The Assessment Ward

The heat radiating off the asphalt was thick enough to chew. It was mid-August, the kind of summer afternoon where the sky bleaches out into a flat, blinding white and the air conditioning in my ten-year-old sedan finally gives up, blowing nothing but hot dust into my face. I killed the engine in the visitor parking lot of the State Psychiatric Institute. The building did not look like a hospital. It looked like a server farm. Windowless concrete, surrounded by an iron fence, sitting in the middle of an industrial park that smelled like burning tires and stale ozone. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, leaving a streak of grease across my skin.

My stomach turned over. It always did when I came here. It was a physical weight, a dense knot of dread pulling down on my ribs. I grabbed the manila folder off the passenger seat. Inside were six months of unanswered emails, printed out and highlighted in aggressive yellow marker. Six months of asking why my kid's schizophrenia medication was suddenly "unavailable due to supply chain disruptions." Six months of watching my nineteen-year-old child degrade through a pixelated video call screen, clawing at their own arms, terrified of voices that only they could hear.

I slammed the car door shut. The silence in the parking lot felt wrong. Unnatural. No birds, no distant highway noise. Just the low, mechanical hum of the facility's massive HVAC units working overtime to keep the interior freezing cold.

I walked through the metal detectors at the front entrance. The security guard did not look up from his phone. He just waved a wand over my chest and pointed to the elevators. The lobby smelled like industrial bleach and old coffee. I pressed the button for the fourth floor. The high-security ward.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. The lights up here were different. They flickered slightly, a high-frequency strobe that made my eyes ache. The air was frigid, raising goosebumps on my damp arms. I walked down the long, sterile corridor toward Room 412. I knew the route by heart. Past the nurse's station, take a left at the water cooler, third door on the right.

I stopped in front of the door. I blinked. I leaned closer, thinking my tired eyes were playing tricks on me in the bad light.

The plastic nameplate slotted into the metal bracket on the door used to say my kid's legal name. The name I gave them. Now, it was a freshly printed piece of cardstock. It read: STARLEY.

My jaw tightened. "What the hell is this?" I muttered under my breath.

"It is a reflection of current legal reality, Arnold."

I spun around. Dr. Cuppe was standing three feet behind me. I had not heard him approach. He wore a perfectly tailored suit under his white coat, and his smile was a sharp, practiced curve that did not reach his eyes. He held an expensive tablet flat against his chest.

"Who is Starley?" I asked. My voice came out louder than I intended. It echoed down the empty hallway.

"Keep your voice down, please," Dr. Cuppe said. His tone was perfectly level. Weaponized calm. "Starley is your child's chosen identity. We filed the expedited paperwork three days ago to ensure their medical records accurately reflect their gender transition. The state approved it this morning."

I stared at him. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. "Transition? Are you out of your mind? My kid is an unmedicated schizophrenic. They think there are radio transmitters in the drywall. They haven't had a coherent thought in half a year because you people cut off the haloperidol. And you're fast-tracking a legal name change?"

"Identity affirmation is a critical component of holistic mental healthcare," Dr. Cuppe said smoothly. He tapped the screen of his tablet. "We found that Starley was experiencing profound distress related to their presentation. We acted in their best interest."

"You acted in their best interest?" I stepped toward him. My hands balled into fists at my sides. "Where are the meds, Cuppe? Where are the antipsychotics? You've been telling me for six months that there's a backorder. I called the manufacturer yesterday. There is no backorder. The state just stopped paying for it."

Dr. Cuppe's smile vanished. His eyes hardened. "I am going to ask you to take a step back, Arnold. You are exhibiting aggressive posturing. I will remind you that under the revised Family Act of 2025, your previous hesitation to immediately affirm Starley's new identity resulted in a psychological threat flag on your file. You are here on a probationary visit. Do not make me revoke your access."

I froze. The breath caught in my throat. They had flagged me. A legal tripwire. If I pushed back, if I raised my voice, they could permanently bar me from the building. I forced my hands to open. I took a slow, jagged breath. I had to see my kid.

"Fine," I said. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. "I want to see them. Now."

"Of course," Dr. Cuppe said. The plastic smile returned. "But it will have to be a supervised glass-partition visit today. Starley has been highly agitated this morning. We cannot risk physical contact."

