Chapter 2 The Cure for Love

Earlier, before the treatment began.

The world outside Pygmalion Labs looked clean enough to lie. White panels rose without windows, a smooth face with nothing behind the eyes. No sign. No name. Only a steel logo above the doors, a human silhouette split down the middle like a decision pretending to be science.

I stood beneath it and tasted rain on metal. Coffee sat bitter on my tongue with the chalk of a cheap anxiety pill. My reflection floated in the glass, red eyes, tight hair, a woman trying to look numb. If pretending counted as healing, I would not have been there.

A speaker clicked.

“State your name for entry.”

“Iris Monroe.”

“Authorization confirmed.”

The door opened, and the temperature dropped as if the building had inhaled. Antiseptic filled the air. Lights so white they erased edges. The place sounded alive in a way that did not care for people. Vents breathed. Machines counted. Somewhere behind the walls, a pulse that wasn’t human kept time.

The receptionist didn’t look up. “Forms. Sign on every yellow tab.”

I took the stack. Waivers, liability, neural scarring, and emotional displacement. Poetry written by lawyers. I signed until my name shrank. She stamped the top page. Approved.

“Follow the line to Pre-Op Two,” she said. “Dr. Cross will join you shortly.” The hallway guided me forward, marked by a gray stripe on the floor. Mirrors watched from both sides. I stopped counting cameras after the fourth. The door to Pre-Op Two slid open on its own.

One chair waited, surrounded by metal arms and wires. A tray of instruments gleamed like polished teeth. A mesh cap sat beside a clipboard marked Cognitive Calibration: Subject 019.

A man stepped in through a side door, wearing a scrub shirt and scarred hands.

“I’m Jonah. I’ll be with you through the procedure.”

He measured my skull, marked points across my scalp, and tightened the mesh until my skin felt claimed. “What does it do?” I asked, trying to ease my nerves. “It finds where you hide your feelings,” he said. “Then it quiets them.”

He smiled, but his eyes flicked to the mirror. Someone watched from behind it. I felt that gaze like static.

He tested my reactions, colors, words, and the press of a vibrotactile wand. “Think of the last time you felt safe.” The question landed harder than it should have. I said nothing. Could I even remember that?

“Calibration complete,” he said. A voice answered from behind the glass. “Enough pre-op.” The door opened, and a man walked in with the calm of someone who never needed to hurry.

Dr. Cassian Cross looked sharper than his photos: dark hair, pale eyes, a face carved for control. “Ms. Monroe,” he said. “Welcome to Pygmalion.” He circled the chair like he was reading the air around me. “You understand the procedure is experimental. You may end participation at any time.”

“I read the papers.”

“Reading and understanding differ from each other,” he said. “We will assume the best.”

He glanced through my file. “You’ve experienced recurrent trauma linked to attachment. The Echo Array connects your limbic responses to a parallel signal. We isolate the charge on specific memories. We do not erase. We neutralize.”

“Quiet,” I said. “Like a pillow over the face.” His eyes lifted. “Like a hand at the throat that teaches the body to breathe without panic.” A shiver traced my spine. Part of me wanted to run. Another wanted to stay. “What happens if I change my mind?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“We open the door,” he said. “No one leaves before completion.”

“Because they can’t.”

“Because they no longer want to.” He turned to Jonah. “Begin sedation.”

Jonah adjusted the chair until my body sank into it. He found a vein, slid the line, and secured it. The fluid spread warmth up my arm.

“You’ll hear a tone,” Cassian said. “It will match your heartbeat. Name any fear aloud. The brain cannot analyze and panic at the same time.”

He stopped in the doorway. “We are not here to forget love, Ms. Monroe. We are here to remove it as a weapon.” He left. The air returned, thinner somehow. His silhouette stayed behind the glass. Watching. Lights softened. Jonah checked a sensor by my ear.

“Ready for initial coupling,” a woman’s voice said from above.

The tone began, thin as a wire through bone. My molars vibrated. A second frequency arrived beneath it, slower, deeper, as if the building had grown a heartbeat.

“Tell me where you are,” Jonah said. “Pre-Op Two.”

“Who are you?”

“Iris Monroe.”

“Why are you here?” Words I rehearsed died before reaching my mouth. The truth surfaced on its own. “Because love has teeth,” I said. “And mine never stopped biting.”

The pulse grew louder. It was attention more than sound. It touched my jaw, my throat, my heart, noting each weakness like an architect studying cracks in a wall. “Name your fear,” a voice said.

Cassian. I knew the cadence. “Losing myself.”

“You will not,” he said. “Not while I am here.” Relief moved through me like a current. Heat gathered at the notch of my throat. A tear escaped. The mesh absorbed it. “Two minutes at pre-link,” the woman reported.

A second rhythm rose and met my heartbeat, then led it. The sensation wasn’t sexual. It was worse, control disguised as care. “Tell me what you notice,” he said. “The sound sits on my teeth. The room presses on my eyes. There’s a weight on my chest that feels chosen.”

Approval came as a pulse of warmth. I hated that I recognized it as affection. “Let the first image arrive,” he said. A stairwell appeared behind my eyes, concrete slick with water. A single light at the top glowed without heat. “What is at the bottom?”

“Water. Shallow. Enough to make every step sound like a confession.”

“Go down.”

“No.”

“Describe the rail.”

“Cold. Rough. Paint that flakes and cuts. It smells like coins.”

“Good. Step.” I stepped. The chill climbed my legs. The light above refused to help. “Hold,” the woman said. “Signal clean.”

A new image forced its way in, a kitchen at dusk, bulbs reflected in glass, smoke curling from a pan. Hands at my waist. Breath at my ear. “Focus on sensation,” Cassian said. “Do not add story.” The tone pulled me back before I could fall into memory. “Name three objects.”

“Knife. Citrus. Window latch.”

“Count five breaths.”

At four, the scene wavered. At five, calm returned. The relief felt manufactured and too good to resist. “Vitals steady,” the woman said. “Prepare for induction.” Jonah’s palm found my wrist, steady and human. “Tell me what you fear,” Cassian asked again, voice quieter now.

“Being remade,” I said. “And liking it.”

Heat ran down my chest in a thin line. My throat tightened. “Please,” I whispered, unsure what I asked for. “For what?”

“Do not leave me.”

“Not yet,” he whispered. The tone thinned to a single thread. The pulse moved with mine. The chair tilted slightly and locked. Darkness closed over me. “Induction,” the woman said. The last thing I heard was his voice, low and certain. “Breathe, Iris.” Then the world let go.