THE VEIL CORPORATION,
9:00PM, DUSK SETTING DOWN...
INSIDE THE SPECIAL ROOM.
It was happening and every moment of it felt so insufferable, l always wondered why higher ups like these, the big men in this horrible world would want to take in a person like me.
The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights above was deafening, though no warmth reached the room. The walls were a clinical gray, cold and unyielding, and the metallic bed beneath me clinked softly whenever I shifted. I could feel the chill seeping through the thin hospital gown draped over my shoulders, but it was nothing compared to the frost crawling through my chest. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and oil, a peculiar mixture that made my stomach turn. I realized, with a creeping dread, that this wasn't a hospital. It wasn't even close.
Across from me, Lucien stood—tall, commanding, and utterly unreadable. His eyes, normally sharp with calculated charm, glimmered faintly with a shadow I hadn't seen before. Around him were three other men, faceless in their cold efficiency, adjusting instruments and straps on a metal frame that I couldn't fully comprehend. Some of the equipment clicked and whirred, others hissed quietly like they were breathing. My heart hammered in my chest. I tried to move, to get up, but the restraints around my wrists and ankles held me firmly.
I swallowed, feeling the dry scratch of panic crawling up my throat. "W-what… what are you doing?" My voice sounded weak even to me.
Lucien didn't answer immediately. Instead, he bent slightly, as if examining something only he could see. His fingers brushed a control panel lightly, almost affectionately, and the others moved in silent unison, the kind of synchronized motion that made it clear they had done this before.
My mind began to reel back through the years, as if in desperate search of some fragment of comfort—some memory that could make sense of what I was seeing.
I remembered the first time I had met Lucien. I was seventeen, sleeping on a side road after fleeing the place I had called home. The world had felt vast, empty, and cold, and I had nothing but the ragged clothes on my back and the sharp edge of hunger pressing against me. I had curled up under a broken awning, letting the rain soak through my hair and onto my shoulders, believing that no one would ever find me, and secretly hoping no one would.
And then he appeared.
Lucien had seemed… impossible, in the way some people appear in dreams. He wasn't afraid of the streets or the grime. He didn't ask for explanations, didn't probe for details I didn't want to give. He simply extended a hand, steady and assured, and said I would come with him. For weeks afterward, I had stayed in his mansion, a sprawling labyrinth of polished floors, high ceilings, and antique chandeliers that reflected light like a galaxy trapped indoors. I didn't understand the grandeur, but I had felt safe. For the first time, the weight pressing down on me lifted.
A few weeks later, he had proposed something different. He asked if I would join him in the work he did, though he didn't call it "work" in any way that sounded official. I had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and the thought of a purpose, even a vague one, had seemed like a lifeline. That was when I met the director. I remembered his office vividly: floor-to-ceiling windows that cast long reflections of the city, a polished desk so wide it could have been a platform, and a chair that seemed to swallow anyone who dared sit in it. I signed documents I didn't read, papers filled with language I didn't understand. At the time, it hadn't mattered. It had felt official, important, and just enough to make me feel like I belonged.
Then came the adventures. Lucien had introduced me to Liam, a whirlwind of humor and chaos, who somehow made even the most mundane tasks feel alive. Liam had been the first person to truly make me laugh inside the mansion, to see past my quiet caution and respond with warmth. I remembered the way he had tripped over his own words the first time we met, the grin that spread across his face when I had made a snarky remark, and how naturally we had clicked. I had thought those moments—those little sparks of joy—were what the Quinns' or Veil's world allowed sometimes: brief, rare, and fleeting.
But now, lying on this metal bed, I realized none of it had been what I thought it was.
Lucien's eyes snapped back to me. "Evie," he said softly, almost kindly, though the word carried a weight that made my chest tighten. "We need you to understand the importance of this procedure."
I shook my head slowly, refusing to meet his gaze. "I… I don't understand. What are you going to do to me?" My voice quivered, but my defiance was there.
He stepped closer, and I noticed the subtle efficiency in his movements, the almost surgical calm of his gestures. "This isn't personal," he said, his tone chillingly calm. "It's business. Whenever an agent strays—emotionally, personally, unpredictably—we cannot risk their instability. We cannot allow anyone to compromise the mission. You have… developed attachments that threaten the outcome."
The words landed like ice water. My stomach dropped. "You… you're going to… turn me into… one of them?" My voice cracked, and the metallic scent of the room seemed to grow stronger, suffocating.
He didn't answer with words. He simply nodded, a faintly sad tilt of his head. "It's for your survival, and the survival of everything we've built. Once complete, there will be no hesitation, no doubt, no distraction. You will be… perfect."
I felt my chest tighten. Perfect. Emotionless. A cog in a machine. And I had thought the years I had spent here, the trust I had built, the laughter with Liam, the guidance from Lucien… meant something. Now, it seemed, all of it was merely preparation for control.
I let my gaze drift to the corners of the room, noticing the cold gleam of instruments I had not seen before: metal clamps, wires coiling like serpents, devices that whispered of precision and cold intent. Every small sound—the click of a lever, the soft whirring of machinery—was a reminder that I was utterly at their mercy.
But then my thoughts returned to Liam, and my chest ached with sudden, sharp longing. I had spent years learning the rhythm of this world, understanding its boundaries, its dangers, and its rules. And somewhere in the cracks of it, I had found a fragment of warmth, a laugh, a smile, and someone who made me feel seen. To lose that—forever—felt unbearable.
Lucien's hand brushed over a control panel. "Evie," he said again, softer this time. "You don't understand the necessity. This is for everyone's protection. We cannot allow attachments to compromise efficiency. You've… grown close to someone who is integral to the operation. That… jeopardizes everything."
I closed my eyes, the tears I had been holding back finally slipping. "I… I can't lose him," I whispered, voice shaking. "I can't…"
He paused, studying me as if measuring not just my words, but the flicker of rebellion in my spirit. "Feelings are the root of error. But they can also be… instructive. You have served well. You have learned quickly. But emotional deviation—love—cannot be allowed. Not in this world. Not here."
A sharp noise from one of the other men pulled my gaze forward. Instruments moved closer, light reflecting off polished metal in the dim room. My chest heaved. Every instinct screamed to flee, but the restraints held firm. Panic surged, but beneath it, a seed of determination formed. They could control my body, but not my memories. They could try to erase my heart, but they could not erase what I had experienced.