Caging Phoenix

The first alarm went off before sunrise.
Phoenix didn't flinch. She'd been expecting it for days-ever since the notice on her wristband started flashing red. AGE REGRESSIVE DETECTED: MANDATORY CARE INTAKE - LEVEL 3.
The words had burned themselves into her skin like a brand.
By the time the Recovery Unit kicked down her apartment door, she was already wearing combat boots and a glare that could cut glass.
"You're not taking me in," she warned.
The tallest guard-armored, faceless-didn't even respond. A tranquilizer needle hissed in his hand.
Phoenix hurled the first thing she could reach-a kitchen knife-and bolted toward the fire escape. The city outside was still wrapped in fog, the old billboards flickering with the Ministry's slogan: "CARE IS CONTROL. CONTROL IS SAFETY."
She didn't make it down two steps before the needle hit her shoulder.
The world folded in half.