CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Riley steps through the doorway and into the next space.

For a moment she doesn’t move.

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust, not because it’s dark, but because it’s… different. The ceiling stretches higher than she expected, the room opening up into a wide central area that runs the length of the building. Two levels rise along the walls, narrow walkways circling the space with rows of doors set back into them.

Cells.

The shape of it is unmistakable.

Old bars have been removed or replaced, the harsh edges softened, but the structure is still there beneath it all. A prison, just… changed. Repurposed into something that doesn’t quite match the word anymore.

Riley steps forward slowly.

The floor is smooth beneath her feet, warmer than the pavement outside, and the air feels different too. Not cold like the schoolyard, not sharp like the street. Still. Even.

There are people everywhere.

Some sit along the edges of the room in small groups, talking quietly. Others lie stretched out on low benches or padded mats, bodies loose and unguarded in a way Riley hasn’t seen yet today. A few move lazily through the space, drifting between conversations without urgency, like there’s nowhere else they need to be.

No one looks panicked.

No one looks like they’re counting time.

A couple of them glance at her when she enters, their eyes catching briefly on the red glow at her wrist before sliding away again. One girl gives her a small, absent smile, the kind you offer a stranger without thinking too hard about it.

Riley finds herself looking up.

The walls are covered.

Not blank concrete. Not institutional white.

Paint.

Murals stretch across the surfaces between the walkways, layered over one another in places where space has run out. Names written in careful strokes. Faces, sometimes detailed, sometimes just outlines. Hands. Places. Small moments captured in colour that stands out against the muted structure beneath.

It isn’t messy.

It isn’t chaotic.

It’s… deliberate.

Like people took their time.

Riley slows as she walks further in, her gaze moving across the images without really focusing on any one of them. She doesn’t stop to read the names. Doesn’t try to understand who any of them were.

She just… notices.

The sound of quiet conversation drifts through the space, low and steady. No raised voices. No sharp edges. Just a constant, soft murmur that fills the room without overwhelming it.

Behind her, the door closes with a dull, final click.

Riley doesn’t turn around.

She shifts her arm slightly, adjusting the gauze where it rests against her skin. The motion is small, but it draws attention anyway.

Someone approaches.

“Just come from Intake?”

The voice is easy, conversational.

Riley looks up.

He’s dressed simply, nothing like the uniformed teachers or the structured presence of the school staff. The only thing that marks him is the watch on his wrist, the yellow glow steady and unmistakable.

She nods.

“Yeah.”

He glances briefly at the gauze she’s holding, then back to her face. There’s no concern in his expression, just a kind of quiet acknowledgement, like he’s seen the same thing a hundred times already.

“First day’s always a bit much,” he says.

Riley doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

He shifts his weight slightly, gesturing toward the far side of the room where a series of low, padded spaces are set back beneath the walkway.

“Why don’t I show you somewhere you can lie down,” he suggests. “Get comfortable for a bit.”

Riley follows his gesture.

There are others there already.

Some resting on their sides. Some on their backs. A few sitting up, talking quietly to the people beside them. No one looks like they’ve been told to stay there.

They just… are.

Riley hesitates for a second.

Not because something feels wrong.

Because nothing does.

That’s what catches her.

She glances back toward the murals, then across the room again, taking in the slow, steady rhythm of people moving and resting and talking like this is just another place they’ve chosen to be.

Her fingers loosen slightly against the gauze.

“…Okay,” she says.

The word comes out without resistance.

He nods once, already turning to lead the way, not checking if she’s following.

She does.

Her steps are quieter now.

Slower.

The noise of the room settles around her as she moves deeper into it, the edges of everything softening just slightly as she walks.

No one stops her.

No one watches her go.

And after a few seconds, Riley stops looking for them to.

He leads her along the edge of the room, keeping to the outer wall where the structure becomes clearer the closer she gets. Up close, there’s less disguise to it. The doors are still heavy, still set into thick frames that were never meant to feel welcoming, even if the paint and murals soften the impression from a distance.

They pass a few occupied spaces.

Some doors are open, revealing small interiors with low bedding laid directly against the back wall. Others are closed, the metal flush with the frame, giving nothing away about what’s inside. No one lingers near them, and no one avoids them either. They’re just part of the layout, used without comment.

He slows beside one that’s empty.

The door is already open.

“Here’s a free one,” he says, stepping slightly aside to let her see inside. The space is simple. Clean. A mattress, a folded blanket, nothing else that demands attention. It looks like it’s been prepared for someone without being made to feel personal.

Riley pauses at the threshold.

She doesn’t step in right away.

It isn’t hesitation exactly. More like a moment of adjustment, her eyes moving over the room, taking in the shape of it, the way the walls close in compared to the open space behind her. The difference is noticeable, but it doesn’t feel restrictive.

