This is a longer chapter that I'm splitting into two parts. Expect the rest today most likely.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Riley steps into the office and the door closes behind her with a soft, final click that feels heavier than it should, the kind of sound that settles into the room rather than disappearing. The space itself is clean and controlled, a desk set slightly off-center with a tablet resting on it, the screen dim but active, and a faint smell of disinfectant layered over something older that lingers in the air. The woman inside doesn’t look up immediately, her attention fixed on the tablet as she finishes whatever she’s doing, tapping once, twice, before setting it aside like Riley’s presence has finally reached the threshold of being worth acknowledging.

“So,” she says, her voice rough, worn thin by long habit rather than age, “you’re the City Animal looking to live as someone’s pet?”

Riley shifts slightly under the weight of it, unsure if she’s meant to respond.

The woman’s eyes move over her then, not slowly, not quickly, just thoroughly, taking in posture, stance, the way Riley holds herself when she knows she’s being looked at. It isn’t curious. It isn’t impressed. It’s measured.

“Hands behind your back, Meatgirl. Stand properly.”

Riley obeys, bringing her hands behind her and locking them together, straightening her posture as instructed, shoulders pulling back as she settles into position. There’s a flicker of hesitation before the movement completes, small enough that she almost doesn’t notice it herself, but the woman’s gaze sharpens slightly, catching it without comment.

“Better,” she mutters, stepping closer now, circling once, not touching yet, just observing the way Riley holds the position, the tension in her shoulders, the way her balance shifts and then corrects. “Not frozen. Not collapsing either.”

She stops in front of her.

Her fingers pinch Riley’s small, pebbled nipples until she gasps in pain.

The reaction comes out of Riley before she can stop it, sharp and immediate, her body responding faster than her thoughts can catch up. She stiffens slightly, heat rising into her face, the instinct to move or cover herself flickering through her, but her hands remain locked behind her back where she was told to keep them.

The woman hums softly, not approving, not dismissive, just noting.

“Clean response,” she says, almost to herself.

Her attention doesn’t drift. If anything, it narrows, the first reaction clearly not the end of whatever she’s looking for.

Then her hand slides between Riley’s legs, feeling the building wetness. When she pulls away she rubs her moist fingers together as if studying something scientific.

“Mm.”

She steps back then, just enough to change her angle, her expression settling into something more neutral, more clinical, as if she’s already processing what she’s seen rather than reacting to it.

Riley remains where she is, hands still locked behind her back, posture held, waiting.

The woman watches her for another second, eyes moving over her again, not lingering anywhere for long but missing nothing, before turning away and picking up the tablet once more.

“You’ll do for now,” she says, like it’s a minor decision rather than anything significant. “I’ll be claiming you for the rest of the morning. I prefer to see if something is worth my time before I decide whether to invest in it properly.”

Riley blinks slightly. “…Worth your time?”

The woman glances back at her, one eyebrow lifting just enough to acknowledge the question without fully engaging with it.

“If you’re going to be evaluated for Companion placement, you don’t get passed around blindly,” she says. “Some of us choose where we put our attention.”

She taps something into the tablet.

“This,” she adds, gesturing loosely between them without looking up, “is me deciding whether you’re worth testing later.”

The phrasing lands strangely.

Not a guarantee.

Not even an opportunity.

Just… a possibility.

“I’m Dr. Venn,” she continues, as if the introduction comes after the decision, not before it. “And for the next few hours, you’re mine.”

There’s no emphasis on the words. No attempt to make them sound like anything more than process.

“Stay where you are.”

Riley does.

Dr. Venn’s attention shifts back to the tablet, her posture relaxing slightly as if Riley has already been set aside, filed into whatever category she belongs in for now. The room settles into a quiet rhythm, the faint sound of the stylus moving across the screen the only indication that anything is happening at all.

Riley holds her position.

Waiting.

Dr. Venn doesn’t acknowledge the time Riley has spent standing there beyond a brief glance, her attention still anchored to the tablet as if the earlier interaction has already been processed and set aside. When she does speak, it’s without preamble, her tone slipping easily back into something procedural.

“You’re going to be useful while you’re here,” she says, scrolling once more before stopping. “There’s a file in Records. Lower floor, second corridor on the left.”

Riley straightens slightly, focusing.

