Naiara had no idea how much time had passed since Damian had been forced to leave her alone inside the quarantine room.
Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.
The white walls seemed to swallow her whole: too bright, too sterile, too… empty.
The sharp scent of disinfectant stung her nose, and the cold overhead light made her eyes water.
The ceiling camera was a constant eye.
A silent judge. A cage without bars.
She sat on the edge of the metal bed, knees pulled to her chest, fingers hidden inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt, as if the fabric could shield her from all of this.
From everything.
Damian had promised he would come back.
That he would protect her. She believed him.
She believed him with a part of herself she had never given to anyone. But the waiting turned every thought into liquid anxiety, every sound into a threat.
The noise came suddenly. A sharp beep, a metallic click, then a hiss of released air.
The sliding door opened with a cold mechanical breath.
Three figures walked in as if they were one single unit. Full white protective suits, sealed visors, double gloves. They didn't look like people. They looked like machines.
Behind them, two armed guards: silent, motionless, faceless.
"Miss Moreno," said the tallest medic, voice flat and stripped of anything human. "It is time for the Level-Three Health Assessment."
Naiara's heart stopped for a beat.
"You already checked me on the boat…" she whispered.
"That was a pre-screening."
They opened a metal trolley. Inside, surgical instruments were arranged with unnerving precision: forceps, scalpels, probes, portable microscopes.
The metallic clatter cleaved through her nerves.
Naiara instinctively stepped back.
One guard moved half a step forward.
That was enough. She sat. Still. Silent.
The "evaluation".
They grabbed her arm and tightened a pressure cuff until pain shot down her bicep like a blade. They pushed in three different needles, each deeper than necessary.
"So much blood?" she murmured, voice barely there.
"Hold still."
They lifted her chin with cold, gloved fingers.
A harsh light stabbed her eyes: stinging, blinding. A swab was pushed down her throat so far she gagged and coughed uncontrollably.
"Please… " she choked.
"Keep your voice down."
They took fingerprints, then prints from the soles of her feet. Wrapped a chest strap around her ribs so tight it almost crushed the air out of her.
"It… hurts…" she gasped.
"That is expected."
A camera was brought closer. Zoom on her eyes. Zoom on her pupils. Zoom down her neck, collarbones, shoulders.
Rapid flashes. One after the other. Too fast.
Too bright. Then an ultrasound device hummed to life.
They passed it under her chest, across her abdomen, between her ribs, along her back.
Each pulse sent cold vibrations deep under her skin.
"Please… stop…"
No one reacted.
They told her to undress down to her underwear.
Her fingers trembled so violently she could barely pull off her sweatshirt.
A lens focused on her again, inching closer, colder.
The tall medic raised the camera and pointed it directly at her scar. Filmed it up close. Then even closer.
"Interesting…" he murmured, typing something on his tablet.
That word hit her like a slap.
Her scar wasn't part of her story anymore.
It was a data point. A feature. A catalog entry.
When they finally left, the door closed with the same cold hiss with which it had opened.
Naiara remained alone.
She collapsed to the floor, hands pressed over her heart as if she could hold it inside her chest before it shattered. This hadn't been a check-up. Not a medical assessment. It had been an appraisal.
A valuation. She was merchandise. A knot rose in her throat. Breathing became a battle.
Outside in the corridor, Damian paced like a caged animal. Every step too fast. Every muscle too tense. He could swear he heard her breath.
Her cry. Or maybe it was only in his mind.
Then footsteps. Two men.
He pressed himself into the shadows.
"The boss said someone from the high levels is coming," one whispered.
"To see the girl in person," the other replied. "Apparently she's… exceptional. Her beauty caught the attention of someone who really matters."
Damian froze.
"If the observer approves," the first continued, "she goes to him. No organ sale.
He wants to keep her."
Silence fell between them: heavy, icy.
For one fraction of a second, a dangerous relief warmed Damian's chest.
Naiara wouldn't be torn apart. Wouldn't be killed.
One second later, that relief shifted into something much darker.
Someone wanted to own her. Claim her.
Damian's heart slammed violently in his ribs.
Was it jealousy? Fear? Rage?
He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
But he understood one thing: No one was going to take her. Not the boss. Not Miguel's associate. Not this mysterious buyer.
No one.
He turned silently and rushed down the corridor toward the quarantine room.
He needed to see her. To talk to her. To act now. Time had run out.
Someone was coming to claim her.