He turned and walked down the hall toward the visitation block. I followed him, the dread in my stomach solidifying into a block of ice. The silence in the corridor felt heavy, pressing against my eardrums. Something was fundamentally wrong here. It wasn't just the bureaucracy. It was the absolute lack of friction. The state moved at the speed of molasses when it came to filling a prescription, but they had legally severed my child's previous identity in three days flat.

We entered the visitation room. It was split down the middle by a wall of thick, smudged plexiglass. A metal grate served as a speaker. I sat down in the plastic chair on my side. The door on the opposite side opened.

A nurse led Starley into the room.

My heart broke. Starley looked terrible. They had lost at least fifteen pounds since last month. Their skin was pale and waxy, picked raw on the forearms and neck. Their eyes were wide, darting frantically around the room, tracking things that were not there. They were wearing standard-issue hospital scrubs that hung off their frame like a tent.

Starley sat down in the chair opposite me. They leaned forward, pressing their forehead against the glass.

"Dad," Starley whispered. The sound carried through the metal grate, distorted and metallic.

"I'm here, kid," I said. I pressed my hand against the glass, right over where their face was. "I'm right here. How are you feeling?"

Starley's eyes snapped to the ceiling. "The buzzing," they said, their voice trembling. "It's so loud today, Dad. The walls are full of them. The hornets. They put hornets in the wires. They're telling me to open my throat so they can get out."

My stomach plummeted. "There are no hornets, Starley. It's the illness. It's a symptom. You know this. We talked about this."

"No, no, no," Starley muttered, rocking back and forth in the chair. They clutched their ears. "The nurse said it's real. The nurse said the pain is real. But she said she can fix it. She said she has the cure."

I frowned. I looked over my shoulder at Dr. Cuppe, who was standing by the door, watching us with zero expression. "What cure?" I asked, turning back to the glass. "Did they finally get the medication? Are they giving you the pills?"

Starley stopped rocking. They looked at me, their eyes suddenly, terrifyingly hollow. "Not pills. The sleep. The long sleep. The nurse said if I sign the paper, the hornets stop forever. I signed it, Dad. I used my new name. I signed it so the buzzing will stop."

The blood drained from my face. The room seemed to tilt.

"Signed what?" I demanded. My voice cracked. "Starley, what paper did you sign?"

Before Starley could answer, Dr. Cuppe stepped forward and tapped me on the shoulder. He handed me a glossy, tri-fold brochure. The paper was heavy and expensive.

I looked down at it. The cover featured a picture of a sunset over a calm lake. The text at the top read: Track 3 Medical Assistance in Dying: Compassionate Care for Treatment-Resistant Psychological Suffering.

My vision went dark at the edges. I couldn't breathe. I looked from the brochure to Dr. Cuppe's face.

"Starley's schizophrenia has been classified as fundamentally treatment-resistant," Dr. Cuppe said softly. "They have expressed a consistent, agonizing desire to end their suffering. Under the new state guidelines, as a legal adult who has established a firm identity, they are fully authorized to consent to Track 3."

"They are hallucinating!" I screamed. I slammed my fist against the plexiglass. Starley flinched violently. "They are actively psychotic! You took away their meds! You can't let a schizophrenic teenager consent to euthanasia!"

"Please do not strike the glass," Dr. Cuppe said. He pulled a small radio from his pocket. "Starley is clearly capable of understanding their options. The primary assessment is complete. The secondary assessment and final injection are scheduled for this afternoon."

"This afternoon?" I choked on the words. "No. No, I am their father. I revoke consent. I am taking them out of here."

"You cannot," Dr. Cuppe replied. "Starley is nineteen. Furthermore, your psychological threat flag legally nullifies your input in their end-of-life care. I am ending this visit now."

The nurse on the other side of the glass grabbed Starley by the arm and pulled them up.

"Dad!" Starley cried out, looking back at me as they were dragged toward the door. "Dad, make it stop! Tell them to make it stop!"

"I will!" I shouted, pressing my face to the glass. "I promise, kid! Don't let them give you anything!"

The door clicked shut behind them. The room was empty.

Dr. Cuppe opened the exit door for me. "I suggest you go home, Arnold. The hospital will contact you regarding the remains."