“You’ll ask for a sealed envelope under my name,” Dr. Venn continues, finally looking up, her gaze steady and direct now. “You will not open it. You will not stop. You will bring it straight back to me.”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“I understand.”

Dr. Venn watches her for half a second longer, as if weighing something in the response, then gives a small, almost absent nod and looks back down at the tablet.

“Good. Go.”

Riley turns and leaves without another word, stepping back into the corridor where the air feels cooler, quieter, the sounds of movement further away than they should be. The building stretches out in clean lines, the kind of place designed to guide people without needing signs at every turn. She finds the stairs easily enough, heading down to the lower level where the atmosphere shifts subtly, the space becoming more functional, less polished.

Records is exactly where she was told it would be.

A woman sits behind the desk, barely looking up at first, until her gaze catches the red watch on Riley’s wrist. Her posture changes slightly then, attention sharpening into something more deliberate.

“Yes?” she asks.

“I was sent by Dr. Venn,” Riley says. “I’m here for a sealed envelope.”

The woman nods once and turns to a cabinet behind her. “Name?”

“Venn.”

There’s a pause as she checks something, then she pulls out a thick envelope, sealed and unmarked except for a small printed tag, and hands it over without ceremony.

“Direct delivery,” she says. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.”

Riley takes it carefully, holding it flat against her side as she turns and heads back the way she came. The instruction repeats in her head without effort.

Do not open it.
Do not stop.
Bring it straight back.

Her pace is steady, not rushed, not slow, just consistent.

She’s halfway up the stairs when someone calls out.

“Hey.”

Riley pauses.

The man stands at the top of the stairwell, one hand resting against the railing, yellow watch catching the overhead light as he shifts his weight. He looks at her, then at what she’s holding.

“What’ve you got there?” he asks.

Riley hesitates for a fraction of a second, then lifts the envelope slightly. “Delivery for Dr. Venn.”

He nods, stepping closer. “Let me see.”

Riley doesn’t move.

“Go on,” he says, holding out his hand. “I just need to check it. Standard.”

The words sound normal. Routine. The kind of thing that probably happens all the time.

Riley’s grip tightens slightly on the envelope.

“She told me not to stop,” she says.

The man’s expression shifts, just enough to show his patience thinning. “And I’m telling you to hand it over,” he replies evenly. “You’re in a restricted corridor. Everything gets checked.”

There’s a pause.

Riley looks at him, then down at the envelope, then back up again.

Two instructions.

Both clear.

Both coming from people who seem like they have the authority to give them.

Her fingers adjust slightly against the paper, not loosening, not tightening further, just settling.

“She told me to bring it straight back,” Riley says, quieter now, but more certain. “I can come back after.”

The man exhales sharply through his nose, irritation surfacing. “You’re wasting my time,” he says, stepping closer. His hand smacks at her bottom, causing her to squeak in pain and surprise.

“Last chance,” he says, grabbing at her fleshy backside hard enough to leave small crescent impressions in her skin from his . “Hand it over.”

Riley doesn’t.

Her grip stays firm.

The silence stretches for a second longer, then he steps back, shaking his head.

“…Fine,” he mutters. “Dr. Venn will be hearing about this.”

He moves aside.

Riley doesn’t wait. She passes him and continues up the stairs, her pace just slightly quicker now, the place where he struck her still stinging as she reaches the corridor and heads straight for the office.

When she steps inside, Dr. Venn looks up almost immediately, her attention sharpening as if the exact timing of Riley’s return matters more than the act itself.

“You didn’t open it,” she says.

It isn’t a question.

Riley shakes her head.

“And you didn’t stop.”

Riley hesitates.

“…I paused,” she admits. “Someone told me to hand it over.”

Dr. Venn’s gaze moves over her, not just listening, but observing, taking in the way she stands, the slight tension still held in her shoulders.

“And you didn’t.”

Riley shakes her head again. “You told me not to.”

A brief pause.

Then Dr. Venn turns back to the tablet, tapping something into it with the same steady rhythm as before.

“Next time,” she says, her tone returning to that same flat calm, “if something interferes with your instruction, you report it immediately.”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

“That will be all for now.”

The conversation ends as cleanly as it began, leaving nothing behind except the instruction itself—and whatever Dr. Venn has already decided about it.