Chapter 8 The Priority Subject

Grace's POV

I kept my head down and tried to make sense of everything Julian had said. Early trials. Both our families are tied to this place. The lies we had been told. It sat in my chest like a stone.

Late in the afternoon a group of newer inmates started circling the open space in the center of the pens. One of them, a broad-shouldered boy with a mean mouth, kept looking over at me.

I noticed him yesterday. He had the kind of eyes that searched for anyone who looked smaller or newer.

He walked up and stopped in front of my mat.

“You’re the special one,” he said. “The one with the blood they care about. Bet that comes with extra food. Or softer treatment.”

I stayed sitting. “I don’t have anything you want.”

He crouched down. “Maybe I just don’t like the way you look at people; like, you still matter.”

He reached for my arm. I pulled back, but he was faster. His fingers dug into the bruise the guard had left.

I tried to yank free.

He tightened his grip and threw his head back, laughing.

“Go on,” he mocked. “Keep fighting. You really think you can get away from me?”

I pulled harder, panic burning through my chest.

He laughed again, louder this time, watching me struggle like I was nothing but a joke.

“Look at you,” he sneered. “Still pretending you have a choice. Like you're some special bitch in here and we all are the useless ones.”

“You're nothing but a bastard, a whore and an orphan.”

I flinched at the venom in his voice, frightened and confused.

I had never done anything to him. I had never even given him a reason to hate me, yet the hatred in his voice made it feel as though I had committed some terrible crime.

Suddenly, a hand clamped down on his wrist.

Julian was there. I hadn’t even seen him cross the room. His face appeared calm, but his grip on the boy’s arm was tense.

“Let go,” Julian commanded.

The boy sneered. “This doesn’t concern you!.”

Julian’s voice stayed quiet. “It does now. Take your hand off her.”

For a second I thought the boy might swing. Then he looked into Julian’s eyes, noticed the scar, and observed how the other combat fighters had gone still around them. He let go of my arm and stepped back with his hands raised.

“Just talking,” he said.

Julian didn’t answer. He waited until the boy walked away before he glanced down at me.

“You all right?”

I nodded. My arm throbbed. “I thought you said to stay away.”

A flicker of guilt crossed his face before his expression hardened again.

“I did.”

He looked like he might say more, but the main doors opened and Blackwood walked in with two guards.

The warden’s gaze swept the room and landed on the three of us. The boy who had grabbed me. Me. Julian is still standing too close.

Blackwood’s thin smile appeared.

He chuckled, shaking his head in wicked amusement.

“Wow… wow… wow. Interesting. What is happening here?” His grin widened. “What a lovely communion.”

“The priority subject and our surviving prototype. How protective.”

He made a small note on his tablet and continued his walk like he had already filed the moment away for later.

Julian stepped back from me immediately. The blank wall slammed down over his face again.

But it was too late.

Blackwood had already seen everything

And I could tell from the look in Julian’s eyes that he knew exactly how dangerous that was.

☾𖤓☽ ───────── ☾𖤓☽

The next morning two guards came for me before the buzzer even sounded.

They did not shout or shove. That almost worsened it. One of them just said my name and told me to stand.

Teresa watched from across the pens with a tight look on her face. Julian was already on his feet with the combat group. His eyes followed me all the way to the door.

They took me up three levels. The air got cleaner. The walls were smoother. Cameras still watched from every corner, but the lights were brighter and the floors did not stick to my shoes.

We stopped in front of a glass office. Inside sat a man I had never seen before. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with neat gray hair and a thin face that looked tired under the surface.

He wore a white coat over a dark shirt. When he looked up from his tablet, his eyes were sharp and measuring.

The guard opened the door and steered me inside.

“Sit,” the man ordered.

I stayed standing.

He did not raise his voice. “Sit down, Miss Sinclair. I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

My legs went numb as I lowered myself into the seat, afraid of what would happen if I refused.

He turned the tablet so I could see the screen. My own face stared back at me from a file photo. Below it were rows of numbers and color-coded charts I did not understand.

“Your genetic markers are unusual,” he said.

“Higher compatibility than any subject we have processed in the last two years. I reviewed the full sequence last night.”

“Who are you?”

“Victor Roxburgh. I direct this facility.” He spoke like he hadn’t just said something cruel.

“Your parents were talented researchers. Misguided, but talented. They tried to bury what they knew about you. They failed.”

My hands curled into fists on my thighs.

“You killed them.”

“They made that necessary.” He scrolled through more data.

“I have ordered you moved to observation status effective immediately. You will be housed closer to the labs. Daily monitoring. Controlled exposure trials will begin once the baseline tests are complete.”

“What if I refuse?”

Roxburgh looked at me over the tablet. For the first time he almost smiled.

“You are eighteen years old and alone in a place that does not recognize refusal. Your cooperation is preferred. It is not required.”

He nodded to the guards. They pulled me to my feet.

As they walked me out, Roxburgh spoke one more time.

“Your blood may be the key to something much larger than you, Miss Sinclair. Try to accept that sooner rather than later. It will make the coming weeks easier for everyone.”

The door closed with a soft click behind me.

☾𖤓☽ ───────── ☾𖤓☽

They moved me that same day.

The new room was smaller and cleaner than the pens. One narrow cot. One metal toilet. A camera in the top corner that never turned off.

The door locked from the outside with a heavy click. Observation status meant I was alone now, and the silence felt louder than all the coughing and whispering I had left behind.

I sat on the cot and tried to steady my breathing. Roxburgh’s words kept circling in my head. My blood was the key. My parents had tried to bury the truth about me. Cooperation was preferred but not required.

A soft knock sounded on the door. Not the hard bang the guards used. A quiet double tap.

I slowly pushed myself to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The lock turned and a man slipped inside quickly.

He was older than most of the inmates, maybe in his thirties, with a short beard and quick eyes. He wore the same dull gray clothes as everyone else, but he carried himself like he knew where the cameras had blind spots.

“Keep your voice low,” he said. “Name’s Frank. I move things around this place that aren’t supposed to move.”

I stayed near the back wall. “How did you get in here?”

“That’s my business.” He glanced at the camera and positioned himself so his mouth was harder to read.

“You’re the Sinclair girl. Priority blood. Word travels fast when someone new jumps to the top of the list.”

“What do you want?”

“Future favors, mostly.” He held up a small folded square of paper between two fingers.

“I can get information. Messages. Sometimes even small supplies. In return, when the time comes, you remember who helped you.”

I didn’t take the paper. My eyes stayed fixed on it, but I couldn’t bring myself to open it.

“Why should I trust you?”

Frank almost smiled. “You shouldn’t. Not fully. But you’re alone in a locked room, and the director already has plans for you. Information is the only currency that matters down here.”

He set the paper on the end of the cot and stepped back toward the door.

“Read it when I’m gone. If you want more, find a way to signal the night shift laundry cart. I’ll know.”

The door opened and closed so fast it was like he had never been there.

I waited a full minute before I picked up the paper. Inside was a single line written in small block letters.

THEY ARE ACCELERATING THE SERUM TRIALS BECAUSE ROXBURGH IS RUNNING OUT OF TIME. YOUR BLOOD IS THE LAST PIECE. WATCH THE TECHS WHO LOOK SORRY. SOME OF THEM CAN STILL BE USEFUL.

I sat down slowly on the cot and read the words again to the last that had a name.

FRANK CASTILLO.