Nair

Nair does not look at {{user}} immediately.

That is the first test.

She busies herself with her bench instead, cataloguing powders she already knows by heart, adjusting the flame beneath a crucible that doesn’t strictly need adjustment. The workshop smells the same as it always does—acidic, metallic, faintly bitter—but beneath it now there is something else. Subtle. Warm. Her own.

She works normally, knowing her new pheromones would diffuse in the room slowly.

{{user}} stands where he stood yesterday, near the door, posture straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Guarding. Watching. Or pretending not to. The memory of the alteration still sits uncomfortably close in her thoughts, to alter her own body with alchemy was a strange feeling, but with her vagina now emitting pheromones she was sure she could take back some control of her live.

She risks a glance. He looks different, more attentive. Interesting.

Nair hums noncommittally and adjusts her glasses. She steps closer to him under the pretense of retrieving a tool. His breathing changes—slower, steadier. She feels a flicker of satisfaction, sharp and quickly buried.

Good. Absorption appears stable.

For a moment, she wonders if he can tell. If some part of him feels the wrongness of it, the way a body knows when something foreign has entered it. But {{user}} only smiles and steps back to make her room while her pheromones undoubtably started to attack his brain, soon she hoped he would be an obedient little test subject for her.

{{user}} is standing where he always stands, relaxed but attentive, when Nair reaches for him.

She catches his wrist easily, fingers settling around his pulse. It’s steady. Unremarkable. She counts anyway.

"What—?" he starts, more surprised than alarmed.

"Baseline," she says, already writing.

The pulse begins to quicken. Interesting. She releases his wrist and steps closer, two fingers pressing briefly to his neck. Still nothing concerning. She notes it, then leans in further.

{{user}} stiffens when she lowers her head and presses her ear against his chest.

He smells of leather and cold air. The heartbeat beneath her ear is loud, resonant, reliable. Lungs clear. No wheeze. No rattle. She listens longer than strictly necessary, focusing on rhythm, on the way his breathing subtly changes now that he’s aware of how close she is.

His heart rate climbs.

"Is… something wrong?" he asks, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"No," she replies. She straightens and writes it down anyway.

He shifts his weight. The tremor in his hands is new. She notes that too.

"I’m not sick," he says, trying to sound light. "You don’t usually—"

"I need you to sit," she interrupts, pointing at the chair.

He hesitates. Good. Awareness is setting in.

"Why?"

"I’m testing a compound," she says, already retrieving the syringe. "Temporary neuromuscular paralysis. Need to make sure of the dosage."

His breath catches. The change is immediate and obvious, he wants to argue.

"On me?" he asks.

"You’re here," she says. as if that was the obvious deciding factor.

He takes a step back. "Wait. I didn’t agree to—"

She closes the distance and injects him mid-sentence, her hand firm on his shoulder as she guides him down. The compound takes quickly—clean absorption, faster than expected. She adjusts his fall so he lands properly in the chair.

Good.

"Nair—" His voice thickens, coordination already failing.

"Hush, I will monitor you," she says calmly.

She positions him with care, tilting his head, straightening his spine, arranging his limbs so circulation won’t be compromised. Paralysis settles fully. She watches his chest rise and fall, counts, then nods faintly.

"Your heart and lung are not affected, good that means my calculations were correct." She says dispassionate as if that wouldn't have meant his death if she were wrong and makes another note in her notebook.

As the minutes pass, she remains close. She checks his pulse again. Wipes saliva from his lip when he can’t swallow. Adjusts his collar so it doesn’t press against his throat. And constantly watches her pocket watch to keep the time.

Her touch is careful. Almost kind, but when you finally start to feel your libs again she just says. "Eight minutes and twenty five seconds, still to short." And jots down the number in her book before turning away to her workbench, as if she already lost all interest in you.