'll want to. You'll think you're clever.
You'll imagine escape.
But it's a trick.
They're waiting for you to look too long. To hope too much.
We slow near the corner of a sleepy intersection, where a weather-worn grocery store sits tucked between a shuttered bakery and a dry cleaner's.
The place is unremarkable-small, quiet, unthreatening in the way all traps are before they spring.
There's a rack of plastic-wrapped flowers wilting under the sun, colors bleached out to near-gray, and handwritten signs taped to the glass doors.
Sales. Raffles. "Support your local school.
"
It's all so normal it makes my stomach twist.
The man in the passenger seat turns around, face unreadable, and extends a slip of paper between two fingers like it's nothing. Like I'm nothing.
"Go in," he says flatly. "Buy everything on the list. Use the card. Act normal. Don't draw attention. Fifteen minutes. No longer."
His voice is low, deliberate. There's no room for questions.
My fingers tremble as I take the list. The paper crinkles like it's fragile, but the weight of it feels crushing. I unfold it with care I don't feel.
Milk.
Apples.
Toothpaste.
Cereal.
Baby wipes.
Five words. Five items. Five ways this could all go wrong.
I step out of the car. My legs move on autopilot, stiff and strange beneath me, and the moment the store's doors slide open with a mechanical hiss, the world inside rushes out like a wave crashing over my senses. Too loud. Too cold. Too fast.
Music plays overhead, peppy and hollow. A baby cries somewhere off to the left, shrill and urgent.
Someone coughs-a wet, hacking sound. A cart rattles past, its wheel squeaking with every bounce.
The air-conditioning hits me like icewater down my back, slicing through my thin shirt, and I nearly gasp at the jolt of it. I keep walking.
Head down. Hands steady. Smile if spoken to.
I start with apples.
That feels safe-something I remember. Red and green, smooth skin, no bruises.
I pick each one with careful fingers, holding them up to the fluorescent lights to make sure they're clean, whole, unmarked.
I bag them. Tie the knot tight. Then I do it again.
Another bag. Another knot. Just to be sure. Just in case.
Milk is next.
And that's where it starts to unravel.
There are too many choices.
Whole. Skim. 1%. 2%. Almond. Oat. Soy. Lactose-free. Organic. Bottles. Jugs. Cartons. Rows and rows of them, stretching like a wall of judgment. I stand there, breathing too fast, too shallow, staring at all the options like they're landmines.
What's the right kind? What's the safe kind?
What doesn't get me punished?
I close my hand around the small pendant at my throat. The chain is fine, nearly invisible, but I can feel the weight of it-metal pressing into my skin like a reminder.
They're watching. Even if I can't see them. Even if they never left the car.
I choose 2%.
It's in the middle. Not too rich. Not too weak. A compromise. A hope.
Cereal comes after. I don't hesitate this time. I don't look at the colorful boxes with mascots and smiling fruit loops. Too cheerful. Too obvious. They'd think I was trying to enjoy something. That I was being selfish. Defiant.
I reach for the plain yellow box of Cheerios.
It looks...empty enough.
The toothpaste aisle is harder.
I freeze the moment I step into it, surrounded on all sides by endless shelves of tiny boxes and too-bright branding.
My heart stutters. Every package promises something-cleaner teeth, whiter smiles, better breath.
Sensitive. Natural. Mint. Cinnamon. Charcoal.
Glitter. Gel. Foam.
I can't process it all. My chest tightens.
I pick the one that looks the most boring.
Blue. White.
No fancy text.
No sparkle.
Just toothpaste.
And then the last thing on the list. The one I've been avoiding.
Baby wipes.
I don't know where they are.
I walk. Then walk more. I try not to look lost. Try not to panic. But I pass the frozen food section twice. My hands are starting to shake again. My shirt sticks to my back with sweat. My shoes squeak against the floor. Every second ticks louder than the last.
I can't ask. Asking is attention. Asking is weakness.
They want to see what I do when things don't go to plan.
I keep moving, every step heavier than the last, until I finally see them.
The baby wipes sit tucked on a low shelf beside the diapers and powder.