Just contained.

“Just scan your ID watch,” he tells her, nodding toward the frame. “You can have some privacy if you want it.” His tone stays even, almost conversational as he adds, “It’ll lock, but staff can override it if needed.”

Riley glances down at her wrist.

The red glow is steady, unchanged.

For a second she looks back out toward the room, the quiet movement of people continuing without interruption, the low murmur of voices carrying through the space like it doesn’t depend on her being there at all.

Then she steps inside.

She lifts her arm and presses the face of the watch to the small panel set into the wall beside the door. There’s a soft, acknowledging tone, barely louder than a breath, and she feels the mechanism engage a second later.

The door moves on its own.

It swings inward, slow and deliberate, then settles into place with a heavy, mechanical finality that doesn’t try to hide what it is. The lock follows, a distinct, old-fashioned clunk that echoes faintly in the small space before fading.

Riley stands still for a moment after it closes.

The sound lingers longer than it should.

Then it doesn’t.

The room is quiet again.

She exhales softly and shifts her weight, her gaze moving once more over the mattress, the blanket, the bare walls. There’s nothing in the space asking anything from her. Nothing directing her. Nothing to figure out.

She lowers her arm.

After a second, she crosses the room and sits down.

The mattress dips slightly beneath her, the surface firm but not uncomfortable. She adjusts without thinking, drawing one leg in a little, the movement small and automatic as she settles.

Outside, the sound of the Habitation Zone continues as it was.

Unchanged.

Riley leans back slowly, letting her shoulders rest against the wall behind her. The gauze slips a little in her hand as she relaxes her grip, but she doesn’t fix it right away.

For the first time since leaving the school, there’s nothing immediate waiting for her to do.

No one watching.

No one speaking to her.

No next step being explained.

She sits there for a while, not counting the time, not checking anything, just letting the stillness settle around her the same way the rest of the space had.

After a minute, or maybe longer, she lies down.

The blanket is within reach. She doesn’t pull it over herself, just rests her hand against it, feeling the texture beneath her fingers as her body settles into the shape of the mattress.

The quiet doesn’t feel heavy.

It doesn’t press in on her.

It just… stays.

And after a while, Riley stops thinking about the door.

Riley shifts slightly on the mattress, then draws her legs up and reaches for the blanket.

The fabric is heavier than she expects.

She pulls it around herself, tucking it loosely at her side before settling back, the material draping over her shoulders and down across her body. It doesn’t cover her completely at first, one leg still half-exposed, but after a second she adjusts without thinking, pulling it higher until the weight of it rests evenly over her.

Warmth follows almost immediately.

It spreads slowly, sinking into her skin in a way that feels… familiar.

Riley stills.

For a moment, she just lies there, noticing it.

Since the bell. Since the classroom. Since stepping out of the school doors and into the cold air. Since walking through the streets, through the café, through the gates of the centre—she hasn’t been covered at all.

Not once.

The realization settles quietly.

It doesn’t hit her sharply. It doesn’t pull anything dramatic out of her. It just… lands, the way most things have today, slotting into place without resistance.

She shifts slightly under the blanket, her shoulders relaxing further into the mattress as the warmth evens out.

It feels normal.

That’s what stands out.

Not new. Not strange. Just something she recognizes without needing to think about it.

Riley exhales softly.

Her eyes close without much effort.

There’s no decision behind it, no sense of choosing to rest. Her body just… does it. The tension she’s been carrying loosens in small, quiet increments, each one barely noticeable on its own.

The sounds of the Habitation Zone filter faintly through the walls.

Muted voices.

Movement.

Nothing distinct enough to follow.

It blends together into something steady, something that doesn’t ask anything from her.

Riley’s hand rests loosely against the blanket near her chest, fingers slack now, no longer holding anything in place.

After a few seconds, her breathing slows.

And then, without marking the moment, without tracking when it happens—

She sleeps.

Riley doesn’t remember how long she sleeps.

When she wakes, the room is the same. The light hasn’t shifted in any obvious way, and the quiet outside the door hasn’t changed either. For a moment she stays where she is, still wrapped in the blanket, her body slow to move as the last of the heaviness fades from her limbs.

Then she sits up.

The blanket slips from her shoulders and pools around her waist, and she leaves it there for a second before pushing it aside and standing. The air feels different after the warmth, but not unpleasant. Just noticeable.

She unlocks the door without thinking about it and steps back out into the Habitation Zone.

It feels easier the second time.

There’s no pause at the threshold now, no need to take it in again. The space is already familiar enough that she moves through it without stopping, her attention drifting instead of searching.

