“Where did you get that symbol?” the doctor pressed, leaning in as if the answer might be written on the skin.
Mom’s eyes darted to the security officers, then back to the floor, a thin line of sweat tracing her temple.
“I…,” she began, voice cracking, but the words died in her throat.
I felt the room tilt, the hum of monitors suddenly deafening.
“You understand this is serious,” the doctor said, his tone now flat, as if reciting a script.
Mom’s shoulders slumped, the weight of the unspoken crushing her.
She clutched the edge of the bed, knuckles white, and a single tear slipped down her cheek.
“Please,” she whispered, “just... let me go.”
Security tightened their grip on the door handles, eyes flicking between us.
My heart hammered, each beat echoing louder than the beeping of the IV.
“We need to talk,” the doctor said, stepping back toward the terminal.
Revealing the Hidden Network
The doctor swiped a badge, and the screen flickered to a list of names—my mother’s at the top, highlighted in red.
“This isn’t a decoration,” he announced, voice now a low growl. “It’s a marker for the Harvest Program.”
Mom’s breath hitched; she pressed her palm to her chest as if trying to shield a hidden organ.
“The blue flower,” the doctor continued, “identifies individuals who have been part of an illegal organ‑harvesting network. It’s a badge, not a souvenir.”
The security officers exchanged a glance, then one lifted his weapon, aiming it at the terminal.
I lunged for the keyboard, fingers shaking, and found a hidden folder labeled “Project Bloom.”
Inside, a PDF opened to a scanned document: “Participant Consent – Code 7B.” My mother’s name, date of birth, and a series of procedures listed in cold, clinical bullet points.
“They used us as donors,” Mom sobbed, a raw sound that filled the sterile room. “I thought… I thought it was a trial—help people.”
She clutched the sheet of paper I’d ripped from the file, the ink smudging under her tear‑streaked fingers.
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “You were never a volunteer. You were a subject.”
Security’s guns clicked as they trained them on me, the metal glinting under the overhead lights.
Mom’s whisper cut through the tension: “There’s another… a child. The same flower.”
Before I could react, the doctor raised his hand, and the officers’ weapons trained directly at my chest, the moment frozen in a tableau of dread and revelation.
Confrontation in the Corridor
My voice trembled as I stepped into the stark hallway, the clack of security boots echoing off the linoleum.
"Mom, tell me what’s really going on," I demanded, clutching the edge of a metal handrail.
She turned, her eyes hollow, the blue flower half‑hidden beneath the white cuff of her hospital gown.
"You think I didn’t know what they wanted?" she whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the fluorescents.
"What program? What are they after?" I pressed, feeling the weight of the security officer’s gun slide against my thigh.
