The doors are already open when Riley steps through, the movement from outside to inside happening without pause. The air shifts immediately, warmer, controlled, carrying a faint scent of cleaning solution layered with something softer, something meant to settle rather than sharpen.

She knows what the building used to be.

They all do.

You can still see it if you look for it—the shape of it, the way the walls are set too thick, the corridors too straight, too narrow in places where they should open up. The ceilings are higher than they need to be, the lights set into fixtures that feel more practical than decorative, even now. There are no bars, no visible cells, nothing left that names it outright, but the structure hasn’t changed. It’s just been softened.

Painted over.

The walls are a warmer color than they would have been before, something neutral that leans toward comfort without committing to it. There are framed prints spaced evenly along the corridor, landscapes and quiet scenes that don’t ask for attention, just fill the space. Chairs are arranged in small groupings rather than rows, the kind you might find in a waiting room, and there are tables set out with water, tissues, small things that make it feel like a place people are meant to stay in, even briefly.

But the layout doesn’t let you forget.

Everything still leads forward.

Riley moves with the others as they step further inside, the flow carrying them into a wider area where the space opens just enough to hold what’s happening there.

Families.

They’re already gathered, scattered throughout the room in clusters that hold close together, each one contained in its own moment. Some speak quietly, voices low and controlled, while others don’t speak at all, choosing instead to stay in contact, hands held, arms wrapped tight, as if the shape of it might last longer if they don’t let go.

Riley slows slightly as she takes it in, not stopping, just letting the movement adjust.

Off to one side, a young girl stands with her mother, small enough that she disappears into the hold of her arms. The woman has her pulled in tightly, her face pressed into the girl’s hair as she holds on with a kind of desperation that doesn’t try to hide itself. The girl doesn’t struggle, doesn’t pull away, just stands there and lets it happen, her arms wrapped back around her in a way that looks practiced, like she’s already learned how to hold still for it.

The mother is crying openly, her shoulders shaking as she clings to her, her voice breaking into something that doesn’t quite form words anymore.

A man stands beside them, close but not part of the hold, his hands hovering for a second before he reaches in. He places one hand on his wife’s arm, the other moving more firmly as he begins to pull her back.

“You need to let her go,” he says, his voice steady in a way that sounds practiced, like he’s holding it in place. “She’s being very brave.”

The words don’t stop the crying.

But they do their job.

The woman resists for a second longer, her grip tightening before it finally loosens, her hands sliding away as the man guides her back. The girl stays where she is, her posture unchanged, her expression quieter than the moment around her.

Once the girl’s parents are guided back, the space around her changes almost immediately. The shape of the moment collapses in on itself, the last of her mother’s presence pulling away with the movement of the crowd, and for a second she stands exactly as she was, still and composed, as if nothing has shifted at all.

Then it breaks.

Not all at once, not in a way that draws attention, but enough to be felt. The steadiness leaves her posture first, a small tremor passing through her shoulders before settling into something more visible. She doesn’t cry. There are no tears, no sound, just the quiet, involuntary shiver that starts in her arms and spreads through the rest of her, her body reacting in a way she can’t quite hold back now that there’s nothing left to hold it in place.

Riley notices.

She slows, then stops.

For a moment she just watches, taking in the way the girl stands there alone, small in a way that has nothing to do with her size now, the absence around her more noticeable than the presence had been.

Pity comes easily.

The girl is naked, frightened in a way that shows without needing to be named, her composure slipping in small, uncontrollable movements that she can’t quite stop.

But pity doesn’t change anything.

It doesn’t stop what’s coming, and it doesn’t give the girl anywhere else to go.

Riley steps closer.

She reaches out and places a hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder, just enough to be felt, just enough to let her know she isn’t alone in the space. The contact is gentle, steady, something that doesn’t demand a reaction.

The girl flinches slightly at first, the movement quick and instinctive, before she turns her head just enough to look at Riley.

Riley doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she lowers her hand and offers it, palm open, the gesture simple and unspoken.

The girl looks at it for a moment, her attention fixed there as if weighing something she doesn’t have the words for.

Then, slowly, she reaches out—

and takes it.

At the far end of the hall, the space narrows again, the flow of movement guiding them forward whether they think about it or not. A reception desk stretches across the width of the corridor, positioned in a way that makes it the only place left to go.

Behind it, five or six women sit in a neat line.

They’re naked.

Not in a way that stands out here—not anymore—but in the same uniform absence as everyone else, their posture upright, their expressions open and composed. Each of them moves with quiet efficiency, checking people in one by one, their hands steady as they gesture, take names, direct the next step.

