The world outside Pygmalion Labs appears to be nothing like a place that cures anything.
It sits at the edge of the industrial district, a seamless structure of white composite panels without windows, rising out of cracked pavement like a monument to sterility. No sign, no name, just a logo embossed in steel above the double doors. A human silhouette split neatly down the middle.
I stand beneath it and wonder if I've already made a mistake.
The air smells of ozone and rain-soaked metal. I can still taste coffee and the cheap anxiety pill I took an hour ago. My reflection stares back at me in the polished glass: red-rimmed eyes, hair pulled tight, lips cracked. A woman trying to look like she doesn't feel anything. Maybe that's the first step toward recovery, pretending you're already healed.
A voice clicks through the speaker near the door.
"State your name for entry."
"Iris Monroe."
"Authorization confirmed."
The lock releases with a sound like an exhale. The door opens by itself. I step into light so white it erases the world I came from. The temperature drops by several degrees; the smell of antiseptic hits next. My pulse stutters. Somewhere beneath the hum of ventilation, I hear the faint rhythm of machines breathing.
A woman in a grey uniform greets me at a frosted reception desk. She doesn't look up from her screen when she says, "Please fill out the forms. Sign on every yellow tab."
The papers are thick, bound at the top. They detail rights, waivers, disclaimers, and how Pygmalion Labs is not liable for neural scarring, emotional displacement, or spontaneous memory degradation.
It reads like poetry written by lawyers who have never loved anyone.
I sign anyway. The pen scratches, my name identical each time, smaller with every signature. When I hand the clipboard back, the woman stamps the top page with a heavy blue seal: Approved.
"Follow the line on the floor to Pre-Op Two," she says. "Dr. Cross will join you shortly."
A pale stripe of ash-colored paint runs down the center of the hallway. I follow it past glass walls that reveal nothing, mirrors on both sides. The silence is constant, the kind that amplifies your heartbeat until it sounds like a guilty conscience. I count three cameras before I stop looking.
The door to Pre-Op Two slides open before I can touch it. Inside waits a single reclining chair surrounded by polished equipment, wires like veins spilling from their housings. A tray of instruments gleams under soft light. There's a bowl filled with black hair ties and a clipboard labeled Cognitive Calibration: Subject 019.
A man enters from a side door. His scrubs are slate, his hands clean but scarred from years of needles and tape.
"I'm Jonah," he says, voice quiet enough to match the room. "I'll be with you through the procedure."
He confirms my name, date of birth, and the last time I ate. He warms his hands under running water, dries them, and begins measuring my head with a soft tape. He marks points across my scalp in grease pencil, tiny circles connected by faint lines. The marks look ritualistic. He fits a mesh cap over them and tightens it until I feel held.
"What does the procedure do?" I ask, though I already read the description a hundred times.
"It finds where you hide your emotions," he says simply. "Then it quiets them."
He smiles to soften it, but his eyes flick to the mirrored glass on the far wall. I realize someone's already watching.
Jonah hands me a tablet and asks me to repeat simple nouns and colors, then to rate sensations as he presses a vibrotactile wand against my arm. I tell him when it feels sharp, when it fades. He hums a small tune while taking note of the responses.
He asks me to think of the last time I felt safe. The question lands heavier than it should.
A voice answers from behind the glass.
"That's enough calibration," the voice says. Deep. Controlled. English polished smooth by discipline.
The door in the wall opens, and the man from the voice steps through.
Dr. Cassian Cross doesn't look like the pictures from the research journals. In person, he's sharper edges drawn too fine for warmth. His hair is dark, his expression patient to the point of unsettling. The kind of patience that hides something volatile underneath.
"Ms. Monroe," he says, offering no hand to shake. "Welcome to Pygmalion Labs."
He circles the chair once, studying me as if the air around me might speak first. "You understand that this is an experimental procedure. You may end participation at any time."
"I read the papers," I say.
"Reading and understanding are separate acts," he replies. "But we'll assume the best."
His mouth twitches at his own comment, but not into a smile. He retrieves my file from Jonah and glances through the lines of data. "You've experienced recurrent trauma linked to emotional dependency," he says. "We can help you neutralize the triggers."
"Neutralize," I repeat. "You mean forget."
"No," he says softly. "We don't erase. We remove the charge. The memory remains, but it no longer controls you."
He gestures toward the cap on my head. "That device is the Echo Array. It links your limbic feedback to a parallel signal—your emotional echo. It allows the system to isolate attachments and quiet them."
"Quiet," I say, "like putting a pillow over their face."
For the first time, his eyes meet mine directly. "Exactly."
I should be afraid, but the precision in his tone fascinates me. He believes what he says, every syllable polished into conviction.
"What happens if I decide I want to stop?" I ask.
"We open the door," he answers. "But I've never had anyone walk out before the cure completes."
"Maybe they couldn't."
"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe they no longer wanted to."
He returns the file to Jonah. "Begin sedation protocol," he orders, then turns back to me. "You will hear a tone. It will sync to your heartbeat. Do not resist it. If you feel fear, name it aloud. The brain cannot analyze and panic at the same time."
The instruction sounds like scripture disguised as science.
He moves toward the door, pausing in the threshold. "Remember, Ms. Monroe," he says, "we're not here to forget love. We're here to neutralize it."
When he leaves, the pressure in the room drops as though he's taken the oxygen with him. Through the mirrored glass, I can still see his silhouette, arms folded, head slightly inclined. Watching.
Jonah adjusts the recline of my chair. The motor hums low. He fixes a small IV line into my arm, his touch practiced and indifferent. "You'll feel warm first," he says. "Then heavy. That's normal."
He checks the cap, straightens the leads, and speaks softly into his headset. A female voice confirms readiness from somewhere behind the glass.
I look up at the ceiling lights. They dim in a slow arc until the room rests in twilight. My reflection on the glass fades until only his outline remains.
Jonah presses the injector valve.
Heat blossoms in my arm. My heart slows to match the steady pulse of the monitors. I breathe once, twice, three times. The air feels like water, thick enough to drown in.
Through the haze, I glimpse Cassian's pale reflection again. He isn't moving, yet I feel the weight of his attention pressing through the glass.
As darkness begins to fold over me, I think of the last time someone looked at me that way, curious, unblinking, certain they could fix what was broken if they could only take it apart.
Maybe that's all love ever is. A kind of surgery.
The ceiling slides away. The pulse in my ear grows louder. I count down without meaning to. Ten. Nine. Eight.
By six, the light is gone. By four, I can't feel my own breath. By two, I am floating in something that hums.
And in the last moment before nothing, I hear it. His voice, low and patient, came through the static.
"Breathe, Iris."