CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They left the classroom with the rest of the flow, Riley keeping low at first before rising once they were out in the hallway. The shift back to standing happened without comment. No one stopped her, and no one corrected it.

The corridor felt louder now, less contained. Students moved in clusters, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing across the floor in uneven rhythms. Amanda walked ahead, already talking again, slipping easily back into the next part of her day, while Riley followed just behind, her attention drifting more than it had before.

Something caught her eye down the hall near the staff offices.

A Service Stock moved quickly but not hurried, carrying a stack of folded equipment against his chest. He adjusted his grip as he walked, careful not to drop anything while navigating around people who barely made space for him. A teacher passed without looking, speaking mid-step.

“Gym storage. Quickly.”

He nodded without replying and kept moving, shifting the weight in his arms as if the instruction had already settled into place.

Riley watched him a second longer than she meant to, her gaze following the small adjustments in his movement, the way he kept himself out of everyone else’s way without needing to be told.

The memory came without warning.

A corridor just like this one. The same lighting, the same noise pressing in from all sides. She had been leaning against a locker, laughing, reaching out without thinking. Her hand closing around him, the reaction immediate—startled, stiff, the colour rising in his face before he could stop it.

She’d laughed.

Walked away.

Not cruelly, not kindly either. Just because she could.

Riley blinked, and the memory slipped back out as easily as it had come. There wasn’t any weight left behind it, nothing that asked to be unpacked.

She didn’t feel sorry.

That wasn’t it.

She just understood it now.

Amanda didn’t notice any of it.

“Come on,” she said, pushing open the double doors toward the gym. “You’ll like this one.”

The space opened up immediately, wide and echoing, the polished floor reflecting the overhead lights in long, pale stretches. A few students were already inside, bags dropped along the wall as they headed toward the changing rooms, their voices carrying differently in the open space.

The teacher stood near the equipment racks, already pulling things down and setting them aside.

He glanced up as they entered.

“Riley,” he said.

There was no pause behind it, no shift in tone or expression. He acknowledged her the same way he would have before, as if nothing about her had changed.

It landed differently.

Amanda peeled off toward the changing rooms without slowing down, leaving Riley standing there for a moment longer before the teacher gestured lightly toward the equipment.

“Give me a hand setting up, would you?”

It wasn’t phrased like an order, but it wasn’t softened either. Just a request, placed where it belonged.

Riley hesitated for a fraction of a second.

She didn’t have to help. That much was clear. She wasn’t Service Stock, wasn’t assigned, wasn’t expected to do anything unless she chose to.

She could have stood there. Watched. Waited.

Instead, she moved.

The equipment was familiar—cones, mats, a stack of lightweight hurdles. She carried what he pointed to, placing each piece where he indicated, adjusting slightly when he corrected the spacing.

“Little further,” he said. “That’s it.”

His voice stayed even, his movements precise. He didn’t touch her, didn’t guide her physically, didn’t take hold of her arm or shift her into place the way others would have without thinking.

Riley stepped back once she’d set the last piece down, looking at what she’d done, waiting for the next instruction.

“Good,” he said.

Simple. Direct.

He moved past her to adjust something she’d placed slightly off, his arm passing near hers without actually making contact.

Riley stilled.

It felt wrong.

Not the task. Not the space.

Him.

He was treating her like nothing had changed, like she was still a student standing in front of him instead of something else entirely. The thought sat unevenly, refusing to settle into place no matter how she turned it over.

There was no assumption in the way he looked at her. No casual touch, no quiet redefinition of her place in the room.

Just Riley.

Her chest tightened slightly as she watched him move, the absence of everything else more noticeable than anything that had happened earlier that day.

It didn’t fit.

She stepped closer without thinking, closing the space between them until he noticed, his attention shifting back toward her.

“Something else?” he asked.

Riley didn’t answer.

Instead, she reached out and took his hand. The movement was quick, uncertain only for a moment before it settled, and then she pressed it flat against her chest as if correcting something that had gone wrong.

The contact lasted barely a second.

He reacted immediately, not sharply, not roughly, just removing his hand and stepping back, re-establishing the space between them as if it had never been broken.

“Riley,” he said, his tone unchanged. “Don’t.”

That was all.

No anger. No embarrassment. No escalation.

Just refusal.

“You don’t need to be an Animal right now,” he said.

The words landed without weight, spoken in the same tone he’d used for everything else, steady and unremarkable. There was no emphasis behind them, no attempt to soften or reinforce—just a statement, placed where it needed to be before moving on.

Riley blinked, her body going still in a way she didn’t quite intend. For a moment she didn’t move at all, her thoughts catching on the phrasing, turning it over without really knowing what she was looking for.

It didn’t sit right.

Not because it was harsh, or dismissive, or even wrong. It was the opposite. Too easy. Too clean. Like something had been lifted away from her without asking, as if that part of her could simply be set aside depending on where she was standing.

