The voice came over the intercom — flat, male, familiar.
"Unit 97-9. Subfloor 2. Work duty."
Lottie had already been standing. She always was when the voice came. Not out of discipline. Just instinct. Movement helped her think. Helped her feel real.
The cell door unlatched with a soft hiss, and cooler air drifted in. She could tell it was colder outside today. That meant Subfloor 2. Medical waste. They always overchilled it, maybe to keep the stench down.
She didn't wait for instruction. She stepped out, her hand trailing the left wall as her feet adjusted to the slicker floors. One of the guards shifted behind her.
"How's this one still breathing?"
"System glitched her cull order. She slipped through."
"Creepy. I swear she can hear us."
"She's blind, not deaf."
Lottie didn't flinch. She didn't respond. That was how she stayed alive.
The hallway stretched long and humming — machines behind the walls, the throb of pipes above her. She walked it by memory, counting each door, each floor vent, each slight change in texture beneath her bare feet.
Subfloor 2 always smelled like antiseptic and blood. Not fresh blood. Stale. Tired.
The kind that had already given up.
She felt the temperature drop as she passed under the next threshold. This room was busier — low voices, clatter of trays, the sharp hiss of something being sterilized.
"Another one from Nine?" a woman muttered near the entrance.
"Red-list unit. Cleaning shift."
"She's blind."
"She can scrub. That's all we need."
A cracked pair of gloves was shoved into her hands. Lottie took them without hesitation, fingers sliding into the worn rubber like she'd done a thousand times before.
She crouched at the basin, already knowing where the bins were. Her fingers sank into the first tray. Something soft. Thick. Wet. She didn't ask what it was. She never did.
The air here was always thick with heat and rot and silence pretending to be order. Girls worked all around her, scrubbing surgical tools, sorting failed tissue samples, dragging disposal units toward incineration.
Lottie never spoke. She only worked.
A sharp clatter — a scalpel dropped near her foot.
Lottie stilled. Bent slowly. Picked it up.
A soft gasp from the girl nearby.
"Sorry," the girl whispered. "Didn't mean to— I didn't think you'd—"
"She hears everything," someone else muttered.
"Like a rat."
Lottie held the scalpel out, steady.
The first girl took it with trembling fingers.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Lottie said nothing.
Sometime later — maybe an hour, maybe more — someone new entered the subfloor. She couldn't see them, but she felt it. The air shifted. The other girls went quiet. Their movements stiffened. She heard the crack of boots, heavier than the usual techs. Authority.
"Why is she still working?" a voice asked, sharp and male.
"Unit 97-9?"
"She's red-listed. Terminated on paper."
"We're behind on disposal. She's still useful for cleaning."
"We've got highblood eyes on this sector tomorrow. I don't want her visible."
"We'll pull her before inspection."
Their voices moved on, but Lottie heard the buzz of tension remain behind.
The girl from earlier leaned closer.
"You heard that, right?" she whispered. "Highbloods are coming. Royals. They never come down here."
Lottie didn't answer, but her fingers tightened around the scrub pad in her hand.
"Some of the girls say… the king is one of them. The king. The one who owns the covens. He burns humans alive. Just for fun."
A pause.
"If he sees you…"
The girl didn't finish the thought.
She didn't have to.
By the time Lottie returned to her cell, her arms ached and her knees felt swollen from crouching. But the ache was familiar. Easy. It was the silence she didn't trust.
The hallway was too quiet.
She could still hear the hum in the walls, the whisper of vents, the low shuffle of guards. But something was different.
The scent in the air was off — less bleach, more… something else. Like dried roses set on fire. Sweet and sour. Foreign.
She paused at her door.
It didn't open immediately.
Inside, the temperature had shifted.
Lottie entered slowly, hand brushing the wall, bare feet stepping cautiously over the threshold.
The door slid shut behind her without a sound.
She sat on her cot.
Didn't hum.
Didn't move.
Just listened.
Far away — maybe two floors up — a heavy set of doors opened.
And then… silence again.
But not the usual kind.
Lottie breathed in.
And exhaled.