CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The woman doesn’t remove her hand as they move.

It rests lightly against Riley’s shoulder, not pushing, not directing in any forceful way. Just there, steady enough that Riley follows without needing to think about where she’s going. The contact is familiar by now. Easy to accept.

They walk through the Habitation Zone together.

No one reacts.

A few glance up as they pass, their eyes settling briefly on Riley’s red watch, then shifting away again. The same way they always do. The same way Riley has seen countless times now—someone being led out, moving calmly, without resistance, without delay.

Men. Women. Children.

It had never disrupted anything.

Conversations continue. Games carry on. Someone laughs softly somewhere behind them, the sound folding back into the low, steady rhythm of the space. Nothing pauses. Nothing acknowledges what’s happening as anything other than routine.

Riley doesn’t look around as much this time.

There’s nothing new to see.

She’s walked these paths before, passed these same walls, these same murals layered with names and faces that don’t belong to anyone still here. At some point, she had stopped wondering about them.

The woman’s hand shifts slightly as they change direction, guiding her toward a section of the facility Riley hasn’t entered before.

She recognizes it anyway.

The door is set deeper into the wall than the others, heavier, less softened by the changes made elsewhere. No paint reaches it. No markings. Just clean metal, uninterrupted.

She had stood in front of it once.

Curious.

She remembers lifting her wrist, pressing it to the panel the same way she had with every other door in the Zone. The response had come immediately—sharp, clear, impossible to mistake.

Unauthorized access to Butcher Chambers will result in immediate slaughter.

She hadn’t tried again.

There hadn’t been any reason to.

Now she stands there again.

The difference is simple.

This time, she isn’t alone.

The woman doesn’t pause long enough for the moment to settle. Her hand remains where it is as she reaches forward with her other arm, scanning her own watch against the panel. There’s a soft confirmation, quieter than Riley expects, and the mechanism engages.

The door unlocks.

The sound is heavier than the others in the Zone.

Older.

More deliberate.

It opens inward without hesitation.

Riley doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t need to be told to move.

She steps forward as the space beyond reveals itself, the shift immediate but not jarring, just another transition from one part of the system to the next.

The woman follows, her hand still resting lightly against Riley’s shoulder as they pass through.

Behind them, the door closes.

The sound carries for a second.

Then fades.

Riley doesn’t look back.

The space beyond the door is different.

Not colder, not harsher—just… clearer.

White tiles line the walls from floor to ceiling, clean and uninterrupted, the surface reflecting the overhead lights in a way that makes everything feel sharper, more defined. The floor beneath Riley’s feet shifts to a darker grey, smooth and slightly polished, the faint echo of their steps carrying further than it had in the open space behind them.

The air smells faintly sterile.

Not unpleasant.

Just precise.

They move down the corridor at an even pace, the woman’s hand still resting where it was, steady and unchanged. Riley doesn’t look back at the door. There’s nothing behind her that needs checking.

There are others here.

Not many.

A few move through the corridor with quiet purpose, smaller figures carrying folded linens, pushing light carts, wiping down already clean surfaces with slow, practiced motions. Their movements are familiar in a different way than the Animals in the Zone—more structured, more contained.

Some of them look up as Riley passes.

A boy near the wall pauses in what he’s doing, cloth still in his hand as he gives her a small, encouraging smile. Another glances briefly at her, then returns to their task without acknowledgment, their attention already settling back into the routine they were following.

No one stops.

No one questions.

Riley recognizes them.

Blue watches.

System kids.

She’s seen them before, drifting through the Habitation Zone in small groups, moving between spaces with the same quiet confidence they carry here. They had spoken to Animals sometimes. Sat with them. Played games. Asked questions in the same casual tone they used with each other.

Nothing about them had felt forced.

Nothing rehearsed.

They were just… normal.

Riley had understood why some Animals avoided them.

There was nothing wrong with them.

That was the part that unsettled people.

They weren’t distant. Weren’t cold. They smiled easily, spoke without hesitation, touched without asking in the same way everyone else did. But they didn’t leave.

They didn’t drift back out through the doors.

They stayed.

They belonged here.

Riley’s gaze lingers on one of them for a second longer than necessary as they pass—a girl about her age, maybe younger, pushing a cart lined with neatly folded fabric. The girl meets her eyes briefly and smiles, soft and uncomplicated, like this is just another part of the day.

Riley looks away first.

She understands it now.

Blue Orphans don’t go to slaughter.

They live here.

