Mildred

Norah’s heels clicked like tiny hammers on the polished stone of the corridor, her arms folded so tightly across her chest that her biceps dug little bruises into her sides. She had been walking with purpose for at least fifteen minutes, and if she stopped now, she knew she’d start to shake. Liesa padded quietly beside her in the neon trainers, her gaze flicking from floor to ceiling as if searching for hidden cameras.

“They want us to be lost,” Norah said, for maybe the third time. “The corridors all look the same. That’s intentional. It’s psychological warfare. Keep the rats disoriented, make them easier to manipulate.”

Liesa smiled slightly, not disagreeing. “You watch too many movies.”

“I ran focus groups for a living,” Norah replied, a little too sharp. “Every environment is curated. Every exit, every sign. Even the ambient music—did you notice it’s the same loop, just with different instrument sounds depending on which hall you’re in?” She stopped at a junction, checked the faint arrows embedded in the floor, and went left.

Liesa trailed, hands laced loosely behind her back. “I think they use vanilla in the air vents, too. Makes people feel calm.”

Norah grunted. “Makes me feel like I’m trapped in a cupcake.”

She realized, with a faint pang of embarrassment, that she was ranting. She was showing fear, which was exactly what they wanted. She **** her face into stillness, tried to steady her breathing. “Sorry,” she said, softer. “I’m just—”

“Angry,” Liesa supplied. “And a little scared.”

Norah almost denied it, but Liesa’s gaze was calm, sympathetic. There was no mockery. “Yeah,” Norah said. “Both.”

They took another turn, and suddenly the corridor opened up—bright and high-ceilinged, the air thick with the fake vanilla and a hint of something sharper, medicinal. The Main Lobby again. They had gotten turned around once more. The room felt staged: big, impressive, intimidating, like a corporate headquarters designed by someone who hated fun.

The far wall held a single 60-inch display showing a digital scoreboard. It looked like the splash page for some skeezy app: The Harem Hotel, with rows for “Victory Points” and “BP”, all set neatly to zero beside the names of the eight women.

Norah marched straight to the screen, finger pointed. “You see this? It’s gamified. They’re reducing us to numbers and metrics. It’s disgusting.” She squinted at the “BP” column, then snorted. “‘Bonus Points’. It probably really stands for Breeding Potential. Or—what’s a good gross acronym? Bribe Points?”

Liesa peered closer, then shrugged. “They’re all zero,” she said. “Maybe the game, it has not started yet.”

Norah stared at the list of names. Hers was there, fourth from the top. Seeing it in print did something to her chest—a tightening, like a pressure cuff.

“Is it better to win?” she said, voice quieter. “Or to lose on purpose?”

Liesa looked at her. “Do you want to lose?”

“I want out,” Norah replied. “Whatever this is, if Cooper is here, I want out.”

They stood together, reading the screen in silence. The room felt too big, the echo of the digital music too bright. Norah wondered what kind of person made a point of putting a scoreboard in the lobby of a prison.

She was about to turn away when a door banged open down one of the side corridors. A woman emerged—tall, severe, dressed in a black uniform so sharply tailored it could have cut glass. There was a gold badge on her chest, but the letters were impossible to read from this distance. The woman’s eyes locked on Norah and Liesa, and for a second, Norah felt as if she’d been caught shoplifting.

The woman glared, lips pressed into a white line, then advanced with silent, rapid steps. Liesa stepped subtly between her and Norah, not blocking but clearly ready. The woman didn’t slow—just brushed past them, giving Norah a glare so cold she actually shivered. Oddly, she smelled of strawberry frosting and broken dreams. Liesa barely managed to read the badge. It read, ‘The HH - Service’.

At the door to another hallway, the woman stopped, looked back with eyes like daggers, and then slammed it behind her. The sound was final, like a verdict.

Norah tried to keep her hands from shaking. “What the fuck was that? Is that the hired help? Did you see her eyes? She looked like she wanted to eat me alive.”

Liesa touched Norah’s elbow, steering her gently. “We should go back to the others,” she said. “We zouden hier niet moeten zijn. Ah, how do you say… we must not be here?”

Norah swallowed hard, **** herself to breathe. “Right. Of course.” She let herself be guided, and as they walked, her anger cooled. In its place was a new sensation: a flicker of gratitude, or maybe respect, for the quiet Belgian girl with the terrible shoes and the calm eyes.

Liesa’s grip was steady, never urgent or pushy. “You’re good with people,” she said as they walked. “You always watch what they do.”

“I try,” Norah said.

Liesa smiled. “I think that’s why you hate this. Because here, they are watching us. Always.”

Norah thought about that all the way back to the beach, and didn’t say anything more.