The secure medical facility was exactly what I'd expected—a prison disguised as a treatment center, designed to warehouse inconvenient people under the guise of providing care. My room was comfortable but locked, the windows were barred, and guards monitored my every movement with professional detachment.
The facility hummed with quiet efficiency, its sterile corridors and soft-spoken staff creating an atmosphere of medical authority that made resistance seem futile. It was the perfect place to disappear someone without raising uncomfortable questions.
Dr. Morrison visited daily to assess my "progress," which essentially meant determining whether I was ready to abandon my "delusions" about Giana's conspiracy. Each session was a careful dance around the truth, with him trying to convince