Her chest tightened faintly, something small and sharp flickering underneath the surface.

It felt like—

an insult.

The realization came quietly, and that only made it stranger. She didn’t feel angry. Didn’t feel defensive. Just… unsettled by the fact that it bothered her at all.

Why?

She didn’t follow the thought.

Instead, she gave a slight shake of her head, as if the motion itself could clear it, and turned back toward the equipment. There was still work to finish, still things to carry and adjust, and that was easier to focus on than whatever had just shifted inside her.

They finished quickly.

The remaining setup was simple, and with the last few pieces placed where they needed to be, the space began to feel ready again. The distant noise from the changing rooms grew louder as students started to return, voices overlapping, energy rising in that familiar, restless way before a lesson properly began.

The teacher stepped back, his attention already shifting toward the class as it reformed.

“Sit over there,” he said, gesturing toward the bleachers.

Riley paused briefly before moving, her hesitation small enough that it barely registered. She climbed onto the first row and lowered herself onto the bench, the surface firm beneath her, her legs hanging loosely as she adjusted into place. Her hands rested beside her, posture less controlled now, less deliberate than it had been in the classroom.

It felt easier.

Less precise.

More… familiar.

The teacher passed by her again, his attention only half on her now as he tracked the returning students.

“Can’t have you getting injured,” he added, almost offhand. “The Processing Centre would sue us.”

Riley let out a quiet breath through her nose, something close to a laugh but not quite reaching it. The words didn’t land heavily. They weren’t meant to. Just another practical consideration, another rule folded into the structure of everything else.

She didn’t question it.

Didn’t need to.

The gym filled in around her, the noise building as students spread out across the floor, the lesson beginning to take shape. Movement replaced stillness, voices layered over one another, and the space settled into its usual rhythm.

Riley stayed where she was, watching it all unfold, positioned just outside of it without being removed entirely.

The lesson started without her.

Riley sat on the bleachers and watched as teams were split, sticks handed out, the floor marked into motion. The energy in the room shifted quickly, voices rising, bodies moving with purpose as the game took shape.

It didn’t include her.

Not even slightly.

At first she just observed, her attention drifting from one player to another, following the movement of the ball, the sharp turns, the bursts of speed. It was familiar enough that she didn’t need to think about it. She knew the rules. Knew the rhythm.

Her body remembered it.

That was the problem.

A slow, unfamiliar feeling settled in her chest.

Not discomfort.

Not frustration.

Just… nothing.

A flatness she hadn’t felt since the watch turned red, since everything had started happening around her instead of slowing down long enough to notice.

Boredom.

It came quietly, but once it settled, it stayed.

Riley shifted slightly on the bench, leaning forward a fraction as Amanda came into view, moving across the floor with quick, practiced steps, stick low, body angled as she intercepted a pass. Someone shouted her name. She laughed, breathless, pushing forward again.

Riley’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the bleacher.

She wanted—

Not the attention.

Not the touching.

That.

Movement.

Participation.

The simple act of being in it instead of beside it.

Her body leaned forward again without permission, like it might carry her down onto the floor if she let it.

But she didn’t move.

She knew she wasn’t allowed.

That part didn’t need to be said out loud.

The teacher hadn’t told her she couldn’t join.

He didn’t need to.

She stayed where she was.

Still.

Watching.

The game continued without interruption, the noise rising and falling in waves, the structure holding firm around her absence.

After a while, she stopped following it properly.

The movement blurred.

The sound flattened.

It wasn’t for her.

That was enough.

Riley pushed herself up from the bleachers without drawing attention, the motion quiet, deliberate. She adjusted the strap of her pouch automatically, then started toward the door, keeping to the edge of the space so she wouldn’t cut through anything important.

No one stopped her.

Amanda noticed at the last second.

She turned, catching Riley mid-step, her expression shifting as recognition clicked into place.

Riley lifted a hand in a small wave.

Casual.

Unbothered.

Amanda’s mouth tightened just slightly, something like disappointment flickering there before the game pulled her attention back again.

Then Riley was through the door.

The hallway felt quieter after the gym.

Not empty, but muted in comparison, the echoes softer, the movement less urgent. She walked without rushing, her pace steady, her mind slower now that there wasn’t anything immediate pressing in on it.

The boredom faded.

Something else took its place.

A faint, lingering irritation.

It didn’t come from the game.

Or from being left out.

It circled back.

To him.

“You don’t need to be an Animal right now.”

The words replayed, unchanged.

Riley exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting ahead without really focusing.

He’d meant it kindly.

She knew that.

That didn’t make it sit any better.

Her thoughts slipped further back, unprompted, landing on something older.

The first day.

Her mother’s arms around her, tight, grounding, the quiet reassurance murmured into her hair while she cried, the world still sharp and unfamiliar, still too loud to make sense of.