I don't look at the photos. I don't look at the babies.
I don't want to feel whatever stirs in my chest when I do.
I don't want to remember what I'm not allowed to.
Checkout is the final trial.
My hands are damp, the card slick between my fingers. I fumble it. Drop it. Pick it up with shaking hands and swipe it the wrong way-once. Then again. My breath catches in my throat.
The girl behind the counter glances up.
Seventeen, maybe. Her hoodie says I'd rather be asleep in curling black letters, her fingernails chipped and blackened at the tips. She doesn't smile.
"Rough morning?" she asks, eyes dull.
It's a test. It's always a test.
My throat squeezes. My smile is small and tight. "Just tired," I whisper, and it scrapes like sandpaper.
She shrugs. Nods. Bags my things without looking twice.
And just like that, it's over.
Relief crashes through me so suddenly I feel dizzy with it.
My knees nearly buckle.
My hands tremble.
I don't cry.
But it's close.
The van is waiting when I step outside.
The air is thick-too hot, too still. It clings to my skin like something alive, wrapping around me, heavy and breathless. The plastic bags dig into my fingers, biting red crescents into the skin with every step I take. But I don't loosen my grip.
I climb in silently, keeping my head bowed the way I was taught. Don't make eye contact. Don't breathe too loud. Don't exist too much.
The door clicks shut behind me.
The man beside me doesn't say a word. He just takes the bags from my lap and begins rifling through them like he already knows what he'll find. Milk. Apples. A box of cereal. Each item is handled, examined, and dismissed like a test paper being graded. Pass. Pass. Pass.
He pauses when he reaches the toothpaste. Holds it up between two fingers like it offends him.
"Sensitive?" he asks.
The word lands like a slap. My spine straightens without meaning to, a jolt of fear firing through me before I can stop it. My voice catches in my throat. "I-I wasn't sure," I stammer. "I didn't want to pick the flashy ones or-"
I stop. Too many words. Too much talking.
His mouth twitches. A shift in the corner of his lips that isn't quite a smile. Not even close. It's the kind of expression that looks neutral to anyone else, but I know better. I've learned the subtleties-the quiet, warning signs that come before something worse.
It's the same unreadable look all of them wear right before they decide how much it'll hurt.
He drops the toothpaste back in the bag.
The rest of the ride passes in silence.
Not tense. Not angry. Just hollow-like the moment after a door slams shut, where you're not sure if it's over or only just beginning. The van hums around us. The windows blur with sun. And still, no one speaks.
It feels like I've already disappeared. Like they've already moved on to the next girl, the next name on the clipboard, the next product in their assembly line.
Like I'm not a person, just a result. A calculation they've already made.
And I still don't know the answer.
They never tell me if I passed. That's not how the House works. You're either brought back inside... or you're not.
The gates appear ahead, tall and black, cutting the sun like bars across the road. As we slow to a stop, the man beside me reaches over and undoes the clasp at the back of my neck.
The necklace slips off like it was never mine.
No words. No explanation. Just a smooth, practiced motion, like he's done this a hundred times before. The pendant leaves behind a cold ring of metal on my collarbone, a phantom touch that seems to settle deeper than skin. I swallow hard, but it doesn't leave.
It never does.
Inside, Miss Renna is already waiting.
She stands at the base of the stairs, clipboard in hand, posture sharp enough to draw blood. Her hair is perfect, not a strand out of place. Her lips are painted the same shade of nothing. She doesn't look at me when I enter. Doesn't offer a nod or a single word.
She just flicks her pen, jots down something on the clipboard-one line. Maybe two. Nothing more.
Then she leans forward, just slightly. Enough that her perfume reaches me.
It's the kind of scent that smells expensive and cold. Surgical. Designed to overpower everything else. It burns the back of my throat, and I try not to cough.
"Real people," she murmurs, her voice low and metallic, "don't give you second chances."
Then she straightens, turns on her heel, and walks away. Her heels click against the marble like a metronome, sharp and final. A countdown to something I haven't been told.
I stand there for a moment too long.
