Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 93: Spirits

The bitter taste of that wretched soup lingers on my tongue, no matter how many times I rinse with water. My stomach churns at the memory of its murky green color and the way it slides down my throat like sludge. Every time they bring it, I gag, but Dr. Reeves watches until I finish every drop.

Time blurs. Sleep. Wake. Examination. Soup. Sleep again. The purple lines that traced my veins like toxic rivers slowly fade, along with the bone-deep ache that made even breathing hurt.

A tickle on my nose pulls me from another drug-induced nap. I blink, then freeze. A sphere of pale blue light hovers inches from my face. Within its glow, features shift and change - the suggestion of eyes, a nose, the curve of what might be a smile.

I hold my breath, certain I’m hallucinating. The orb bobs closer, and I could swear it’s studying me with curiosity. A delicate tendril extends from its form—an arm? A hand? It reaches toward my cheek.

More lights drift into view, each one unique in its movements. They dance around me like playful fireflies, their blue glow casting gentle shadows on the walls. One floats past, and I swear I can see what looks like tiny fingers trailing through the air.

My muscles protest as I push myself up to sitting position. The orbs scatter momentarily, then return, circling me with what feels like enthusiasm. Though they make no sound, their movements remind me of excited children.

One of the lights breaks away from the group, zipping toward the door. My gaze follows it, and my breath catches.

Dozens of similar orbs cluster near the entrance, but these glow a dull burnt orange, their light muted compared to the vibrant blue ones around my bed. They huddle together like refugees seeking shelter, and something about their dimness makes my heart ache.

"You can see them."

Jim’s voice startles me. I’d forgotten he was there, as still and silent as ever in his chair. His statement holds no surprise, only confirmation.

The blue lights swirl faster around me, as if responding to my spike of adrenaline. One brushes against my arm, its touch like static electricity against my skin.

"See what?"

"The spirits."

Jim lifts his hand toward one of the blue orbs dancing near my shoulder. The light spirits scatter like startled birds, their glow dimming as they retreat into the shadows. My heart sinks at their absence; they’re the most friendly things I’ve encountered in this strange place.

"What are you talking about?" I keep my voice neutral, though my fingers twist in the sheets.

"Don’t play dumb." Jim’s eyes lock onto mine. "Your eyes track their movements. You flinch when they touch you. You’re not as subtle as you think."

I press my lips together, refusing to acknowledge his words.

Seconds tick by in silence. One by one, they drift back into view—but something’s different. The spirits maintain a careful distance from Jim, as if repelled by an invisible barrier. The blue ones cluster near my bed while the orange spirits hover by the door, all giving Jim’s corner a wide berth.

Jim turns back to face the door, his shoulders tight. "Word of advice—don’t get attached. Those are souls of the damned. Nothing good comes from their attention."

A chill runs through me as I watch the spirits dance. The blue ones seem so playful, so innocent. But the orange ones... their dim glow pulses like dying embers. But they don’t seem frightening, or damned. If anything, it feels like they’re terrified.

I want to ask more questions. About what they are, why they’re here, why they avoid him. But giving Jim that satisfaction feels like surrendering another piece of myself to these people, who already know more about what I am than I do.

So I stay quiet, watching the lights swirl through my prison.

At least my arms are no longer restrained. And I can move my legs, too.

Metal scrapes against linoleum as Jim pushes back his chair. The spirits scatter at his movement, their blue light dimming as he stalks to the door.

A cart’s wheels squeak in the hallway. More spirits drift through the wall—their glow a brilliant sapphire that reminds me of summer skies. But as Jim opens the door, their light flickers and fades to that sickly orange, like a flame suffocating. They huddle in the corner, pressed against each other in a way that makes my chest ache.

I’d assumed the colors marked different types of spirits, but watching their transformation sends a chill down my spine. Do the colors reflect their emotions? Their state of being? The blue ones near my bed pulse with vitality, while the orange cluster trembles like dying stars.

The orderly wheels in a small cart. My stomach clenches at the sight of another bowl, memories of that vile green sludge making bile rise in my throat. But I’m more focused on the spirits. Why do they stay near me, glowing that confident blue, when Jim’s mere presence drains their light?

The remaining blue orbs vanish as the orderly approaches, setting a bowl on my over-bed table. Steam rises from the surface, and I catch a glimpse of something floating in the liquid.

"Thank you," I say automatically, the polite response ingrained in me.

The orderly mumbles something unintelligible, shoulders hunched, before shuffling out of the room.

"Drink." Jim’s voice carries an edge of irritation.

I lean forward, bracing for the usual assault on my taste buds. But this soup looks different. It smells like... chicken noodle soup?

The broth is clear, with what appears to be actual pieces of chicken. And vegetables. And noodles. If I had to guess, I’d definitely think it’s what I think it is.

No murky green sludge in sight.

The first sip surprises me. Warmth spreads across my tongue, carrying the familiar comfort. Real food. Not whatever concoction they’ve been forcing down my throat.

The spirits drift closer as I take another spoonful, their blue light brightening. One brushes against my arm, but I feel nothing from the contact.

So strange.