I walked past him, my hands shaking so hard I could barely feel my fingers. I didn't go home. I ran to my car. I had exactly three hours.

The Courthouse and the Overpass

I drove like a madman to the county courthouse downtown. I ignored three red lights and nearly side-swiped a delivery truck. The AC was completely dead now, and the heat inside the car was suffocating. My shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to my back. I kept looking at the glossy brochure sitting on the passenger seat. The sunset over the lake. The sheer, terrifying banality of it.

I sprinted up the concrete steps of the courthouse. I needed an emergency conservatorship. I needed a judge to look at the medical records, see the six-month gap in medication, and declare Starley incompetent to sign a lethal injection consent form.

The clerk at the emergency filing window looked bored. She was chewing gum, staring at a monitor. I slapped the paperwork down on the counter.

"Emergency injunction," I gasped, struggling to catch my breath. "Medical conservatorship. My child is being euthanized today at the State Psychiatric Institute. They are actively psychotic. I need a stay of execution."

The clerk blinked. She stopped chewing. She took the papers, scanned them, and typed something into her keyboard. "Room 2B. Judge Harker is handling emergency docket via remote feed. Go now."

I ran down the hallway to Room 2B. It was a small, windowless room with a massive screen mounted on the wall. A webcam was perched on top. The room smelled like ozone and floor wax. I stood in front of the camera. The screen flickered to life. Judge Harker looked down at me from his home office. He looked tired. He was drinking out of a ceramic mug.

"Arnold," the judge said, his voice lagging slightly behind his mouth movements. "I have your petition here. You are claiming your child, Starley, lacks the capacity to consent to MAID Track 3."

"Yes, your honor," I pleaded. "They are severely schizophrenic. The hospital has not administered their antipsychotics in six months. They think there are hornets in the walls. They are signing the form to stop the hallucinations, not because they want to die. If you just force the hospital to resume the haloperidol, the psychosis will break."

Judge Harker sighed. He scrolled through a document on his screen. "The hospital's records indicate that Starley recently underwent a legal name and gender marker change. Is that correct?"

I frowned. "Yes, but what does that have to do with anything? The hospital pushed that through three days ago."

"It has everything to do with it," the judge said flatly. "Under the current legal framework, Starley's ability to successfully navigate the bureaucratic process of identity affirmation demonstrates a profound level of cognitive agency. The state recognizes gender autonomy as the highest metric of personal competence."

I stared at the screen. My brain struggled to process the words. "You're joking. They signed a piece of paper the doctor handed them. They don't know what day it is!"

"Furthermore," Judge Harker continued, ignoring me, "the hospital has invoked the Notwithstanding clause regarding your parental rights, citing your documented resistance to Starley's transition as evidence of psychological abuse. Therefore, your petition for conservatorship is denied. Starley's bodily autonomy supersedes your objections. The procedure will proceed as scheduled."

"They are using it as a shield!" I screamed at the screen. The reality of it hit me like a physical blow. The state didn't care about Starley's identity. They didn't care about pronouns or names. Starley was a ward of the state, an expensive, burdensome psychiatric patient who required round-the-clock care and expensive drugs that the state no longer wanted to pay for. The identity change was a legal loophole. It proved "competence" just enough to make the MAID consent legally bulletproof. They were euthanizing my kid to balance a budget.

"Petition denied," the judge repeated. The screen went black.

I stood alone in the quiet room. The silence was absolute. My hands were numb. The legal route was dead. The state had built an impenetrable wall of progressive bureaucracy around an act of sheer, fiscal murder.

I looked at my watch. It was 1:45 PM. The final assessment was at 4:00 PM.

I left the courthouse. I didn't run this time. I walked with a strange, terrifying clarity. If the law wouldn't protect my kid, I had to break the law. I needed to clear Starley's head before the final doctor walked into that room. I needed them to realize what they were actually signing.

I drove to the underpass beneath Interstate 95. It was a sprawling encampment of tents and makeshift shelters. The air here smelled of urine, exhaust fumes, and desperation. I knew a guy here. He used to be a pharmacist before his own life fell apart. Now he sold diverted pharmaceuticals out of a rusted RV.

I banged on the metal door of the RV. It opened a crack. A face peered out, covered in dirt and gray stubble.

