Ravyn
The next morning brought the clinical routine Cassian had warned her about. Two guards escorted her from her cell to what they called the “procedure room”—a sterile medical facility complete with examination table, monitoring equipment, and the antiseptic smell that had haunted her nightmares since she’d first awakened here.
Dr. Kellner waited with her usual array of vials and needles, her expression professionally neutral as she prepared for another blood draw.
“Good morning, Subject One,” she said without looking up from her equipment. “I trust you slept well?”
“As well as anyone can in a prison cell,” Ravyn replied, settling onto the examination table with resigned compliance—the attitude Cassian had suggested.
“This isn’t a prison,” Dr. Kellner corrected, wrapping the blood