They smile.

Not forced, not strained—just practiced, welcoming in a way that feels almost out of place in a building like this.

“Right this way,” one of them says to the person ahead, her tone warm, as if she’s guiding someone through something routine, something expected.

“Take your time,” another adds, her voice soft, her attention settling fully on the person in front of her.

It’s… convincing.

For a moment, Riley feels it—the pull of it, the suggestion that this is something organized, something calm, something that might even be okay if it’s handled like this.

That this is just another place.

Another process.

Another step.

She almost falls for it.

The thought settles just long enough to register before something in her pulls back, the recognition returning just as quietly as it left.

This is still what it is.

Nothing here has changed that.

She keeps moving forward, the girl’s hand still in hers, the line carrying them closer one step at a time as the voices behind the desk continue, steady and welcoming, filling the space without ever raising above it.

By the time they reach the front, the movement has slowed to something measured, each step closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to go but forward. The desk stretches wide in front of them, and the women behind it continue their quiet, practiced rhythm, each interaction folding neatly into the next.

When it’s their turn, they stop in front of one of them.

She’s younger than Riley expected.

Buxom, composed, her posture relaxed in a way that feels intentional, like it’s part of what she’s meant to project. Riley’s eyes catch on the small details first—the way she sits, the ease in her shoulders—but then settle on the watch at her wrist.

Yellow.

Riley recognizes it immediately. Staff.

In places like this, that color means something clear enough that it doesn’t need to be explained. The nudity, then, isn’t the same as theirs. Not imposed. Not part of the same system.

Occupational.

The thought lands quietly.

But it isn’t what holds her attention.

That comes a second later, when she notices the nametag.

Not the card itself—the plastic is ordinary, the lettering clean and easy to read—but the way it’s attached. It isn’t clipped to fabric or hung from a lanyard. There’s nothing there for it to attach to.

Instead, it’s pinned directly through her.

Through her nipple, like a piercing, the small metal fastener holding it in place as if that, too, has been normalized into something routine.

Riley’s gaze lingers for just a fraction too long before she looks away.

Her hand lifts without thinking, settling lightly over her own chest, the motion instinctive, as if she could prevent something like that from being done to her simply by covering the space.

Beside her, the girl shifts slightly, still holding Riley’s hand.

She can’t really see over the desk.

Probably a mercy.

The woman behind it doesn’t comment on any of it. Her expression remains the same—open, calm, welcoming—as her attention settles on them.

“Hi,” she says, her voice warm, like this is just another check-in, just another person arriving where they’re meant to be.

“And who is this scrumptious little morsel you have with you?”

The woman leans forward slightly over the desk, her smile widening as her attention shifts down toward the girl, her tone bright in a way that feels practiced rather than spontaneous. “Are you sisters?”

Riley knows they look nothing alike.

She doesn’t bother explaining it.

“No,” she says.

“Ah,” the woman replies easily, the sound light, as if the answer doesn’t change anything at all. “Well, I think it’s sweet that you’re here for each other.” The sentiment lands gently, folded into the same warmth she’s been offering to everyone else, before her posture shifts again, the friendliness settling into something more structured.

She moves back slightly, her hands already reaching toward the console in front of her.

“Just let me scan your watches,” she continues, her tone returning to something efficient but no less calm, “and we’ll get you signed in and ready for Intake.”

Her attention lifts back to Riley, expectant without pressure, as the process moves forward like it always does.

Riley lifts her arm without being asked twice, offering her wrist across the desk as the woman reaches for the scanner. The device is small and unremarkable, fitting easily into her hand as she brings it close, the motion practiced and precise.

It beeps.

A soft, confirming sound that carries just enough to be heard, just enough to settle something.

Riley feels it immediately.

Not relief in the way she might have expected, not something sharp or overwhelming, but something quieter, something that eases into place rather than breaking through. The uncertainty that had been sitting just beneath everything else—unspoken but present—shifts, giving way to something more certain.

She’s here.

She’s done what she was supposed to do.

There’s no risk now of being marked as something else, no lingering question of what happens if she doesn’t arrive. The label that might have followed her, the one that would have reached back to her family, settles out of reach the moment the scan completes.

They’re safe.

The thought doesn’t stay long.

It doesn’t need to.

It settles just enough to be understood before it fades back into the flow of everything else, the process continuing around her without pause as the woman lowers the scanner and moves on to the next step.