"What do you want?" the man rasped.

"I need haloperidol," I said. I pulled my wallet out and emptied every bill I had into my hand. Four hundred dollars. "Fast-acting. The strongest milligram you have. Now."

The man looked at the cash. He opened the door wider, snatched the money, and disappeared into the gloom of the RV. He returned a minute later and pressed a foil blister pack into my hand. Six white pills.

"Fifty milligrams each," he said. "That'll knock a horse out of a manic episode in twenty minutes."

I shoved the pills into my pocket. "Thanks."

I ran back to my car. I had the cure. Now I just needed to get it inside a locked, high-security state facility that had flagged me as a threat. I opened my trunk. Next to the spare tire was a heavy canvas bag. Inside were three surplus electromagnetic pulse charges I had bought years ago at a prep show, back when I thought the apocalypse would be an event, not a slow bureaucratic strangulation. They were designed to fry localized circuitry.

I grabbed the bag. I drove back to the psychiatric institute. The sky was beginning to bruise with the afternoon heat, turning a sickly yellow. I pulled into the underground parking garage beneath the facility. It was meant for staff only, but the gate was broken, stuck in the open position. Typical state maintenance.

I parked in the darkest corner I could find. I took the EMP charges out of the bag. They looked like thick black hockey pucks with a digital timer on top. I walked to the main breaker room on the lowest level of the garage. The door was locked with a heavy padlock. I used a tire iron from my trunk to smash the lock. The noise echoed terribly, but no one came.

I opened the door. The room was filled with massive electrical panels, humming with power. The lifeblood of the hospital. The security cameras, the electronic locks, the elevators. All of it ran through here.

I slapped the three charges onto the main conduit panels. I set the timers for five minutes.

My heart hammered against my ribs. My mouth was entirely dry. This was domestic terrorism. I was crossing a line I could never uncross. But the image of Starley sitting in that chair, terrified of the hornets, signing their own death warrant, burned in my mind.

I pressed the arming buttons. The digital displays glowed red, counting down from 5:00.

I left the breaker room and ran for the concrete stairwell. I had to be on the fourth floor when the lights went out.

The Blackout

I took the stairs two at a time. My lungs burned, and my legs felt like lead. The stairwell was a narrow, vertical concrete tube that echoed with the sound of my own frantic breathing. Second floor. Third floor. Fourth floor.

I stopped at the heavy metal fire door leading to the high-security ward. It was locked with an electronic keypad. A red light blinked lazily above the handle. I looked at my watch. Ten seconds left.

I pressed my back against the concrete wall and squeezed my eyes shut. I counted down in my head. Ten. Nine. Eight.

I thought about Starley when they were ten years old, before the illness hit. We used to go to the lake in the summer. They used to collect smooth stones and keep them in their pockets. They used to laugh. Now, the state wanted to give them a permanent sleep and call it healthcare.

Three. Two. One.

A muffled, concussive THUMP vibrated through the concrete beneath my feet. It wasn't an explosion of fire, but a sudden, violent displacement of energy.

Instantly, the red light on the keypad died. The low, omnipresent hum of the hospital's HVAC system stopped. The silence that followed was absolute and terrifying. It was the sound of a massive machine dying.

I grabbed the handle of the fire door and pulled. The magnetic lock was dead. The door swung open heavily.

I stepped onto the fourth floor. It was pitched in near-total darkness. A few seconds later, the battery-powered emergency track lights kicked on, bathing the long corridor in a sickly, dim amber glow. The air was already starting to warm up without the AC.

Chaos erupted instantly. Alarms began to blare, a high-pitched, mechanical shrieking that cut through the silence. Nurses and orderlies were shouting in the distance. Flashlight beams cut through the amber gloom.

"Grid failure!" someone yelled down the hall. "The blast doors are engaging! We're locked in!"

I heard the heavy, grinding sound of the emergency steel bulkheads dropping from the ceiling at the end of the corridor, sealing the ward. Good. No one was coming in from the outside. But no one was getting out, either.

I kept my head down, pulling my baseball cap low over my eyes, and moved fast. I hugged the wall, sliding past a nurse who was frantically trying to reboot a dead computer terminal at the central station. She didn't even look at me. The panic was my camouflage.

I reached Room 412. The door was wide open. I ducked inside.

