Experiments [Paragon]

[Kaelan]

Kaelan’s eyes lingered on the IV line, watching the cocktail of drugs drip steadily into her arm. One bead, then another, each droplet sliding down the thin tube like a countdown to some inevitable moment. But the thing on the table—the woman, the creature, whatever she was—didn’t flutter so much as an eyelash. Her chest rose and fell in a perfect rhythm, too even, too mechanical, like a machine set to mimic life. She didn’t stir. Didn’t react. Didn’t succumb. 

He frowned. Adjusted the dosage. Watched the machine hiss faintly as the mixture thickened. Another bead. Another drip. He waited. Still, nothing. 

Fascinating, he thought, scribbling a note in the logbook with the sort of casual detachment reserved for meteorologists recording wind speed during a hurricane. His pen scratched across the digital paper in deliberate strokes, but his mind was already spinning. What was coursing through her veins that rendered her so impervious? What chemistry held her together, what secret ingredient kept her upright when she should’ve dissolved under the weight of the world? He hadn’t realized how quiet the room had grown until her voice slid through the air like the blade of a scalpel. 

“You may trust me.” 

Kaelan turned sharply, surprised to find her watching him with those unnervingly wide eyes. She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe wrong. The voice was smooth, calm, and far too deliberate. “I am the most intelligent person in this building,” he said. The corners of his mouth quirked into a faint smile, one that might have softened the moment in someone else’s care—turned it into a jest or an icebreaker. But not here. Not with him. 

Kaelan didn’t laugh. He rarely did. He tilted his head, studying her as though she were a strange new organism under a microscope. “I need undifferentiated mesenchymal stem cells,” he replied, his words precise, almost clinical, as if reading from a manual. “Their DNA contains the purest form of what makes you… you. Unfortunately, they are only found in bone marrow, and there’s only one way to retrieve a sample.”

His expression held steady, as if he’d practiced the art of appearing unperturbed. He was already moving, his hands finding the biopsy needle, the aspiration tubing, his fingers sure and steady even as his mind wandered to the work ahead. 

“This,” he said, lifting the syringe into view like an executioner revealing the blade, “will be inserted into your hip bone. I’ll apply some local anesthetic, but if the cocktail didn’t put you to sleep”—he paused, his eyes locking on hers— “then I doubt the topical will have much effect.” 

It was as though he was looking through her, not at her, peeling her back layer by layer. Kaelan ignored the sensation crawling up his spine. He always did. 

“If you can’t hold still,” he continued, setting the syringe on the tray with a sharp clink, “I will have to apply straps.” He let the word hang in the air for a moment, heavy and sharp, before turning away to don the rest of his gear. The gown was already in place, but now came the gloves, the hood, the plastic face shield that sealed him into something sterile and inhuman, a walking figure of polished white and clear plastic, faceless, distant. 

It was always easier when they complied. He’d learned that much. Less mess. Less screaming. Less trouble. He wouldn’t force her—not outright, at least. He offered the illusion of consent, the way one might offer a dog a treat before the leash snapped tight around its neck. 

The needle gleamed in the harsh fluorescent light, bright and sharp, and Kaelan picked it up with the care of an artist lifting a brush. “Hold still,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “This won’t take long.”