"Well, this is awkward."
The fabric carried the faint chemical bite of fresh laundering, a scent that mingled uneasily with the underlying tang of antiseptics permeating the air.
Restraints no longer bound her limbs, but a residual stiffness lingered in her joints, as if the healing process had knit flesh too hastily, leaving echoes of the trauma woven into her muscles.
Beside her, Blanchette mirrored the attire, the gown draping her narrow frame with an almost comical propriety, its sleeves pooling at her elbows.
She sat with legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded neatly in her lap, that perpetual smile curving her lips as if the circumstances amused some private jest.
The room they occupied now felt less like a prison cell and more like a consultation chamber—spartan walls of polished metal inset with holographic displays that flickered idly with status readouts, a low table separating them from the far side where a single figure waited.