It was empty. The bed was unmade. The plastic chair was knocked over. Starley wasn't here.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp. Where did they take them? I backed out of the room and looked down the hall. The signage on the wall, barely visible in the emergency lights, pointed toward the east wing. Clinical Assessment / Prep Rooms.

I ran. I didn't care who saw me now. I sprinted down the east corridor. The alarms masked the sound of my footsteps. I passed empty patient rooms and locked supply closets. At the end of the hall, light spilled out from underneath a heavy wooden door. The brass plaque next to it read: Prep Room 4.

I didn't hesitate. I threw my shoulder against the door and burst into the room.

The scene inside froze my blood.

The room looked like a high-end spa, entirely incongruous with the sterile hospital outside. Soft, warm lighting from battery-powered lamps. A plush recliner in the center of the room. Starley was sitting in the recliner, staring blankly at the ceiling. Their sleeves were rolled up.

Standing next to them was a nurse. Not the one from before. This one was wearing dark scrubs. She had a tactical belt around her waist, complete with a holstered taser and pepper spray. In her hand, she held a stainless steel tray. On the tray rested a massive syringe filled with a clear liquid.

She looked up at me, her face a mask of polite annoyance.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, her voice perfectly modulated, calm, and entirely dead inside. "This is a sterile, restricted zone. The facility is experiencing a power fluctuation, but we are proceeding with the final protocol. You need to leave."

"Get away from my kid," I growled. I stepped into the room, my hands shaking.

Starley's head lolled toward me. Their eyes were unfocused. "Dad?" they mumbled. "Are you here? The buzzing... it's so loud in the dark."

"I'm here, Starley. I'm going to make it stop."

The nurse placed the tray down on a side table. She unclipped the strap on her taser holster. "Sir, the patient has legally consented to Track 3. You have no jurisdiction here. If you do not exit the room immediately, I will deploy physical countermeasures."

She drew the taser and pointed it at my chest.

I didn't think. I didn't calculate the odds. I just moved.

I lunged forward, diving under the red laser sight of the taser. The weapon fired with a loud CRACK, the heavy darts flying over my shoulder and burying themselves in the drywall behind me. Before she could reload or draw her spray, I slammed into her waist.

We crashed to the floor. She was incredibly strong, trained for combative psychiatric patients. She drove an elbow into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. Pain exploded in my side. I gasped, tasting copper in my mouth. She reached for the pepper spray on her belt.

I grabbed her wrist with both hands and twisted hard. She grunted in pain, dropping the canister. I scrambled up, grabbed her by the collar of her scrubs, and shoved her violently out the open door into the hallway.

She stumbled backward, falling onto the linoleum.

I slammed the heavy wooden door shut. There was no lock on the inside—they didn't want patients locking themselves in. I looked around wildly. There was a heavy medical supply cart against the wall. I put my shoulder against it and pushed it in front of the door, wedging it tightly under the handle.

A second later, the nurse slammed her body against the door from the outside. The wood groaned, but the cart held.

"Security!" I heard her scream through the wood. "Breach in Prep Room 4! Code Black!"

I spun around. Starley was sitting in the recliner, gripping the armrests in sheer terror. They were hyperventilating, staring at the syringe on the tray.

"Dad!" Starley cried, covering their ears. "The hornets are so loud! They're angry! The nurse said the shot would make them quiet! Let her in! Let her give me the shot!"

I dropped to my knees in front of the recliner. I dug into my pocket and pulled out the foil blister pack. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped it twice before I managed to pop two of the white pills into my palm. A hundred milligrams of black-market haloperidol.

"No, Starley, listen to me!" I grabbed their hands, pulling them away from their ears. Their skin was freezing cold. "The shot is poison! It's not a cure, it's death! They are trying to kill you!"

"But they promised!" Starley sobbed, thrashing against my grip. "They used my new name! They said they understood! They said it was compassionate!"

"They lied!" I yelled, tears finally spilling over my eyelids, blurring my vision. "They don't care about your name! They care about the budget! They want you dead so they don't have to pay for your life! You have to take these pills. Right now. You have to take them, or you're going to die here."

The door behind me shuddered violently. Someone was hitting it with a heavy battering ram. The wood splintered near the hinges.

