I came to Metropolitan Hospital needing treatment under the experimental protocol, but nothing prepared me for the way Vincent Wyndham looks at me. Twice my age, his deliberate movements and thick build fill the sterile white room until I forget how to breathe.

Each assessment requires more. The stethoscope against the crescent scar above my breast, his fingers on the cold metal clipboard, my body responding to his authoritative control in ways I cannot admit. I wear submission like a shield, hiding the terror that he will turn away once the protocol ends.

Now the examination table stands ready, and the protocol says nothing about what he asks of me next. He tells me to bend forward and wait.