CAGED HEARTS
JODY'S POV
Cold metal bit into my wrists. The taste of copper filled my mouth, metallic and wrong, like I'd been sucking on pennies. My head felt stuffed with cotton, thoughts moving through molasses as consciousness crawled back one painful piece at a time.
"She's coming around."
The voice was clinical, detached. Not Alex's warm tenor that had whispered sweet things against my ear just hours ago. Or was it hours? Time felt slippery, unreliable.
I tried to move and discovered leather restraints around my wrists and ankles. Panic shot through me like ice water, clearing the fog instantly. My eyes snapped open to harsh fluorescent lights that made me squint.
"Easy now, Jody. You're safe."
Dr. Powell's face swam into focus above me, wearing that same concerned expression he'd perfected in his office. But here, in this sterile room that smelled of disinfectant and fear, it looked grotesque.
"Where am I?" My voice came out cracked, dry.
"Facility 7. Think of it as an intensive care unit for minds that need... adjustment." He pulled up a chair beside the metal table I was strapped to. "The sedative will wear off completely in another hour or so. Until then, let me explain what happens next."
I tested the restraints. Solid. Professional. "You drugged me."
"A necessary precaution. Your psychological profile indicated you'd resist the transition initially." He consulted a tablet, scrolling through what looked like pages of notes. "Subject 127 displays classic symptoms of academic validation dependency coupled with abandonment trauma. Excellent foundation for reconditioning."
Subject 127. The same number from Skylar's files. They'd been planning this for months.
"The other students—"
"Are progressing beautifully through their own development phases." Powell's smile was paternal, proud. "Would you like to see them?"
Before I could answer, he wheeled the table I was strapped to toward a wall of one-way glass. On the other side, a dozen people sat in individual cells, each maybe eight by ten feet. Some rocked back and forth. Others stared at blank walls with glassy eyes. One girl, barely nineteen, was having an animated conversation with someone who wasn't there.
"Grace?" I whispered.
The blonde girl from the missing persons files looked up at the sound, her eyes unfocused and dreamy. She waved at the mirror like she could see me, then went back to her invisible friend.
"Grace has made remarkable progress," Powell said. "She arrived two years ago completely resistant to suggestion. Now she's one of our most successful cases. Fully compliant, emotionally stable, and ready for field deployment."
"What did you do to her?"
"Helped her become her best self. Removed the psychological barriers that were holding her back from true happiness." He wheeled me past more cells. A boy who looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. A girl methodically braiding and unbraiding her hair over and over. "Each student receives personalized treatment based on their unique psychological profile."
My stomach turned. "Treatment?"
"Systematic psychological reconditioning. We identify the core traumas and dependencies that drive destructive behavior patterns, then gradually replace them with healthier thought processes." His voice carried the enthusiasm of someone discussing a fascinating hobby. "Your case is particularly interesting—abandonment trauma from your parents' death, coupled with desperate need for intellectual validation. Perfect foundation for creating loyalty bonds."
The cells blurred past. How many students? Twenty? Thirty? All scholarship kids like me, desperate enough to trust the wrong people.
"Of course, not everyone adapts successfully to the process." Powell's tone grew regretful. "Some minds are too rigid, too attached to their dysfunctional patterns. Those cases require... alternative solutions."
"You kill them."
"We make difficult decisions in service of the greater good." He stopped the table at the end of the hallway and turned to face me directly. "But I have high hopes for your case. Your psychological profile suggests you'll respond beautifully to the right handler."
The door opened with a soft hiss, and Alex walked in.
My heart lurched, hope and betrayal crashing together so hard I couldn't breathe. He looked terrible—hollow-eyed, unshaven, like he hadn't slept since I'd seen him last. But he was here. In this place. With them.
"Hello, Jody." His voice was different. Careful. Professional.
"Alex?" I searched his face for some sign of the boy who'd kissed me in the chemistry lab, who'd looked at me like I mattered more than anything in the world.
"Alex will be your primary handler throughout the reconditioning process," Powell explained. "His psychological profile makes him ideal for managing your specific attachment patterns."
"I don't understand." But I did. God help me, I did.
Alex stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at attention. "The relationship we developed was... necessary preparation for this phase. You needed to form a strong attachment bond before reconditioning could begin."
"You're lying." The words ripped out of me, raw and desperate.
"I'm afraid not." Powell consulted his tablet again. "Every interaction was carefully planned and monitored. The tutoring sessions, the laboratory work, even the physical intimacy—all designed to create optimal psychological dependency."
My vision blurred. Not from the drugs this time, but from something breaking inside my chest. "The kiss..."
"Was scheduled for October fifteenth," Alex said quietly. "Right on target."
The clinical precision of it hit me like a physical blow. Everything I'd felt, everything I'd thought was real—just data points on their charts.
"However," Powell continued, "we've encountered an unexpected complication. It seems Alex has developed genuine feelings that compromise his objectivity as a handler."
Alex's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Which brings us to an interesting crossroads." Powell moved to a control panel on the wall. "Either Alex proves his continued loyalty by completing your reconditioning personally, or we'll be forced to terminate both subjects and begin fresh with new assets."
"Terminate." The word came out flat.
"You'll find the process quite painless. A simple injection, then peaceful sleep." His finger hovered over a red button. "Alex has forty-eight hours to demonstrate significant progress in your psychological conditioning. If not..."
He didn't need to finish. The threat hung in the recycled air between us like poison gas.
"I won't let that happen," Alex said, still not meeting my eyes.
"Excellent. I do so hate waste." Powell moved toward the door. "I'll leave you two to begin the bonding exercises. Remember, Alex—complete compliance is the only acceptable outcome."
The door sealed shut with a soft click, leaving us alone in the sterile room. Alex finally looked at me, and for just a moment, I saw something raw and desperate in his eyes before the professional mask slid back into place.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
But as he moved toward the control panel, I caught fragments of conversation from the hallway. Powell's voice, clinical and satisfied: "—if the reconditioning fails, we'll need to expedite termination before—"
The rest was lost, but those words burned themselves into my brain. Termination. Expedite. They weren't planning to give us forty-eight hours at all.