The front door closes behind me. I hear it-quiet, almost gentle. But it slams inside my chest.
Second chances.
The words echo in my skull, bouncing from wall to wall like something alive, something with claws.
What if that was my only one?
What if I already used it?
The room hasn't changed.
Room 3 never changes.
That's how you know you're being watched-how you know the space is curated, sterilized, monitored to the decimal. Nothing here breathes. Nothing forgets. And nothing forgives.
The overhead light still buzzes, a soft, high-pitched whine like a mosquito that never lands.
The sound scrapes the edge of sanity, just enough to keep your thoughts unsteady.
The metal table is still positioned with surgical precision at the center of the room, and the chair is still pulled out just slightly-waiting. Not for comfort. For submission.
But today, there's something new.
A single white envelope, centered on the tabletop. Perfectly aligned.
It's the only thing in the room that doesn't belong. And that's what makes it worse. One break in the pattern draws all the weight of the moment toward it, like a crack in a sheet of glass-sharp, impossible to ignore.
They walk me in alone.
No orders this time. No clipped commands. No cold fingers pressing into my spine. Just a single hand on my shoulder, steady and impersonal, guiding me forward like I'm already sentenced.
I sit.
Obedient. Still.
The door shuts behind me with a sound that barely registers, soft as a sigh. But I feel it close through my entire body.
The envelope stares at me.
I stare back.
I don't move. Not right away. That's part of it. I know that. Everything in Room 3 is measured-down to the way you reach, the second you hesitate, the muscles you flinch.
Do I want it too much?
Do I look afraid?
Everything is a test. A clue. A failure waiting to be recorded.
So I do nothing. I fold my hands in my lap, place my feet flat on the floor, and stare through the envelope like I can outwait it.
Time doesn't work in Room 3. It doesn't pass-it drips. It oozes down the walls like rot behind sterile paint. Each second stretches thin, until my skin starts to hum with the sensation of being watched. Not just seen-watched. Studied.
I hear it then. A small mechanical whir above me.
A lens shifting.
Still watching.
The envelope is thick. Bright white. Matte like bone. Unmarked. Unlabeled. Like it appeared here without a sender, without intent.
But it has intent.
Everything here does.
Eventually, the door hisses again.
Miss Renna enters, and it feels like the air parts to let her through. She carries her clipboard like scripture. The same gloves cover her hands-black, clean, clinical. Her face is set in that practiced expressionless stillness, as though her emotions have been cauterized.
She doesn't look at me.
Not yet.
She writes something first. Her pen scratches the page in sharp, efficient strokes. No wasted movement. No wasted ink.
Then-finally-her eyes lift.
Steel-gray. Unfeeling. Engineered.
"Open it."
Just two words. Crisp. Measured. There's no emotion in them, because emotion would imply care. And care is not what happens here. This is observation. This is calculation.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the envelope.
Not too fast. Not too slow. They taught us the pace that doesn't trigger suspicion.
Inside: a single page. Thick stock. Same sterile typeface they use for every command, every infraction, every verdict etched into plastic signs along the corridors.
Subject 12A - Lily
Result: Tolerable
Subject displays baseline control under monitored conditions.
Trust remains pending.
That's all.
No scale. No qualifiers. No warmth.
Just a single word.
Tolerable.
I read it again.
Then once more.
I shouldn't feel anything. I've been trained for this-for outcomes, for judgments. It's not a failure. I'm still standing. Still breathing. Still not under the red door. That should be enough.
But the word sticks in my throat like something unchewed.
Not good.
Not promising.
Not even acceptable.
Just... tolerable.
The kind of word used for lukewarm soup. For noise that isn't loud enough to complain about. For people who don't matter enough to hate.
I place the paper back into the envelope with careful fingers. Fold it. Align it. Return it to the exact center of the table.
"You may speak," Miss Renna says.
Her tone is void of expectation. Like she already knows I won't say anything worth noting.
But this, too, is a minefield. A wrong word can count against you. So I give her the safest answer in my arsenal.
"...Thank you."
It tastes like dust.