The corridors. The rooms. The spaces beyond the doors Riley never entered. All of it belongs to them in a way the Habitation Zone never did to her.

Animals come through.

They stay for a while.

Then they’re gone.

Guests.

The thought settles without resistance.

Riley keeps walking.

The woman’s hand shifts slightly again, guiding her forward as the corridor stretches on ahead, clean and uninterrupted, leading further into a part of the system Riley hasn’t seen before—but already understands well enough not to question.

The woman’s hand shifts slightly as they continue, her voice breaking the quiet without changing the pace of their movement.

“Your Butcher will be Henry,” she says.

Riley doesn’t respond.

“He’s nice,” the woman adds after a moment, as if offering something useful rather than comforting. “Usually handles Minor Animals, so you can rest assured he’ll be gentle.”

The information settles the same way everything else has.

Without resistance.

They walk a little further before stopping.

The door in front of them is heavier than the others Riley has seen so far, the frame thicker, the surface uninterrupted by anything unnecessary. A small panel sits beside it, a soft green light blinking at a steady, unhurried rhythm.

Riley’s eyes move to it.

A screen is embedded just above the panel.

There’s a face on it.

A man, looking straight ahead, the image clear and static. Not smiling. Not stern. Just present in the same way everything here is—functional, without excess.

Riley understands immediately.

This is him.

The one assigned to her.

The one who will do it.

She studies the image for a second longer than she needs to, taking in the details without searching for anything specific. There’s no instinct to look away, no pull to avoid it.

It doesn’t feel like something to avoid.

It feels… expected.

The woman’s hand remains where it is, light against her shoulder, not pushing her forward yet.

Riley stands still.

The thought settles cleanly.

This is the point everything has been leading toward.

The movement through the Zone. The waiting. The quiet understanding that something would happen eventually, even if no one said when.

Now it has.

She doesn’t feel fear.

There’s no tightness in her chest, no hesitation in her body.

If anything, there’s a small shift in her posture, something almost like anticipation settling in where uncertainty used to be.

It’s time.

And that feels right.

Riley exhales softly, her gaze still resting on the image in front of her as she waits for the door to open.

The woman lifts her wrist and scans it against the panel.

The green light holds for a second, then steadies.

The lock disengages with a low, mechanical shift, and the door opens inward without resistance.

The space beyond is already prepared.

Riley doesn’t step forward on her own.

Not yet.

The woman’s hand leaves her shoulder, moving lower, settling briefly at the small of her back. The touch is light, familiar in the same way all guidance has been—just enough to indicate direction without needing to insist on it.

Riley moves.

A step forward.

Then another.

As she crosses the threshold, the woman’s hand gives a small, absent push, followed by a quick pat against her as she passes fully into the room. The contact is brief, unremarkable, the kind of gesture that doesn’t carry meaning beyond the moment it happens.

Nothing is said.

No instructions.

No reassurance.

No acknowledgment that this is anything different from the movement that brought her here.

Just a transfer.

Riley doesn’t turn around.

The door closes behind her with the same heavy certainty as the others, the sound settling into the space before fading into the quiet.

She stands where she’s been placed for a second, letting the room come into focus around her.

There’s no urgency.

No immediate demand.

Just another space.

Another step.

And Riley waits.

“You must be Riley.”

The voice comes from ahead of her, even and unhurried.

Riley looks up.

The man stands beside a clean metal table set at the centre of the room, its surface bare, the edges rounded and polished to a soft shine under the lights. Everything around him is ordered, placed with purpose, nothing out of alignment.

He’s naked.

For a second, it catches her.

Not because it’s unfamiliar—she’s seen enough of that now—but because it’s different here. In the Habitation Zone, nudity had felt shared, casual, unremarkable. Here, it feels… deliberate.

Then the thought settles into place.

Butchers are always naked.

She remembers that.

A gesture of solidarity. That’s how it had been explained. No separation between Human and Animal in the space where it matters most.

Riley nods slightly.

“Yes.”

He studies her briefly, not in a way that lingers, just enough to register posture, stance, the way she holds herself now that she’s inside the room.

“Good,” he says.

Her gaze drifts before she can stop it.

Down.

The movement is quick, almost automatic, her attention catching for just a second longer than she intends before she pulls it back up again. There’s a flicker of heat in her cheeks, the reaction immediate, familiar in a way that feels older than everything else she’s learned here.

She bites her bottom lip lightly, looking away as she adjusts her stance, the shift small, contained.

It passes quickly.

Nothing about the room changes in response.

