Page 33 of Blood Caged

“She…” I swallow hard, fighting against the memory. “She’s been rough during the showers. Today, I was already weak from all the…” I can’t bring myself to say “blood draws.” “I slipped. She didn’t catch me.”

I watch Dr. Chen’s face carefully, searching for any hint of her true feelings. Will she defend Patty? Dismiss my account?

To my surprise, a touch of genuine concern crosses her features. “I see,” she says. “And how long has this treatment been going on?”

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. But something in Dr. Chen’s eyes – a warmth I haven’t seen in any other face here – makes me want to trust her, just a little.

“Since I arrived,” I admit. “It’s been…difficult.”

Dr. Chen nods, making a note on her chart. “I understand this is hard, Mia. But I need to know – have there been any other incidents? Any other pain or discomfort you’ve been experiencing?”

I close my eyes briefly, weighing my options. How much can I safely tell her? Will it make any difference?

I don’t get to answer Dr. Chen’s question because the door suddenly opens. A female guard enters, carrying a bundle of fabric. Relief washes over me at the sight of clothing, even as I resent feeling grateful for such a basic necessity.

“Here,” the guard says, handing the bundle of fabric to the doctor, who passes it to me. It’s another of those simple tunics, rough to the touch but blessedly clean.

Dr. Chen gives me a reassuring nod. “Let’s give you some privacy to change. I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

As they leave, I struggle to sit up, my muscles protesting every movement. I pull Soren’s jacket tighter around me, hating how I’ve come to rely on its warmth. With trembling hands, I reach for the tunic.

Dressing is an awkward, painful process. My limbs feel like lead, and every motion sends waves of dizziness through me. But the simple act of covering myself brings a small measure of comfort, a tiny reclaiming of dignity.

As I fumble with the fabric, I take in my surroundings for the first time. This isn’t the sterile medical bay I’ve grown accustomed to. The room is sparsely furnished, with a largedesk dominating one corner and bookshelves lining the walls. It’s clearly someone’s personal space, and with a jolt, I realize it must be his. The vampires.

The thought makes me uneasy. I’m in the lair of the beast, so to speak. But as I look around, I’m struck by how…impersonal it all feels. There are no photographs, no artwork, nothing to suggest the personality of its occupant. It’s as if he has deliberately kept any trace of himself from this space.

I find myself wondering about the vampire who’s become such a central figure in my captivity. What kind of person chooses to live in such stark surroundings? Is it a reflection of his inner world or just another mask he wears?

The door opens again, and Dr. Chen returns to continue her examination. I watch her carefully as she approaches, trying to gauge her true intentions. There’s a softness in her eyes that I haven’t seen in anyone else here, genuine care that makes me wonder if she might be different from the rest.

As she checks my vitals once more, I notice the slight furrow of her brow, the tightening of her lips. She’s not happy with what she’s seeing, that much is clear. I can’t help but wonder if her disapproval extends beyond just my physical condition to the practices of this facility as a whole.

Part of me wants to press her, to see if I can glean any useful information. But exhaustion weighs heavily on me, and even the thought of engaging in subtle manipulation feels beyond my capabilities right now.

“Mia,” Dr. Chen says gently, “I want to explain some of what you’re experiencing. The blood harvesting process has taken a significant toll on your body.”

I brace myself, unsure if I really want to hear the details, but knowing I need to understand what’s happening to me.

“Your body is struggling to produce new blood cells fast enough to replace what’s been taken,” she continues. “This iscausing severe anemia, which is why you’re feeling so weak and dizzy. You may also experience shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat, and difficulty concentrating.”

I nod slightly, recognizing many of those symptoms.

“There’s also a risk of your immune system becoming compromised,” Dr. Chen adds, her voice laced with what sounds like genuine concern. “Your body is under extreme stress, which makes you more susceptible to infections.”

As she speaks, I can’t help but notice the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes dart toward the door occasionally. It’s almost as if she’s afraid of being overheard, of saying too much.

“I… Okay,” I say feebly because I’m not sure how else to respond.

“I’d like to keep you under observation for the night. I’m going to send you to the medical bay,” she tells me.

I try to process Dr. Chen’s words. The idea of staying in the medical bay overnight fills me with conflicting emotions. On one hand, the thought of not returning to my cold, lonely cell brings a wave of relief. But fear quickly follows on the heels of that relief. What does this mean? Are they planning more tests? More “procedures”? The unknown looms before me, dark and threatening.

“You’ll be more comfortable there,” Dr. Chen says, her voice gentle. “We can monitor your condition more closely.”

I want to trust her kindness, but experience has taught me to be wary. In this place, even small mercies often come with a price.

“What exactly does that mean?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Monitoring?”

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