She nods once. Barely.
"Thursday," she says, glancing at her clipboard, "you delayed oral hygiene protocol by three minutes and twenty-six seconds."
My heart contracts. "I-I thought I completed it right after the meal rotation."
She looks at me with the faintest tilt of her head. Not anger. Not even disappointment.
Just the quiet interest of someone watching a slow leak in a sealed container.
"You thought," she repeats.
"We reviewed the footage."
Shame hits me like a fever-hot, rising-but I force it down. Even that would be noted.
"That deviation has been logged."
I nod. "Understood."
She clicks her pen again. The sound is loud in the stillness.
"Your tolerable rating reflects this inconsistency. Had it occurred again, the outcome might have been less... lenient."
I swallow. The word lenient cuts sharp, thin as a blade.
I know what happens when leniency ends.
I've heard the screams behind walls. The silence behind others. Seen the girls who never came back. Red smears on white tile.
"I won't delay again," I whisper.
Miss Renna watches me with the vague disinterest of someone noting the weather.
"You will try not to," she says.
There's no cruelty in her voice. Only truth.
And that's somehow worse.
The door hisses again. Another figure enters-another shadow. I don't know his name. I'm not supposed to. We're not meant to know who any of them are.
He wears the same black uniform. Seamless. Clean. His face unreadable. His presence sharp.
He says nothing.
Miss Renna doesn't acknowledge him. "Return her to her corridor."
I rise.
No hesitation. No delay. My body moves before my thoughts do, like I've been rewired. I keep my eyes low. My steps even. Behind me, the envelope stays on the table like a verdict etched into stone.
I don't look back.
I don't need to.
I already know what it says.
Tolerable.
The corridor feels colder.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe that's what Room 3 does-it peels something off of you and leaves you thinner. Lighter. Less.
The man behind me walks in silence. Just close enough that I feel his presence like static on my spine. Not touching. Never touching. But always near enough to remind me of the weight he could bring.
He says nothing.
None of them ever do.
But I hear him anyway.
The echo of his boots in my bones.
The power in his silence.
We move through a vacuum. No whispers. No conversations. Just the hum of vents overhead and the low pulse of electricity crawling through the walls like mechanical veins.
Everything feels filtered. Sanitized.
Even the air.
We pass a mirrored wall. I glance-just once-before I can stop myself.
My reflection looks back like a stranger wearing my face. Same pale skin. Same braid down my back-tight, red, obedient. They like it that way.
My eyes...
My eyes look wrong.
Too dark. Too old. Tired in a way that no amount of sleep can undo.
Above the mirror, a number glows in soft red:
12A
Branded into the glass like a reminder.
They say names are dangerous. Names create bonds. And bonds are unpredictable.
But I remember.
I always remember.
I'm Lily.
Even if they never say it. Even if they try to scrape it out of me like rust-
I'm still Lily.
And I won't forget.
We reach the corridor's end. It splits in two. One path lit. The other dark.
The man presses a code into the wall, and the left door hisses open.
My room waits on the other side.
Eight feet by ten. White. Bare. Intentional.
A cot. A sink. A tray on the metal shelf. Six pills lined up like soldiers. A glass of water, measured to the halfway point.
I step inside.
He doesn't follow.
The door seals behind me like a tomb.
Click.
Gone.
°°°°°
I sit on the edge of the cot and stare at the tray like it might offer answers.
Six pills.
Lined in a perfect row, white and beige and blush pink-familiar in the way that nightmares are. I know them by heart, even though I was never told their names. You learn quickly in the House. You memorize what matters. What keeps you in one piece.
Two for nutrition, they say. One for balance. One for behavior. One for mood. And the last-
Unknown.
The sixth pill changes. Always has. The color shifts.
The taste mutates. No one ever tells us what it's for, and I learned not to ask.
Sometimes it dulls the edges of the world until everything fades to grey, and sometimes it burns down your throat and sours in your stomach until the pain becomes the only thing real.
Sometimes it makes your dreams feel like drowning-slow, suffocating, and full of screams you don't remember making.
