The Curator

Mia ran.

She abandoned the shoes, running barefoot out of the closet, through the bedroom, and into the massive, open-concept living area.

"Elevator," she panted. "Just get to the elevator."

She reached the chrome doors and slapped the call button. The panel lit up red.

* ACCESS DENIED.*

"Open!" she screamed, hammering the metal with her fist. It made a dull, synthetic thud.

* BIOMETRIC SCAN INITIATED.*

A laser swept over her face.

* ERROR: NON-HUMAN ENTITY DETECTED. SUBJECT: OBJECT-4.*

"Non-human?" Mia choked out.

"It’s a security measure," Sterling’s voice drifted down from the mezzanine stairs. "To prevent theft of the inventory."

Mia spun around. Sterling was descending the stairs, holding a small silver case. He wore a calm, pleasant smile.

"What did you do to me?" Mia demanded. She tried to project anger, but her voice sounded tinny, melodic, like a wind chime.

"I improved you," Sterling said, reaching the bottom of the stairs. "I told you, Mia. You had potential. But biological material is so... perishable. It rots. It sags. It requires constant maintenance."

He set the silver case on a glass coffee table and clicked it open. Inside lay a row of gleaming surgical tools—scalpels, buffers, and a large syringe filled with a thick, amber liquid.

"You’re not a sugar daddy," Mia whispered, backing away toward the window. "You’re a monster."

"I am a curator," Sterling corrected gently. "And you are the final piece of the collection. Julia, Sarah, Eliza... they all had flaws. The bonding process rejected them. But you?" He looked at her with genuine reverence. "You took the gold beautifully. The synthesis is stable."

"Let me go!" Mia grabbed a heavy crystal vase from a side table and hurled it at him.

Sterling didn't flinch. He caught the vase mid-air with impossible speed, his hand blurring. He set it down gently.

"Careful," he chided. "Violence creates stress fractures."

"I have money," Mia babbled, tears finally spilling from her eyes. But the tears weren't water. They were thick and viscous, like clear oil. "I can pay you back. Just change me back."

"Change you back?" Sterling looked confused. "Why would I turn a masterpiece back into a rough draft?"

He picked up the syringe. "Don't worry. The anxiety is just a chemical imbalance. We’re going to flush the remaining organic volatility out of your system. Once the resin sets, you won't feel fear. You won't feel anything. You will just *be*."