The woman turns to the girl next, her movements no different, no less practiced. “Your turn,” she says gently, holding the scanner out as if it’s something small, something routine. The girl hesitates for only a second before lifting her wrist, the motion a little less steady than Riley’s had been.

The scanner beeps.

The sound lands the same, soft and confirming, and the girl’s fingers tighten immediately around Riley’s hand the moment it’s done, her grip returning without hesitation, as if the contact had only been waiting to be re-established.

The woman watches it without comment, her expression unchanged.

“You two will need to be separated for what comes next,” she says, her tone still warm, still measured, “but I’m sure you’ll find each other in the Habitation Zones, alright?” The reassurance is offered easily, like something she’s said many times before, something meant to settle rather than explain.

She gestures lightly past them.

“Once you go through those doors, some nice staff members will take you for sanitization,” she continues, the words flowing in the same calm rhythm, “and then we’ll commence the health and blood tests.”

Nothing about it sounds urgent.

Nothing about it sounds unfamiliar.

Just the next step.

Waiting.

They move forward together, following the direction that’s been given without needing to think about it. The doors open easily, the transition from one space to the next as smooth as everything else has been, and the sound shifts as they step through—voices, low and overlapping, filling the room ahead.

It’s a waiting area.

Chairs are arranged in rows and small clusters, the space wide enough to hold the number of people already gathered there, and all of them are female. Different ages, different shapes, but the same quiet sameness settles over them, something that makes the differences feel less important than the fact that they’re all here.

Some sit close together in pairs that look like mothers and daughters, the resemblance in their faces or posture easy to trace, while others lean toward each other in the way friends do, their conversation carrying in low, steady tones. There’s a softness to the noise, a kind of idle chatter that fills the room without rising above itself, as if this were any other waiting space, any other place where people have come together for something routine.

It almost feels like no one knows what’s going to happen.

But they do.

The System has made sure of that.

Whatever might have risen—panic, resistance, something louder than this—has been smoothed out, replaced with something easier to hold, something that keeps the room at this level, contained and manageable.

Riley and the girl find a seat together, the space opening just enough for them to settle side by side. When Riley shifts her hand, starting to pull away, the girl’s grip tightens immediately, her fingers holding on with quiet insistence.

“Just a bit longer,” she says, her voice small but clear, speaking for the first time since they met. “Just until we have to let go?”

Riley looks at her for a second.

Then nods.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just settles into the chair beside her, letting the contact remain, letting the moment hold for as long as it’s allowed to.

Time passes the way it has all day, without drawing attention to itself. The room empties slowly, steadily, as staff move through it in a rhythm that doesn’t need to be explained. White coats and blue scrubs stand out against the softer tones of the room, each one calling names or simply gesturing, guiding Animals up one by one.

No one resists.

They go when they’re called.

One hour becomes the next without being marked, the chairs around them emptying in pieces until there are fewer voices, fewer bodies, the space opening around Riley and the girl without either of them needing to move.

Eventually, someone stops in front of them.

“Come with me, Meatgirl,” she says, her attention settling on the child.

The words are calm, the tone the same as everything else has been.

Riley feels the shift before it happens, the moment tightening just slightly as the girl’s grip holds for a fraction longer before loosening.

She lets go.

Riley lifts her hand in a small wave as she’s guided away, the gesture quiet, contained, something that doesn’t try to hold her back.

The girl doesn’t look away immediately.

Then she does.

And she’s gone.

Eventually someone comes to collect Riley and she is moved from one room to the next without pause, the spaces changing just enough to register before giving way to another. The shower comes first, the water already running by the time she’s told to stand beneath it, the warmth settling over her skin as she adjusts instinctively—only to be corrected the moment she tries to move on her own.

After that, the hands are no longer hers.

The nurse works through it methodically, guiding her into position with brief instructions that don’t need repeating. Arms raised. Legs apart. Bend. The motions follow one another without interruption, each one carried out and completed before the next begins, the routine unfolding with a precision that leaves no space for anything else.

She’s dried. Moved. Positioned again.

Questions follow in the same rhythm—short, direct, already expected—her answers given without hesitation, recorded and passed over as quickly as they’re spoken. There’s no conversation around them, no attempt to shape the moment into something else, just the steady confirmation of what’s already known.

Another room.

Another instruction.

Her arm is taken, turned slightly, held in place as the needle slides in, the process clean and controlled, finished before it has time to become anything more than another step. She’s told to hold, told she’s done, told where to go next.

Each part moves into the next without separation, the edges between them softening until it all begins to feel like a single, continuous action rather than a series of them.

By the time she steps back into the corridor, it’s already over.