Page 102 of Brox Boar

The door opens, and a man appears, salt-and-pepper streaks cut through his dark hair, silver at the temples. His beard is trimmed close, neat.

“Miss Rosario?”

It takes me a split second to remember my official name. Lana Rayne belongs to the Boarpit. She entered it, and I doubt she’ll ever leave. Georgina Rosario still has a normal life. She’s studying to be a doctor.

“Yes,” I say, standing. “Mr. Crowe?”

“I’m his assistant, Julian,” he replies. “Please, come in.”

I pass him at the doorway, close enough to feel his presence. He’s tall, and muscled for his age, shoulders stretching the white coat. He doesn’t move as I brush past, simply watches.

He takes me through to another door. A different room where the dentist chair waits in the center, lights above, instruments arranged on one side.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” he smiles, and leaves me in here.

Mr. Crowe stands with his back to me, in a white coat, and broad frame. He’s finished reviewing a tray, and then he turns.

“Miss Rosario. Come in. Sit down.”

I obey.

He’s tall, solid, maybe ten years younger than his assistant, Julian. With dark hair and composed demeanor. A mask covers his face, leaving only his eyes. His gaze lingers on me for a second before shifting to the tools.

“We’re doing a cleaning today, right?”

“Yes.” I nod.

He fits the nasal mask over my face gently and sits next to me. “I’m going to start the nitrous,” he says. “Breathe normally through your nose.”

“Okay,” I say and I watch him work.

He positions the suction tube at my open mouth. Then he picks up a dark eye mask and starts fixing it around my head and over my eyes. “This will protect your eyes.”

I nod, and comply.

The door opens somewhere behind me.

“Mr. Crowe, do you need me in here?” It’s Julian’s voice.

“I’ll call you when I do.”

The door closes.

“That’s it. Breathe. This will help you relax.” I hear him talking to me, and then the air hits me. Fully. It fills my lungs, and something shifts, immediate and unmistakable. I recognize it.

My breath deepens without instruction. The ceiling above me drifts, edges loosening, darkness separating into multiple halos. I know nitrous. I’ve read the papers on it, memorized the charts, sat through lectures explaining uptake and dissipation. This isn’t unfamiliar.

And yet.

The first wave slides through my chest and down my spine, a slow spreading warmth that makes my limbs feel distant. My fingers rest where I left them, but they don’t belong to me in the same way. They feel assigned. Placed. Observed.

There is something else in the air.

The Boarpit has its own atmosphere. Special filtration. Controlled mixture. A design meant to soften resistance, ease surrender, to quiet panic before it forms. I learned it without being taught. My body learned it faster than my mind ever could.

Now it recognizes the pattern.

My pulse changes. Slower. Heavier. Each beat lands with intention. My thoughts begin to separate from one another, no longer stacked neatly, but drifting, rearranging themselves without urgency.