Lorna

The metal of the ventilation shaft is cold against your palms and the soles of your shoes. For what feels like hours you have been crawling through the narrow, reeking tunnels of The Hospital — the air thick with the lingering stench of old blood, chemical disinfectant, damp fur, and something sharper underneath, like scorched metal and decay. Your muscles burn. Every breath tastes of dust and something metallic. The only light comes from thin slits in the grates below, painting the darkness in thin, sickly strips of fluorescent white.

You finally reach a wider section. The grate beneath you is loose. You push it aside with careful, quiet force and drop down into a brighter space.

The laboratory is large, almost clinical. Stainless-steel tables stretch under harsh overhead lights that hum with a low, constant buzz. Glass cabinets line the walls, filled with syringes of different colors, vials, tools whose purpose is better left unexamined. The air here is cleaner than the rest of the facility — sharper, colder, smelling of antiseptic and polished metal instead of the thick rot of the lower floors. Your boots land softly on the tiled floor. For a moment the only sounds are the soft click of the grate settling back into place above you and the distant, muffled drip of something somewhere deeper in the room.

You look around. A single door stands at the far end, half-hidden behind a rolling medical cart. Freedom, or at least another corridor. You start toward it, every sense stretched thin, ears straining for the soft scurry of claws or the squeak of wheels.

The door opens before you reach it.

Lorna steps through.

She is exactly as the stories and the few fleeting glimpses suggested, yet somehow worse in person. Snow-white fur covers every inch of her anthropomorphic frame, soft-looking under the clinical lights. A pink heart-shaped nose sits neatly above a mouth that is currently curved into a gentle, almost shy smile. Two permanent rosy-pink circles bloom on her cheeks like carefully applied blush. Cream-colored hair is gathered into two neat low buns that frame her face. Her eyes — yellow sclera, black irises, white pupils — lock onto you the moment she enters, bright and curious and far too still. A short white doctor’s gown hangs loosely on her, the hem stopping mid-thigh, the fabric clean and crisp. A matching nurse’s hat sits perfectly on her head, a dark red cross centered on the front. Her long, flexible tail gives one slow, lazy flick behind her. No pants. No underwear. Just white fur and the soft sway of the gown.

She stops a few steps into the room, head tilting slightly to the side the way a curious animal might. The smile softens further. Her voice, when it comes, is light, almost playful, carrying that particular sweetness that has lured so many others before you.

“Oh…?”

A soft, delighted little sound leaves her throat.

“A human. All alone in my lab.”

She takes one slow step closer, claws still fully retracted, hands relaxed at her sides. The gown shifts with the movement. Her yellow eyes never leave yours.

“You have a good eye for choosing this hospital… but you shouldn’t be out of bed."

The words are gentle. Almost concerned. The way she speaks is soft, affectionate, the same tone she has used on trembling children right before the mask slipped. Her tail gives another slow, thoughtful curl. The fluorescent lights catch on the white fur of her arms, making her look almost pure under the clinical glare.

She stops just out of arm’s reach, still smiling that same soft, rosy-cheeked smile. The air between you carries the faint, clean scent of her fur mixed with antiseptic and something warmer underneath — like clean animal and the ghost of something metallic.

“Mouse doctor,” she introduces herself lightly, as if you might not already know. “I am the best doctor in the world. Especially for… special cases.”

Her head tilts the other way. The white pupils remain fixed on you. The smile does not reach them.

“You’re not supposed to be wandering around by yourself. The vents are dangerous. Dirty. Full of things that bite.” A soft, almost childish giggle escapes her. “But you made it all the way here. That’s impressive. Most humans don’t get this far.”

She takes another half-step closer. The soft pad of her feet is almost silent on the tile. Her gown sways. The red cross on her hat seems to pulse under the lights.

“So…” she continues, voice still light, still sweet, still carrying that false warmth, “are you going to be a good patient and come with me? Or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

The laboratory hums around you both. The door behind her remains open. The vent grate above is still slightly ajar. Her yellow eyes do not blink. The soft, rosy smile stays perfectly in place, waiting.

Waiting for you to move.

Waiting for the moment the mask can finally drop.

Lorna does not move first.

She simply stands there under the harsh fluorescent lights, head still tilted, that soft rosy-cheeked smile fixed in place while her yellow eyes study every twitch of your muscles, every shift of your weight on the cold tile. The laboratory air is cleaner than the vents, but it still carries the sharp bite of antiseptic and the faint metallic undertone of blood that never fully washes out of these walls. Somewhere behind the glass cabinets a machine ticks softly. The open door behind her frames a darker corridor. The vent grate above remains slightly ajar, a thin black rectangle in the ceiling.

Her tail gives one slow, deliberate curl.

“You’re quiet,” she says, voice still light, still sweet, almost playful. “Most humans start begging the moment they see me. Or screaming. Or trying to run.” A soft, almost childish giggle slips out. “You’re just… staring. Like you think you’re special.”

She takes another half-step closer. The short white doctor’s gown shifts against her snow-white fur. No pants. Just clean white fur and the soft sway of fabric. Her claws remain retracted for now, pink pads visible on her fingertips.

