Chapter 3

The scent in the corridor was still there, but it had faded into meaningless background noise. I stood at the door marked “Therapy Assessment Room.” After I asked that question, the smile on Lena’s face didn’t disappear—it only paused, like she was measuring how much I’d actually seen.

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t explain. She just lifted a hand and lightly patted the back of mine, her voice still soft, still coaxing.

“Don’t overthink it, honey. Come in.”

I noticed the shift in what she called me—from the more formal “Ethan” in the lounge to something stickier, closer: honey.

That wasn’t intimacy. It was a practiced habit—something she used to make people relax, to make them obey.

And right then, the light at the far end of the hallway was blocked.

Two men stepped out from around the corner, slow and deliberate. Solid builds. Visible tattoos winding down their arms. They wore black uniforms like security, but the way they moved was more like guards.

One chewed gum. The other kept a hand tucked at his waist—where a hard bulge outlined something like a stun gun or baton. They positioned themselves carefully: not close to me, but perfectly placed to cut off my retreat.

Lena stayed in front of me, close enough to touch. But her eyes no longer looked like a girlfriend’s.

“Come in,” she repeated, light as air. “Don’t keep everyone waiting.”

I didn’t ask again.

I let my shoulders loosen slightly, like I’d finally realized I was in a strange place and resistance was pointless.

I needed them relaxed. I needed more information. People reveal the most when they think they’ve already won.

I raised my hands in a small, ordinary gesture of surrender—Fine. I’ll go in.

She opened the door. The light inside was whiter than the hallway, so bright it erased shadows.

The door closed behind me. The two tattooed guards stayed at the entrance, not coming in. They turned their backs to the room like two nails driven into the frame—blocking the corridor view and turning the doorway into an exit only they could allow.

Frosted glass bled blurred shapes. I could see their silhouettes through it: broad shoulders, thick necks.

I walked into the room slowly, like a normal man who’d been scared into compliance.

There were three nurses inside—two men and a woman.

At a glance, the setup looked like an assessment room: an adjustable bed, a few monitoring devices, a row of drawer cabinets, a small sink.

But the details were all wrong.

A metal tray beside the bed held sealed sterile instruments. The sink had an elbow-operated tap—made for working with hands kept sterile. The trash bin in the corner was a yellow medical waste container with a foot pedal lid. More than anything, beneath the fragrance, a hard disinfectant bite pushed through—like someone had just wiped down metal.

This wasn’t a place to “relax.”

This was a place to be processed.

Lena walked to the desk, picked up a bottle of water, and handed it to me, as casually as before.

“Have some water. Relax. It’s just an assessment.”

She flicked her eyes to the young female nurse beside her. The nurse wore gloves and approached with a tray—disposable needles, several labeled vials. Her movements were practiced, efficient, with no wasted pauses.

I took the bottle but didn’t open it. I simply held it, like I needed something solid in my hand.

I looked up at Lena and let my voice wobble on purpose.

“This isn’t right. You said therapy. I heard instruments in there. This looks like… like an operating room.”

Lena leaned against the desk, arms folded, like she was enjoying the moment I finally understood.

She didn’t answer immediately. She gave a short laugh first—sharp, confirming.

“You’re sensitive,” she said. “Men like you usually live longer.”

I followed her line and made my fear look more convincing.

“I’m not doing any assessment. I’m leaving. Where’s your dad? I want to talk to your dad.”

As I spoke, I glanced toward the door and deliberately let my eyes rest on the frosted glass. Those two silhouettes outside didn’t move.

Lena’s smile deepened. She adjusted her cuff, and her voice grew calmer.

“He’s not my father. He’s my boss.”

“You work for him? Doing what?”

She stepped closer. Her gaze swept over me like she was appraising a delivery.

“I’m a hunter. My job is to bring in the right people.”

She said it plainly—no shame, no hesitation—like she was describing a normal profession.

“From the moment you got into the car, you were already registered,” she continued. “You thought meeting my father meant we were getting serious? That was packaging. Letting you walk in on your own saves time—and saves trouble.”

