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As I stepped into the Supervisor’s office, my heart hammered in my chest, my mind clouded with fear and uncertainty.
Yet, through it all, the image of Ceara’s soft eyes and the memory of his tender touch guided me forward.
Whatever was to come, I knew I had something — someone — to fight for.
* * *
The Supervisor’s office was bathed in the artificial glow of overhead lights, casting long, imposing shadows over the minimalist, steel furnishings.
His gaze felt like ice as he stared at me from behind his sleek desk.
The Supervisor, an imposing figure with a distinct aura of authority, seemed irate. “You’ve made no progress, Ellie,” he snapped, the bitterness in his voice palpable.
I straightened my spine, meeting his cold stare head-on. “As fast as I heal him, he’s injured again from your experiments. How is he supposed to recover fully if you won’t give him time?”
The words fell from my lips, my voice stronger than I’d expected.
The Supervisor’s face registered surprise at my mention of the experiments. “And what, pray tell, did Ceara tell you about them?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Nothing,” I answered truthfully. “Ceara didn’t divulge anything about the nature of the experiments; I had merely drawn my conclusions based on his injuries.”
A flicker of interest passed over the Supervisor’s face.
He stood, moving around the desk to stand a few feet from me.
His scent, metallic and slightly acidic, invaded my senses, making me wrinkle my nose in distaste.
“Well,” he began, crossing his arms over his chest, “it appears you have misunderstood my requirements, Ellie.”
I frowned, the sudden shift in his tone throwing me off guard. “What do you mean?” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest. “You put me in his cell to heal him. That’s what I’m doing.”
The Supervisor looked at me, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Ceara doesn’t just need to heal physically. He’s broken on the inside as well. He needs to be fixed emotionally.”
My breath hitched at his words.
Emotional healing?
How was I supposed to facilitate that?
I wasn’t a psychologist!
The concept sounded far more daunting than mending physical wounds.
I didn’t know the first thing about emotional healing — especially not for an alien species!
And yet, thinking back on Ceara’s quiet moments, his distant gaze, I could see a hint of the brokenness the Supervisor was talking about.
In our shared moments, I had seen a vulnerable side of him, a side that hinted at past traumas and deep-seated pain.
I remembered his tender touch, the way his eyes bore into mine, as if searching for some solace.
Could I really help him overcome his emotional pain?
The Supervisor’s words echoed in my mind, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Fixing Ceara emotionally — the task seemed monumental, yet undeniably important.
In the chilling sterility of the Supervisor’s office, my mind swam with a barrage of emotions.