Nothing about him does either.

He remains where he is, steady, waiting, as if that moment didn’t interrupt anything at all.

He notices.

It’s subtle, but not missed.

His gaze shifts briefly, following the movement of hers before returning to her face without pause. There’s no reaction to it—no comment, no change in expression, nothing to suggest it matters beyond the simple fact that it happened.

His body remains still.

Unchanged.

There’s no response in him to match hers, no tension, no shift in posture. Everything about him stays neutral, controlled, the same quiet steadiness he’s held since she entered the room.

Routine.

Riley adjusts her stance slightly, the moment already passing as quickly as it came. The warmth in her face fades without needing to be acknowledged, her attention settling back where it’s expected to be.

On him.

Waiting.

Henry moves slightly as he speaks, not approaching yet, just adjusting something on the table beside him, his attention split between the room and Riley in a way that doesn’t feel divided.

“It’s straightforward,” he says. “We’ll start with something to help you relax.”

His tone stays even.

“Most Animals find it easier that way.”

Riley listens.

“There’s a second injection after that,” he continues. “You won’t be aware of it. By then you’ll already be asleep.”

He glances up briefly, checking her posture, not her reaction.

“It’s quick. Controlled. No discomfort once it starts.”

A small pause.

“You just need to lie down and stay still.”

Riley nods.

She doesn’t need anything more than that.

The explanation settles easily, the same way everything else has. Names wouldn’t change it. Details wouldn’t change it. The outcome is already understood.

For a moment, her attention drifts.

Back.

To the first day.

The screen. The page she had scrolled through without really knowing what she was looking at yet. The example they had shown—another Meatgirl, laid out on a table just like this one, positioned neatly, presented as something instructional rather than personal.

She remembers how it had looked.

Distant.

Abstract.

Something that belonged to a different version of her.

Riley blinks, and the thought fades.

She looks around the room properly for the first time.

Not searching.

Just… noticing.

The walls are lined with tools, each one set into its place with the same careful order as everything else in the facility. Some are familiar in shape, others less so, their purpose not immediately clear but not difficult to understand in context. They’re clean. Maintained. Ready.

A few stand out more than the rest.

Not larger.

Just… closer.

More direct in their design, their placement suggesting use that isn’t purely mechanical, but guided. Controlled. Intentional.

Her gaze moves on.

Above the table, a chain hangs from the ceiling.

At the end of it, a hook.

Directly beneath, set into the floor, is a drain.

The metal is clean.

Mostly.

There are darker lines caught in the edges where the surface meets itself, thin traces that haven’t been fully removed, no matter how thoroughly the room is kept. Not fresh. Not recent. Just… part of it now.

Riley doesn’t stare.

She takes it in the same way she has everything else.

Without resistance.

This room doesn’t need to explain itself.

It isn’t disguised like the Habitation Zone. It isn’t softened or adjusted to feel like something else. It’s clear in a way the rest of the system hasn’t been.

It has one purpose.

And she’s already part of it.

Riley lowers herself onto the edge of the table when he gestures.

The surface is cool beneath her, the contrast immediate against her skin. She shifts slightly as she settles, her posture adjusting without needing direction, her hands resting loosely at her sides as she waits.

Henry steps closer.

The heat from his body reaches her before he touches her, a steady warmth that feels out of place against the sterile air of the room. It isn’t uncomfortable. Just noticeable. Grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Any last requests?” he asks.

His tone doesn’t change.

It isn’t heavy. It isn’t ceremonial. Just part of the process.

His hands come to rest lightly against her thighs, guiding rather than holding, drawing a fraction closer to her hips as he positions her where he needs her. The contact is firm enough to be felt, but not restrictive.

Riley’s gaze drops again.

Brief.

Unintended.

She notices the change this time.

It doesn’t hold her attention for long.

There’s no pull behind it. No response that follows. Just something observed, then let go of as her focus shifts back to where it should be.

The moment passes.

“Can we just get it over with?” she says.

Her voice is steady.

“I’m ready.”

The words land cleanly between them.

Not rushed.

Not forced.

Just… true.

Henry’s hands leave her without hesitation.

No reluctance. No pause.

“That’s fine too,” he says, his tone unchanged, as if she’d asked for something small rather than declined the only variation offered to her. “Some Animals simply want the closure.”

Riley stays where she is.

“I just need to note your refusal,” he continues, already stepping away from her, the shift immediate and procedural. “If you change your mind, don’t hesitate.”

There’s no expectation that she will.