I didn’t explode. I set the water bottle on the desk as if my hand was trembling.

My voice dropped low. “Registered as what?”

“A resource.”

She said the word the same way someone would say visitor.

“Next comes the procedure.” She pointed at the tray in the nurse’s hands. “First we filter and match. Draw blood, run basic tests, upload the data. We have a database. Matching is fast. Who needs what—the system tells us.”

As she spoke, the female nurse moved again, stepping closer, ready to seize my arm and find a vein.

I jerked back, acting more panicked.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to make me donate? We can talk money—I’ll pay!”

Lena laughed a little wider. “Donation is voluntary. Ours isn’t.”

“The extraction process is very professional,” she said. “Not everyone dies right away. A lot of people don’t lose their heart, not something that kills instantly. Kidneys, corneas, skin, bone marrow… Some things can be taken and the person still lives for a while.”

She spoke like she was reciting medical common sense—carrying a faint, smug confidence: We’re careful. We’re clean.

“We keep them.” Lena went on. “Save them for next time. A resource has to be used to its maximum.”

I stared at her. Heat climbed in my chest, but I held it down. If I were an ordinary man, I should’ve been afraid—not furious.

“Our clients aren’t random people like you imagine,” she said. “They have money, power, influence. They create value. Do you know how the world works? Not with emotions. With resource allocation.”

She came closer, her voice softer but firmer.

“I’m not a butcher. I just help the people who should live… live longer. As for the others—keeping them alive is a waste of resources. What we do is integrate resources, make everything more efficient.”

My fist clenched. Knuckles whitening—this time not an act.

A flash hit me: Noah the day he disappeared—laughing in front of the cartoons, bare feet slapping the floor as he ran outside at the sound of an ice cream truck.

I forced the image down before it broke my timing.

I lunged toward the door like I’d finally snapped.

The instant I moved, the two male nurses rushed me. One grabbed my shoulder; the other hooked my wrists from behind and dragged me toward the bed.

Rough, strong—but careful not to damage me. Like they were “controlling merchandise.”

I struggled like it was real—ragged breathing, stumbling feet, a curse out of my mouth—everything a normal man would do when fear finally turns into panic.

They shoved me down at the edge of the bed. I looked up at Lena as if begging for her last shred of conscience.

“Lena, you’re insane. You’ll get arrested!”

She watched me pinned there, like she was waiting for me to fully break.

There was even a hint of satisfaction on her face—because it meant her job was going smoothly.

“Don’t move,” she said. “Your blood type is special, you know that? That kind is rare.”

She leaned in. Her fingertip slid from my jaw to my cheek, stopping near the corner of my eye. Her tone turned into pricing.

“Your corneas can sell for a very good price.”

One of the male nurses holding me chuckled, like he’d just heard a deal that had nothing to do with him.

Lena turned and issued orders, managerial, like she ran a clinic.

“Hold him. Start the preliminary check.”

Then she walked to the door—unhurried.

She opened it. The two tattooed guards shifted aside to let her out, then immediately returned to position.

Lena looked back at me, as if delivering a final verdict.

“Don’t waste your strength. You’ll understand soon—this is my world.”

The door clicked shut gently.

All that remained in the room was white light, the sting of disinfectant, and medical staff ready to work.

I watched Lena leave. And then my struggling stopped—like I’d finally accepted it.

One of the male nurses blinked, then pressed down harder, wary of a sudden counterattack. The female nurse approached with the needle, professional, tapping the inside of my arm to find a vein.

I lifted my head and looked over their faces, one by one, as calmly as if I were asking about something trivial.

“Have any of you operated on an eight-year-old boy?” I asked. “Named Noah.”

No one answered.

They didn’t treat me like a person—only a shipment. In their rules, a shipment’s voice isn’t a voice.

The needle tip hovered only a few centimeters from my skin.

I didn’t ask again.

I simply closed my fingers slowly, muscle tightening like a bow drawn to full tension.

And then—

I moved.