Page 2 of The Secretary Volume II

Or if I even can.

And then I hear it.

A voice.A whisper, sharp and cold as broken glass.

“It’s time to meet your replacement.”

The words land like a dropped blade.I freeze.

For a split second, I think I’ve misheard.I think it’s just another one of their sick games.I think they can’t possibly mean it.

But then the door at the end of the hallway swings open.

And I see you.

You’re standing at the threshold, fingers curled around the metal doorframe like you’re trying to keep from being dragged in.You look small in this place—though God knows most people do.There’s confusion in your eyes.But still, there’s that spark.The part of you that thinks you might still have a say in what happens next.

You don’t.You never did.

I wish I could tell you to run.But there’s nowhere to run to.The note—the test, the game—you’ve already answered.And now this place is inside you.It burrows in, carves out the parts of you that matter, leaves only what they want.Like a parasite.

You move past without seeing me, escorted by two attendants.The hallway seems to tighten around you, long and sterile, meant to funnel you exactly where they want you to go.Your footsteps echo, too loud.The lights pulse, steady and sharp, like a frequency just high enough to make my teeth ache.

They lead you into a room.White sheets, a gurney, a tray of instruments—syringes, clamps, something that glints under the fluorescent glare like a promise.You hesitate in the doorway.No windows.Just glass panels showing another room, where machines monitor things you won’t understand until it’s too late.

They call it “pre-op testing.”

One of the attendants gestures for you to sit.You do.Because what choice do you have?Maybe you still think this is an evaluation.That if you say the right thing, you’ll walk out of here unscathed.

You won’t.

A stethoscope presses to your chest.A blood-pressure cuff tightens around your arm.A tiny needle pricks your finger.Routine things.Harmless things.Until they’re not.

The door opens again.

He enters.

I see the way your shoulders tense, the flicker of recognition in your eyes.You know him.Not just as a name whispered in the halls—but deeper than that.More intimately.He offers you a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Welcome,” he says.“We’ve been expecting you.”

Your pulse jumps.I know, because mine did too.

He steps closer, sleeves rolled up like a surgeon preparing to operate.You don’t look at him directly, not at first.Your gaze shifts, scanning the room, catching on the mirrored glass.You can’t see me, beyond the glass.But you know I’m here.

“Try to relax,” he says.“You’ll feel a little pressure at first.Then nothing at all.”

I wonder if he whispered the same thing when he pulled you into his bed—calm, detached, like he was guiding you through a procedure.Maybe that’s why I think it now.Because for him, control is the only thing that matters.The setting is irrelevant.The method, interchangeable.Silk sheets, a gurney.A promise, a scalpel.It always ends the same way.And when it’s over, you’ll convince yourself it was your choice.Just like the rest of us.

The tablet appears in your hands.A waiver.A contract.Something you won’t understand.Not until it’s too late.The sedation tube follows, sleek and gleaming.You hesitate.A fraction of a second too long.

A hiss.A click.

The needle slides into your vein.Your breath catches.Your pupils blow wide.Your fingers twitch as the drug takes hold, pulling you under.

I watch, helpless, as they begin the procedure.As he leans in, the cold metal slides against your skin.I want to look away, but I don’t.

Because I need to remember.