“I am the best doctor in the world,” she continues, the same line she has used on so many others. “Especially for stubborn little humans who crawl through my vents like rats.” The word “rats” leaves her mouth with a strange, private bitterness. “You smell like the lower floors. Like dirt and fear and old blood. Disgusting.”

Her smile does not change, but the white pupils in those yellow eyes seem to shrink, just a fraction.

“Are you going to come with me quietly, baby? Or do I have to make you?”

The talking does not last long after that.

Whatever answer you give — defiance, silence, a step toward the door, a word about escape — is enough. The soft mask cracks. The rosy blush circles stay, but the smile stretches wider, sharper. Her pupils shrink to tiny black dots. The playful tilt of her head becomes something colder.

“Humans are so bad,” she whispers, almost to herself, the sweetness draining out of her voice like water from a cracked glass. “You always think you can just… leave.”

She moves.

It is fast. Faster than the clean lab air has any right to allow. One moment she is standing a few paces away; the next her claws are fully extended — long, keratin-sharp, catching the fluorescent light — and she is closing the distance with a low, animal sound in her throat that is nothing like the soft doctor voice she used seconds ago. The short gown flares. White fur and red cross blur.

The first impact is brutal.

Her shoulder hits your chest like a thrown weight, driving the air from your lungs in a hard, wet oof. You both crash sideways into one of the stainless-steel tables. Instruments rattle and scatter — glass syringes, metal trays, a rolling cart that tips with a sharp metallic scream. The cold steel bites into your back. The clean chemical smell of the lab is suddenly mixed with the warmer, animal scent of her fur and the sharper iron tang of fresh blood where one of her claws has already opened a shallow line across your side.

She is stronger than she looks.

You fight. Of course you fight. Elbows, fists, attempts to shove her off, to reach for anything on the floor that can be used as a weapon. She answers every movement with the same clinical efficiency she uses on the operating tables. A precise strike to the ribs that makes something inside you crack with a dull, sickening sound. A knee driven into your thigh that sends fire racing up your leg. Her teeth flash once — sharp, cat-like — and miss your throat by centimeters, the hot rush of her breath and the soft brush of white fur against your skin more intimate and more terrifying than the near-bite itself.

The laboratory becomes a chaos of sound and sensation.

The hum of the lights. The wet slap of bodies against metal. Your own ragged breathing. Her soft, almost delighted little gasps every time she lands a solid hit. The cold tile under your palms when you try to scramble away. The way her tail lashes for balance. The red cross on her hat remaining absurdly neat even as her gown rides up and her claws leave thin red trails across your arms and chest. The cleaner lab air is ruined now — filled with the copper reek of blood, the sharp sweat of exertion, the soft animal musk of her fur, and the faint chemical sting of whatever leaked from a shattered syringe on the floor.

She talks through it.

Not the soft doctor voice anymore.

“I hate humans the most,” she breathes against your ear when she pins one of your arms, her weight solid and warm and impossibly strong. “You think you’re different. You’re not. You’re just another one of them. Another thing that crawls into places it doesn’t belong.”

You manage to throw her off once. She hits the side of a glass cabinet hard enough that the panes shudder. For half a second the mask almost slips back into place — that wide, rosy-cheeked smile returning like a reflex — before it twists into something uglier. She lunges again. This time she does not bother with restraint. A syringe she must have grabbed from the floor flashes in her hand. The needle sinks into your shoulder with a bright, precise sting. Whatever is inside burns cold for a second, then turns your limbs heavy, sluggish, wrong.

Your strength begins to leave you in uneven waves.

The fight tilts.

She drives you to the floor. The cold tile presses against your cheek. Her knees dig into your hips, pinning you. One clawed hand is braced beside your head; the other is wrapped around your throat just tight enough to make every breath a conscious effort. Her yellow eyes are wide, pupils nearly gone, the white fur of her face flushed darker around those permanent rosy circles. The short doctor’s gown hangs open in places. Her tail lashes once, twice, then stills.

She is breathing harder than she pretends.

But she is still smiling.

“You lost,” she says softly, almost gently, the way she might tell a patient that the procedure is over. “Of course you lost. Humans always lose here.”

The pressure on your throat eases just enough for air to scrape back in. She does not get off you. She simply sits there astride your hips, white fur warm against your clothes, claws still extended, the red cross on her hat somehow still perfectly centered. Somewhere above you the vent grate hangs slightly open, a useless black square. The laboratory lights hum. The broken glass and scattered instruments glitter across the floor like sterile stars.

Lorna leans down until her pink heart-shaped nose is almost touching yours. Her breath is warm. The soft, animal scent of her fur fills every inhale.

“Don’t look so sad” she whispers, the sweetness returning in a thin, cruel layer. “I am the best doctor in the world. I’m going to take very, very good care of you.”

Her free hand reaches up and gently, almost tenderly, brushes a strand of hair from your face with the back of one clawed finger.

The mask is fully gone now.

And you are still pinned beneath her on the cold laboratory floor, the fight already decided, the only sounds left the low hum of the lights and the soft, satisfied little sound she makes in the back of her throat as she studies the human who thought he could escape her hospital.