"Open this door!" a deep, distorted voice bellowed from the hallway. Armed guards.

I held the two white pills up to Starley's face. "Please, kid. Please. Trust me. Swallow these. Just swallow them and wait. Fight the buzzing for five more minutes."

Starley stared at the pills. They looked at the door, which was bowing inward under another massive strike. They looked at the syringe on the tray.

"Will it stop the hornets?" Starley whispered.

"Yes," I lied. It wouldn't stop them completely. But it would turn the volume down enough for Starley to think clearly. "Yes, it will."

Starley opened their mouth. I placed the pills on their tongue. I grabbed a plastic cup of water from the side table and held it to their lips. Starley drank, swallowing hard.

"Okay," I breathed, resting my forehead against their knees. "Okay. Just wait. Just breathe."

The door sustained another massive impact. The top hinge ripped out of the doorframe with a screech of tearing metal. They were coming through. I had maybe two minutes before the barricade failed completely. I sat on the floor, holding my child's hands, waiting for the chemicals to cross the blood-brain barrier. Waiting for a miracle in the dark.

The Lethal Injection Tray

The air in the prep room was stifling, thick with the smell of sweat and fear. The emergency amber lights cast long, distorted shadows against the walls. The battering ram struck the door again, the sound deafening in the confined space. The heavy medical cart I had wedged under the handle scraped backward across the linoleum floor by an inch.

I didn't look at the door. I kept my eyes locked on Starley. I squeezed their hands, feeling the frantic, bird-like pulse in their wrists.

"Look at me, kid," I said, my voice barely a whisper over the sound of the wood splintering behind me. "Just look at me. Focus on my face. Don't listen to the walls."

Starley's eyes were squeezed shut. Their jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in their neck stood out like cords. They were rocking slightly in the recliner, a low, guttural moan escaping their throat. The haloperidol was fighting a war inside their brain, a chemical flood trying to drown the psychosis.

"It's so loud," Starley whimpered. "They want to come out. They want to tear through my skin."

"They aren't real," I said firmly. I reached up and wiped the sweat from their forehead. "The drug is working. You just have to give it a second. Breathe with me. In. Out."

CRACK.

The middle hinge of the door gave way. A sliver of the dark hallway became visible. I saw the beam of a tactical flashlight cut through the gap, sweeping across the room.

"Stand down!" a voice ordered from the hall. "Clear the barricade!"

I ignored them. I leaned closer to Starley. "Come back to me, kid. Come back."

Slowly, agonizingly, Starley stopped rocking. The tight lines around their eyes began to soften. The frantic darting of their pupils slowed. They blinked, the heavy, sedating effect of the high-dose antipsychotic finally taking hold. The sheer volume of the hallucination was receding, pushed back behind a chemical wall.

Starley looked at me. Really looked at me. For the first time in six months, the fog in their eyes parted. The hollow, terrified stare was replaced by a profound, exhaustion-laced clarity.

"Dad?" Starley said. Their voice was thick, sluggish from the medication.

"I'm here," I choked out, a sob caught in my throat. "Are the hornets gone?"

Starley slowly turned their head, looking around the dimly lit room. They looked at the splintering door. Then, their gaze fell on the stainless steel tray sitting on the side table. The massive syringe filled with clear fluid gleamed in the amber light.

Starley's breath hitched. They pulled their hands out of mine and touched their own neck, feeling their own pulse. The realization of what this room was, of what they had been brought here to do, hit them with physical force. The delusion had faded just enough for the horrific reality to take its place.

"Dad," Starley whispered, their voice trembling with a new, lucid kind of terror. "That needle. The nurse... she said she was going to give me a shot to make it stop."

"I know," I said.

"I signed a paper," Starley said, the panic rising, cutting through the sedation. "I signed it because they said it was the only way to cure the buzzing. I didn't want to die. I just wanted it to stop. Dad, I don't want to die."

"You aren't going to," I fiercely promised. I stood up, putting my body between Starley and the door. "You tell them that. You tell them you revoke consent. They can't do it if you tell them no in a clear state of mind. You have to say it out loud."

The door exploded inward.

The final hinge tore free, and the heavy wooden door crashed down onto the medical cart, flattening it. Three large men in dark tactical gear swarmed into the small room. They weren't police. They were private facility security, armed with heavy black batons and riot shields.

