The first thing Genesis took from me was time. Not in the dramatic way people imagine, no clocks ripped from walls, no endless darkness meant to erase days. They did it gently. Methodically. By making every hour identical. Lights brightened at six. Nutrient checks at six-thirty. Observation scans at seven. Silence from eight until noon, broken only by soft-voiced attendants who never met my eyes. Lunch precisely calibrated to fetal development. Rest periods enforced, not suggested. Movement tracked. Thoughts monitored through questions disguised as concern. “How are you feeling today, Selena?” The same way I felt yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Like a specimen that had learned how to breathe. They called this wing Sanctuary. A word chosen carefully, like everything
