Fragments

7

The morning unfolds in the same careful routine as every other day. I wake early, moving quietly through the apartment to avoid waking Elias. Today, though, there's a simmering tension under my skin, a weight that feels heavier with each passing second. My decision has been made, but not acted upon. Tonight, I will find Kellan. I will escape this life of control and erasure. But for now, I have to maintain the facade. I have to appear as if nothing has changed.

I prepare breakfast, measuring the nutrient supplements with a steady hand, forcing my mind into the routine. Elias enters the kitchen, his face drawn with exhaustion. He watches me silently, his eyes sad. We eat without speaking, the air between us still. He knows something is coming, something he can't stop. But neither of us says a word.

When it's time to leave, I gather my things, my heart pounding. I step toward the door, hesitating for a moment. Elias stands there, watching me with an unreadable expression.

"Lena," he begins, his voice hoarse, but I shake my head.

"Not now," I say softly. "We can talk later. I'm not ready for goodbye yet."

He nods, his gaze following me as I step out into the hallway. I don't look back. I can't. If I do, I might falter, and I can't afford to lose my resolve now.

The city moves around me in its usual rhythm as I head to the Ministry. The streets are alive with the muted hum of electric vehicles and the steady flow of citizens moving in their ordered paths. I slip into the current, my steps purposeful but unremarkable, my face blank, betraying nothing of the turmoil inside.

At the Ministry, I fall into my routine with mechanical precision. I sit at my terminal, eyes fixed on the screen, scrolling through memory logs, searching for inconsistencies. My heart is not in the work, my mind elsewhere, counting down the hours until tonight when I'll try to find Kellan. I glance at the clock, watching the seconds tick by.

A sudden noise in the hallway jolts me. Raised voices, hurried footsteps. I stiffen, my pulse quickening. Before I can react, the door to my office swings open, crashing against the wall. Marek strides in, his face cold and impassive, followed by two Collection Guards—hulking figures in dark uniforms, their faces hidden behind mirrored visors.

"Lena," Marek says, his voice devoid of emotion. "It's time."

Panic flares in my chest. "No," I whisper, pushing back from my desk. "You can't—"

But the guards are on me before I can finish, their hands like iron as they grip my arms and yank me to my feet. I thrash against them, kicking out, trying to break free. Marek watches with a detached interest, his eyes following my every move.

"Resisting will only make this harder," he warns coldly.

"Let me go!" I scream, twisting in their grip. My heart races, my mind a blur of fear and fury. Not like this. I can't be taken like this. Not when I'm so close. I struggle, my vision tunneling as the guards drag me out of the office and down the hallway, Marek walking leisurely behind us.

The hallways blur around me as they pull me through the building. I wrench my arms, kicking out again, my foot connecting with one of the guard's legs. He grunts but tightens his grip, forcing my arms behind my back. I cry out, the sound echoing in the cold, sterile corridor.

They take me to a room at the end of a long, empty hall—a room I've never seen before. Its door is steel, imposing, with no markings to suggest what lies beyond. Marek steps forward, inputting a code into a keypad beside the door. It slides open with a hiss, revealing a stark, clinical interior. At the center of the room is a chair with straps on the arms and legs. It will be as involuntary as a procedure could get.