"Get on the ground!" the lead guard roared, leveling his baton at my head. "Face down on the floor, right now!"

Behind them, Dr. Cuppe stepped into the doorway. The emergency lighting cast harsh shadows across his face. He looked down at the ruined door, then at me. His expression was one of cold, bureaucratic fury.

"Restrain him," Dr. Cuppe ordered flatly. "He assaulted a staff member and breached a restricted zone."

I didn't move. I kept my arms spread wide, shielding Starley. "You look at them, Cuppe!" I screamed, pointing back at the recliner. "Look at my kid! The psychosis broke! I gave them the meds you refused to provide! They are lucid!"

The lead guard didn't hesitate. He swung the heavy baton. It caught me hard in the ribs, exactly where the nurse had elbowed me earlier. I heard a sickening crack. White-hot pain flashed behind my eyes, and my legs gave out. I collapsed to the linoleum, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

Before I could recover, a heavy boot planted itself squarely on my spine, pinning me to the floor. Someone grabbed my arms, wrenching them violently behind my back. Zip-ties bit into my wrists, pulled brutally tight.

"Dad!" Starley screamed. They tried to stand up from the recliner, but the heavy dose of haloperidol made their limbs clumsy. They stumbled forward, falling to their knees beside me. "Leave him alone! He didn't do anything wrong!"

Dr. Cuppe stepped completely into the room. He walked over to the side table and looked at the syringe on the tray. It was untouched. He turned his gaze down to Starley, who was weeping on the floor next to me.

"Starley," Dr. Cuppe said, his voice returning to that weaponized, soothing tone. "You are highly agitated. This man is a threat to your autonomy. He forcefully entered your care suite and administered an unapproved, black-market narcotic to chemically restrain you. This is exactly why we filed the protection order."

"No!" Starley shouted, their voice slurred but desperate. "He helped me! The buzzing stopped! I don't want the shot! I revoke the paper! I don't want to die!"

Dr. Cuppe's face did not change. He pulled his tablet from under his arm. He tapped the screen.

"Starley, you are currently under the influence of an unauthorized psychoactive substance administered by a hostile party," Dr. Cuppe stated clinically, as if reading from a legal script. "Your current state of mind is legally compromised. Therefore, your verbal revocation of consent cannot be accepted at this time. We will rely on the signed, legally binding documents you executed this morning when you were of sound mind and affirmed your identity."

I lay on the floor, the side of my face pressed against the dirty linoleum. Blood was pooling in my mouth from where I had bitten my tongue. I stared up at Dr. Cuppe. The absolute, terrifying perfection of the bureaucratic trap locked into place. They weren't going to stop. The medication didn't matter. The lucidity didn't matter. The state had its signed paperwork, and the state was going to execute its mandate.

"You're a monster," I spat, blood flecking my lips. "You're murdering them."

Dr. Cuppe didn't even look at me. He gestured to the guards. "Remove him from the facility. Hand him over to the local police. The charge is domestic terrorism regarding the EMP, and assault on medical staff."

Two guards grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me to my feet. The pain in my ribs was excruciating, making the edges of my vision go black. I fought them, thrashing my legs, but they were too strong. They dragged me backward toward the ruined doorway.

"No!" Starley shrieked, crawling across the floor, reaching out with a trembling hand. "Dad! Don't let them leave me! Dad!"

"Remember the truth, Starley!" I screamed back, fighting the guards with every ounce of strength I had left. "You don't want this! Fight them! Don't let them touch you! Fight!"

A guard slammed the butt of his baton into my stomach. I doubled over, choking on my own breath. They dragged me out into the dark, chaotic hallway, the emergency alarms still shrieking overhead.

Through the splintered doorway, I caught one last, agonizing glimpse of the room.

Starley was sitting on the floor, their hospital scrubs soaked in sweat, their eyes wide with a new, entirely lucid terror. The hallucinations were gone. The hornets were dead. But the nightmare was real. Dr. Cuppe was standing over them, his face an unreadable mask, slowly reaching down to pick up the stainless steel tray.

The needle was waiting.

The guards pulled me around the corner, and the heavy fire doors of the ward slammed shut behind me, plunging me into the dark.