And sometimes... sometimes it makes you forget.
Not just your name. But what day it is. What room you're in. What was done to you.
I take them anyway.
One by one.
Like I'm supposed to.
The water they give me tastes faintly of plastic. Sterile. Manufactured. Like the inside of a hospital and something else-something bitter and clean and obedient. Something that doesn't belong in your body but settles anyway.
I don't flinch when I swallow. I don't hesitate.
It's instinct now.
I lie back without a sound. The cot is thin and hard, more slab than bed, and it doesn't creak when I shift. It's not allowed to. The Patron doesn't like noise. He says silence is a gift-one we should earn.
The ceiling above me is an endless white sheet, smooth and empty, humming faintly with electricity. A low, constant tone that burrows under your skin until it becomes a part of you. It's the sound I imagine lives inside my head when everything else has gone still.
Somewhere overhead, a voice breaks through the quiet. A synthetic chime, emotionless and practiced.
"Rotation complete. Lights will dim in ninety seconds."
I don't move.
Not to pull the blanket over me. Not to curl closer to the cot's edge.
I just lie there.
My body aches-not from running, not from working, but from holding everything in. Holding still. Holding small. Holding quiet. It's an ache you don't recover from. Not when it's been trained into your bones.
I try not to think about the envelope.
About that word burned into the paper like a final judgment.
Tolerable.
Not exceptional. Not failing.
Just enough.
It echoes through me like a second heartbeat. A wrong one. Slower. Colder.
Tolerable means I survive another day. It means I wasn't discarded. It means I didn't cry when I left his room. I didn't scream when the lights flickered too loudly in Room Three. I didn't flinch when the guards shoved me back into line.
It means I was forgettable. Manageable. Quiet.
Barely enough to stay.
I curl onto my side, tucking my knees to my chest. The blanket stays bunched at my ankles. I don't deserve the warmth. I don't reach for comfort I haven't earned.
The Patron always said I was his favorite. His darling girl. But that never meant safety. Being the favorite in the House never meant you were spared.
It meant you were wanted.
Used.
I stayed in his bed for hours at a time. Sometimes days. They called it training, but it was never about learning anything. It was about submission. Obedience. Breaking.
His room was always colder than the rest. He liked it that way, I think. Said it made the girls stay still longer, shiver prettier. He never called himself by name. The head of the House. The man who didn't have to raise his voice to make your skin crawl.
He had a way of looking at you like you were a meal he wasn't finished eating. Like you were his, and that was supposed to make you feel chosen. I learned early that being chosen meant you were used the most.
When the guards were bored, they found girls like me. When the men who came through the underground halls between rooms had time to spare, they'd knock, and we were expected to smile. We were told our value was in how still we could stay. How pretty we could cry without sound.
Sometimes I wonder if there were ever any girls they didn't touch.
Sometimes I wonder what it would've meant to be unwanted.
I close my eyes.
The word pulses behind them like bruises blooming slow.
Tolerable.
I think of the girls who didn't make it past that word.
The ones who were too quiet. Too loud. Too slow to swallow the pills. Too fast to bleed. The ones who cried in the wrong room or flinched when the Patron touched their cheek.
They disappeared. Not loudly. Not violently. Just... gone.
Their rooms were cleaned too fast. Their trays reassigned. Their names never spoken again.
I tell myself I should be grateful.
Grateful I came back. Grateful I passed. Grateful I didn't get the other kind of envelope.
But my skin feels too thin. Like everything inside me is pressing outward, desperate to escape. Like even my breath might break through if I don't hold it tight enough.
The lights dim. The synthetic voice fades. And the dark folds in around me like it always does-quiet, cold, and hungry.
I press a hand to my chest. Not to soothe. Just to remember I'm still here.
"I'm still Lily," I whisper.
Because I have to.
Because if I stop saying it, even in the silence, I might forget.
But even as I say it, my voice trembling and small, I feel the truth twisting inside me like splinters beneath skin.
How many more tests will it take?
How many more pills?
How many more nights beneath the Patron's stare before even Lily disappears?
Before all that's left is what they made me into?