At some point—later, or maybe not much later at all—she finds the pool.

It’s set slightly apart from the main area, recessed into the floor with smooth edges and a faint haze of humidity hanging above it. The water is still except for the slow movement of the few people already inside, their bodies cutting quiet paths through it without urgency.

Riley lingers at the edge.

One of them notices.

An Animal near the far side turns her head, then swims over without hesitation, resting her arms along the edge of the pool as she looks up at Riley.

“You can come in,” she says simply.

Riley looks down at the water.

She doesn’t ask anything.

She doesn’t check how deep it is, or how warm. After a second, she lowers herself in, the surface breaking softly around her as she steps down. The temperature settles quickly against her skin, warmer than she expected, the shift immediate and even.

The other girl stays close.

There’s no introduction, no exchange of names. She just moves nearer, her hand coming to rest against Riley’s side without asking, fingers sliding lightly across her skin in a way that feels as casual as everything else in the room.

Then her hand sneaks between Riley’s legs, lightly penetrating her little cunt. Riley’s breath hitches, her body already melting into the touch.

“Little Meatgirls always make the cutest noises,” the woman says softly, “Will you squeak for me?”

Riley stills for a moment.

Then she leans into it.

The contact stays unremarkable. Unquestioned. The girl’s movements are slow, unhurried, her attention steady but not demanding. Riley’s breathing shifts slightly, her orgasm seeping into the pool water with only a quiet whimper.

Afterward, nothing changes.

“Good girl,” the woman nibbles on Riley’s ear before she drifts away again, leaving Riley where she is, the water moving gently around her as if nothing happened at all.

Riley stays in the pool a little longer before climbing out.

No one watches her go.

At some point, she finds the library.

It’s smaller than she expects, but not empty. Shelves line the walls in neat rows, filled with thin books that don’t take long to read. The pages are worn in places, the covers soft from use, but everything is kept in order.

Riley pulls one down without much thought and sits.

She reads.

The stories are simple. Short. Self-contained in a way that doesn’t require remembering too much from one page to the next. When she finishes one, she puts it back and takes another, the motion easy, repetitive.

She doesn’t track how many.

There’s a room with games.

She notices it because of the sound first—soft electronic noise, muted bursts of music from machines lined up against one wall. A few people stand in front of them, pressing buttons, watching the screens without intensity.

There are pool tables set further back, cues resting neatly along the side, and a couple of large screens where others sit with controllers in their hands.

Riley watches for a bit.

Then she joins in.

Someone hands her a controller without speaking, shifting slightly to make space. She takes it, sits, and follows along as the game plays out in front of her. There’s no competition to it. No urgency to win or lose. Just something to do, something to hold her attention for a while before she sets it down again.

She returns to her room.

She leaves it again.

She eats when food is offered.

She rests when she feels like it.

Sometimes she ends up beside someone without remembering when she moved there, their bodies close, their presence steady and unremarked. The contact comes and goes the same way everything else does—without needing to be explained, without leaving anything behind once it’s over.

There are moments where she notices the doors.

Moments where she thinks she hears one open nearby, the faint mechanical sound carrying just far enough to catch her attention. Each time, something in her shifts slightly, a brief awareness of what that might mean.

But no one comes for her.

Not then.

So she lets it go.

Days pass.

Or something like days.

Riley doesn’t keep track.

At first she tries, loosely marking time by when she sleeps, when she wakes, when she moves from one part of the Zone to another. But the pattern doesn’t hold. The light doesn’t change in a way she can follow, and nothing else insists on structure.

After a while, she stops trying.

There isn’t much reason to.

Everything she needs is already here.

Everything she’s expected to do… isn’t being asked of her yet.

So she settles.

The space becomes familiar in a way that doesn’t require thought, her movements through it quieter now, more automatic. She doesn’t hesitate at thresholds anymore. Doesn’t pause before sitting, or joining, or lying down.

She just does.

And when nothing happens—

when no one calls her name, when no one comes to collect her—

she waits.

Not restlessly.

Not anxiously.

Just… waits.

Patiently.

Happily.

Content.

It’s during one of those moments—quiet, unremarkable—that someone approaches her.

Riley is sitting, not doing anything in particular, her attention half-set on the space around her without focusing on any one thing. The room moves the way it always does, slow and steady, people passing without drawing notice.

She doesn’t look up right away.

She only notices when the hand settles on her shoulder.

Warm. Firm enough to be felt.

Riley turns her head.

The woman standing behind her doesn’t rush.

Her expression is neutral, her posture relaxed, the yellow glow of her watch catching the light as she shifts her weight slightly.

“It’s time,” she says.

Her hand remains where it is, steady, guiding without pressure.

“Come on, Meatgirl.”