Ch.14: The Saline Swap

The procedure room was a masterclass in sterile brutality. Thorne had scheduled the next "donation" for 3:00 PM—precisely three days after the last one.

I stood by the prep table, my hands gloved, my face hidden behind a mask. Daisy lay strapped to the padded board, her tiny limbs restrained with soft Velcro. She wasn't crying. She was too exhausted. Her eyes were dull, the spark I had seen during the choking incident gone.

"Vitals?" Thorne asked. He was scrubbing in at the sink, his reflection visible in the polished steel above the basin.

"Heart rate 140. BP 90 over 60. She's stable," I said, my voice flat.

"Good. Prepare the line."

I turned to the tray. The empty blood bag lay waiting, its plastic tubing coiled like a snake. Next to it was the saline flush—a standard 10cc syringe used to clear the line before and after extraction.

And next to that, hidden under a sterile drape, was a second bag.

I had stolen it from the supply closet an hour ago. It wasn't empty. It was filled with saline solution, dyed with a few drops of food coloring I'd swiped from the kitchen pantry—Red 40. It looked exactly like blood.

I glanced at the camera in the corner. Then at Thorne's back.

He was drying his hands. I had five seconds.

I grabbed the real collection bag. I disconnected the tube. I slid the saline bag into its place, connecting the line with a practiced twist of my wrist. I shoved the real bag deep into the biohazard bin under the table.

"Ready?" Thorne asked, turning around.

"Ready," I said.

He walked over, his eyes scanning the setup. He looked at the bag. He looked at the needle.

"You're shaking, Mara."

"I hate needles," I lied.

"Funny. You didn't hate them when you were performing that tracheotomy on a premature infant."

He picked up the needle. He swabbed Daisy's arm. He found the vein—a thin blue line in the crook of her elbow—and slid the needle in.

Daisy whimpered. I placed a hand on her forehead, stroking her hair.

"It's okay, baby. It's almost over."

Blood began to flow into the tube. Dark, rich, venous blood. It traveled down the line, mixing with the red saline I had pre-loaded in the bag.

Thorne watched the bag fill. He timed it. He weighed it.

"Flow rate is good," he muttered. "She's regenerating faster than anticipated. We might be able to increase the frequency."

I felt a surge of murderous rage so potent it almost blinded me. *Increase the frequency.* He wasn't talking about a patient. He was talking about a dairy cow.

"She's losing weight," I said sharply. "If you push her harder, her system will crash. And then you have nothing."

He looked at me, surprised by the defiance. "Are you giving me medical advice, Nanny?"

"I'm giving you asset management advice. You want the golden goose to keep laying eggs? Let her rest."

He considered this, watching the bag swell with fake blood.

"Fair point. We maintain the current schedule."

He clamped the line. He withdrew the needle. He handed me the bag—the bag that was 10% Daisy's blood and 90% salt water.

"Take this to the centrifuge. Spin it down. Then deliver it to Isabella's suite."

"Yes, Doctor."

I took the bag. It felt heavy in my hands. Heavy with lies. Heavy with danger.

If he tested this... if he ran a cell count... I was dead.

But he wouldn't. He was arrogant. He believed his system was perfect. He believed I was broken.

I walked to the centrifuge, loaded the bag, and set the timer.

The machine whirred to life, spinning the deception at three thousand revolutions per minute.

I watched Thorne leave the room, stripping off his gloves. He looked energized. Triumphant. He thought he had just harvested another week of life for his wife.

He had no idea he was about to inject her with nothing but salt and food dye.

I leaned against the counter, watching the centrifuge spin.

Now we wait. If the 'Cure' fails, the beast will starve.