That had been kindness too.

Gentle.

Careful.

Human.

Riley’s jaw tightened slightly as she walked.

He thought he was being nice.

Just like that.

But it didn’t feel like kindness now.

It felt like something else.

Like being pulled back into something she’d already stepped out of.

Like being asked to pretend, even for a moment, that nothing had changed.

Her fingers curled briefly at her side before relaxing again.

It wasn’t comforting.

It was—

just as cruel.

The hallway didn’t hold her for long.

That irritation lingered under her skin, dull but persistent, something she couldn’t quite shake no matter how steady her pace stayed. The memory of the gym sat wrong in her chest, not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to keep catching her attention.

“You don’t need to be an Animal right now.”

The words didn’t fade.

They pressed.

Riley exhaled slowly as she walked, her gaze drifting without settling. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something quieter than that.

It didn’t feel like her.

That version of her—the one he’d spoken to, the one he’d treated like nothing had changed—felt distant now, like something she’d already stepped out of and couldn’t quite step back into again without forcing it.

She didn’t want to.

That was the part that sat clearest.

She didn’t want to feel Human.

Not like that.

Not in that way that expected her to stand straight, to be spoken to normally, to exist in a space where none of the rules she’d spent the last three days learning seemed to apply.

It didn’t fit.

Her steps slowed slightly as she passed the turn toward the cafeteria.

The doors were propped open.

Noise spilled out—different from the classroom, different from the gym. Sharper. Busier. Structured in a way that didn’t leave much room for drifting attention.

She paused.

Then turned.

The cafeteria kitchen wasn’t meant for wandering.

That was obvious the second she stepped inside.

The space was divided cleanly without anything needing to mark it—clothed staff moving quickly between stations, voices clipped and efficient, hands busy with trays, utensils, containers. And among them, the Animals.

Naked.

Occupied.

They moved differently.

Lower. Quieter. Focused on smaller tasks—washing dishes, wiping surfaces, carrying items from one place to another without getting in the way. No one watched them closely, but everything they did fit into the rhythm of the room.

Riley stepped further in.

She didn’t belong there.

That much was immediate.

A woman near the counter noticed first, her eyes narrowing slightly as she straightened.

“Hey,” she called, not loudly, but enough. “You assigned here?”

Riley didn’t answer.

Another voice joined in, sharper.

“Oi—don’t just wander in. What are you doing?”

The attention shifted toward her quickly, not curious, not welcoming. Just… assessing.

Riley stood there for a moment.

Then moved.

Not toward the exit.

Further in.

She crossed into the space without waiting for permission, stepping between two stations where someone had just cleared a surface. Her hand came down against the counter, dragging lightly across it, smearing a faint line through something that had already been cleaned.

It wasn’t a big action.

It didn’t need to be.

It was wrong.

Immediate.

Visible.

“What are you doing?” the first woman snapped, already moving toward her now.

Riley didn’t step back.

Didn’t explain.

She just stood there, her hand still resting where it shouldn’t be, her posture loose in a way that didn’t match the rest of the room.

The correction came fast.

A firm hand caught her arm, pulling her back from the counter, not rough enough to hurt but with no hesitation behind it.

“Don’t touch that,” the woman said, irritation clear now. “You don’t just—”

The sentence cut off as Riley didn’t respond, didn’t apologise, didn’t adjust.

For a second, the woman just looked at her.

Then—

The smack landed.

Sharp.

Flat.

Right across her butt.

Not hard enough to injure.

Hard enough to sting.

Hard enough to correct.

“Out,” she said immediately after, already turning Riley by the arm and guiding—no, moving—her toward the door. “If you’re going to behave like that, you don’t do it in here.”

Riley let herself be moved.

Didn’t resist.

Didn’t speak.

The second smack came as they reached the threshold, quick and final, reinforcing the first without escalation.

Then she was pushed out into the hallway.

The door swung back into place behind her with a dull sound.

Riley stood there.

Still.

The sting settled across her skin in slow, spreading heat, sharp at first, then dulling into something more constant. It wasn’t overwhelming. It didn’t take over her thoughts.

It just… sat there.

Clear.

Defined.

Her place.

It didn’t feel sexual.

Didn’t feel charged.

Just correct.

A reminder that landed where it was meant to and stayed.

Riley exhaled slowly, her shoulders loosening as the tension she hadn’t fully named eased out of her.

That felt—

right.

She shifted slightly, the sensation pulling faintly as she moved, grounding rather than distracting. For the first time since leaving the gym, the irritation was gone.

Replaced.

Settled.

Riley adjusted the strap of her pouch again out of habit, then started down the hallway without looking back.

If anyone noticed her, they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

She walked a little lighter than before.

And if the faint red marks across her skin lingered beneath the open air, she didn’t try to hide them.

She didn’t need to.

She was smiling.

(End of day 3)