The restraints bit into her wrists, but not enough to bruise. Not yet.
Dr. Davis had insisted on that.
The guards had left after locking her into the chair bolted to the floor, the kind used for medical compliance rather than punishment. The plexiglass walls kept everything clinical, as if this wasn't a prison but a consultation room.
Only the restraints gave it away.
And the way Dr. Orhan stood to the side with her clipboard tilted just so, watching pulse readings without looking at the girl strapped to the chair.
"Where are the others?" Sera asked.
Dr. Orhan didn't answer.
Neither did Dr. Davis.
He stood opposite her, close enough that she could see the faint streaks of gray in his hair, close enough that his cologne reached her over the disinfectant sting in the air. Close enough that—for one sharp second—he looked exactly like the man who used to pack her lunches when she was eight years old.
Then he spoke.