He moves to the counter set into the wall beside the sink, the space as ordered as everything else in the room. Bottles are aligned neatly. Paper towels stacked evenly. Nothing out of place.

He picks up the tablet.

It comes to life in his hand, the screen brightening as he begins to scroll, his attention settling into the task with the same quiet focus he’s held throughout.

Riley watches him.

There’s nothing else to do.

Her body remains where he left it, positioned, waiting, the moment stretching without pressure. No countdown. No visible urgency. Just the sense that something will happen when it’s meant to.

Henry’s hand moves once across the screen.

Then stops.

He goes still.

Not gradually.

Completely.

The shift is small, but absolute, his attention locking onto something in front of him in a way that breaks the rhythm he’s maintained until now.

A second passes.

Then another.

Riley doesn’t speak.

She just watches.

After a moment, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. When he looks back at her, nothing in his expression suggests surprise.

Only adjustment.

“Up you get, Meatgirl,” he says.

His tone remains even.

“You’ve been reclassified.”

Riley moves slowly, pushing herself upright, her feet finding the floor again as she looks at him properly.

“What do you mean?”

Henry turns the tablet toward her.

“Companionship training,” he says. “You’ve been recommended.”

Riley steps closer.

The screen is clear.

Her file is open, structured and familiar in its layout even if she’s never seen it before. A photograph sits at the top—her when they took her Lottery registration pictures, still fully dressed, still… something else. It feels distant in a way that’s hard to place.

Beside it, another window.

An email.

Cleanly written. Structured. Professional.

She doesn’t read all of it.

She doesn’t need to.

Her eyes settle at the bottom.

A name she recognizes immediately.

Dr. Venn.

Riley looks at it for a second longer than necessary.

Then back at Henry.

The room hasn’t changed.

The table is still there.

The tools are still there.

The chain still hangs above the drain.

Everything is exactly as it was.

Only the outcome has shifted.

Riley exhales softly.

“…Okay,” she says.

“You’ll be returned to Habitation,” Henry says, already shifting the tablet back into place on the counter as if the matter has resolved itself. “The next training period for Companions is at the beginning of every month. When the time comes, you’ll be relocated to a separate facility.”

Riley stands still, listening.

“All you need to do is wait now.”

There’s nothing added to it. No emphasis. No sense that this is anything more than a change in scheduling.

Henry moves to the door and opens it without hesitation. The corridor beyond is as clean and steady as before, the same white walls, the same quiet movement continuing uninterrupted. His hand returns briefly to Riley’s shoulder as he guides her through, the touch light, familiar, already fading as they step out.

He raises a hand slightly.

A member of staff approaches.

The baton at his belt marks him clearly—security. His pace is unhurried, his attention settling on Riley first, then on Henry, taking in the situation without needing anything explained.

Henry takes Riley’s wrist.

The motion is efficient, practiced, his fingers closing around it just long enough to bring her watch to the surface of the tablet. There’s a soft confirmation, barely audible.

Then—

The colour shifts.

Red fades.

Purple takes its place.

Just like that.

Riley watches it happen without moving, the change immediate, clean, final in a way that doesn’t ask for acknowledgment.

“There,” Henry says, releasing her wrist. “Now nobody will think you’re just another Meatgirl.”

The security officer’s eyes catch the change as soon as it happens.

“Back to Habitation?” he asks.

Henry nods once.

“That’s right.”

There’s no further discussion.

The officer steps in beside Riley, his presence steady rather than imposing, and she moves with him when he turns, the direction already clear.

They walk back through the corridor.

Past the same white walls.

Past the same Blue Orphans moving through their routines, some of them glancing up again, their attention lingering just a fraction longer this time before settling back into place.

Nothing else changes.

Not the space.

Not the pace.

Not the system.

Riley walks.

Her thoughts shift, but not in any one direction. They don’t settle cleanly the way everything else has. They move instead, overlapping, difficult to separate.

Relief.

Disappointment.

Something sharper underneath it that doesn’t quite form into anything she can name.

Uncertainty.

A flicker of something else—something lighter, quieter.

Excitement.

None of it holds long enough to define the moment.

It doesn’t feel like she’s been saved.

It doesn’t feel like she’s escaped anything.

The table is still there.

The room is still there.

The process continues, with or without her.

She understands that.

Riley glances down briefly at her wrist as they walk.

Purple.

Different.

Not free.

She looks ahead again.

She’s still an Animal.

Just… not the same kind.

[END OF BOOK ONE]