Story code: ST-001791
Part 1: The Price of Admission
The metallic tang of sodium citrate still coated the back of Chloe’s throat, a lingering souvenir from the four o’clock double-plasma donation that had provided exactly enough cash to fill her gas tank to drive here. She shifted her weight on her borrowed heels, ignoring the dull, rhythmic throb of the bruised puncture wound on her inner elbow. The ugly purple mark was currently hidden beneath the tight velvet sleeve of her roommate’s cocktail dress. The eight o’clock donor gala roared around her in an overwhelming blur of clinking crystal, expensive perfume, and overlapping, self-important conversations. She was standing near a massive, extravagant floral arrangement, trying to blend into the shadows while pretending she belonged among the university’s wealthiest benefactors.
She kept a white-knuckled grip on the stem of a slender champagne flute. She had not taken a single sip. With her drastically depleted red blood cell count and a completely empty stomach, the alcohol would hit her fragile system like a wrecking ball. Her blood sugar was scraping the absolute floor, making her extremities feel numb, cold, and dangerously disconnected from the rest of her body. A sudden, vicious head rush tilted the ballroom by a terrifying five degrees, forcing her to lock her knees and stare hard at the massive ice sculpture of a soaring eagle in the center of the room. She took a slow, shallow breath, focusing her entire will on a single bead of condensation dripping down the eagle’s frozen beak. Passing out on the marble floor at the Vice Chancellor’s elite victory dinner would be a fantastic way to ensure her adjunct teaching contract was terminated by morning. She just had to survive another hour to fulfill her mandatory attendance requirement.
Ten feet away, Vice Chancellor Aris held court. His booming, theatrical laugh easily drowned out the hired string quartet playing softly in the corner. He clutched a heavy crystal tumbler of amber scotch, gesturing wildly with it as he regaled a circle of silver-haired donors with the tale of his latest administrative triumph. The university had just secured a staggering forty-million-dollar endowment, a victory he claimed was entirely due to his tireless charm and ruthless negotiations. Chloe watched the light from the three-tiered crystal chandelier catch on Aris’s solid gold cufflinks. Her stomach twisted into a tight, hollow knot at the brazen display of obscene wealth. Just last month, Aris had stood in a bleak, fluorescent-lit faculty breakroom to announce the total suspension of adjunct healthcare subsidies and a sweeping, immediate reduction in all course stipends. He had called it a necessary, painful shared sacrifice for the future of the institution, adjusting his designer silk tie as he spoke.
The sheer hypocrisy of the contrast made the metallic taste in her mouth turn sharp and bitter. The ballroom felt entirely too warm, the air thick and heavy with the rich scent of roasted duck and red wine passing by on silver trays. Chloe squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, desperately willing the dark, fuzzy spots out of her peripheral vision. She needed a moment of absolute silence. She needed to sit down on a cold tile floor, drink the warm apple juice box currently crushed at the bottom of her cheap purse, and wait for the terrible, high-pitched humming in her ears to stop. The circle of wealthy donors erupted into loud, sycophantic applause as Aris delivered a self-deprecating punchline about his golf handicap. Chloe took a deliberate step backward, letting the shifting, applauding crowd swallow her retreat.
She slipped through a set of heavy velvet drapes at the edge of the grand ballroom, stepping into a network of hushed, carpeted corridors. This private wing of the estate was technically off-limits to the catering staff, but someone had carelessly pushed the velvet rope aside. She rounded a corner, finally leaving the suffocating noise and the heavy smell of roasted meat behind. The profound quiet of the hallway was a massive physical relief, though it did absolutely nothing to stop the relentless spinning sensation behind her eyes. Her fingers brushed the textured, embossed wallpaper, seeking physical support as she navigated the dim, shadow-filled corridor. She was looking for the discrete guest powder room she had spotted on the architectural map near the coat check.
Her bruised elbow gave a sharp, agonizing throb as she flexed her arm to adjust her slipping purse strap. The borrowed velvet sleeve was far too tight, constricting the thick cotton bandage underneath and cutting off her circulation. She just needed two uninterrupted minutes in a private stall to breathe, peel the medical adhesive tape off her skin before it welted, and consume her emergency sugar. A heavy mahogany door sat at the very end of the hall, slightly recessed into a darkened alcove. It perfectly matched the description of the private suite bathrooms the event staff had mentioned during their brief orientation.
Chloe approached the alcove, her halting footsteps entirely muffled by the thick Persian runner rug. She pressed her cold, trembling palm against the polished wood of the door. The heavy brass handle turned silently under her grip, offering absolutely no resistance. She pushed the heavy door inward, stepping over the threshold into the dark room in desperate need of a sink and a mirror. She froze instantly, the breath catching in her throat, as the pale light from the hallway spilled over the chaotic, sprawling wreckage inside.
The metallic tang of sodium citrate still coated the back of Chloe’s throat, a lingering souvenir from the four o’clock double-plasma donation that had provided exactly enough cash to fill her gas tank to drive here. She shifted her weight on her borrowed heels, ignoring the dull, rhythmic throb of the bruised puncture wound on her inner elbow. The ugly purple mark was currently hidden beneath the tight velvet sleeve of her roommate’s cocktail dress. The eight o’clock donor gala roared around her in an overwhelming blur of clinking crystal, expensive perfume, and overlapping, self-important conversations. She was standing near a massive, extravagant floral arrangement, trying to blend into the shadows while pretending she belonged among the university’s wealthiest benefactors.
She kept a white-knuckled grip on the stem of a slender champagne flute. She had not taken a single sip. With her drastically depleted red blood cell count and a completely empty stomach, the alcohol would hit her fragile system like a wrecking ball. Her blood sugar was scraping the absolute floor, making her extremities feel numb, cold, and dangerously disconnected from the rest of her body. A sudden, vicious head rush tilted the ballroom by a terrifying five degrees, forcing her to lock her knees and stare hard at the massive ice sculpture of a soaring eagle in the center of the room. She took a slow, shallow breath, focusing her entire will on a single bead of condensation dripping down the eagle’s frozen beak. Passing out on the marble floor at the Vice Chancellor’s elite victory dinner would be a fantastic way to ensure her adjunct teaching contract was terminated by morning. She just had to survive another hour to fulfill her mandatory attendance requirement.
Ten feet away, Vice Chancellor Aris held court. His booming, theatrical laugh easily drowned out the hired string quartet playing softly in the corner. He clutched a heavy crystal tumbler of amber scotch, gesturing wildly with it as he regaled a circle of silver-haired donors with the tale of his latest administrative triumph. The university had just secured a staggering forty-million-dollar endowment, a victory he claimed was entirely due to his tireless charm and ruthless negotiations. Chloe watched the light from the three-tiered crystal chandelier catch on Aris’s solid gold cufflinks. Her stomach twisted into a tight, hollow knot at the brazen display of obscene wealth. Just last month, Aris had stood in a bleak, fluorescent-lit faculty breakroom to announce the total suspension of adjunct healthcare subsidies and a sweeping, immediate reduction in all course stipends. He had called it a necessary, painful shared sacrifice for the future of the institution, adjusting his designer silk tie as he spoke.
The sheer hypocrisy of the contrast made the metallic taste in her mouth turn sharp and bitter. The ballroom felt entirely too warm, the air thick and heavy with the rich scent of roasted duck and red wine passing by on silver trays. Chloe squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, desperately willing the dark, fuzzy spots out of her peripheral vision. She needed a moment of absolute silence. She needed to sit down on a cold tile floor, drink the warm apple juice box currently crushed at the bottom of her cheap purse, and wait for the terrible, high-pitched humming in her ears to stop. The circle of wealthy donors erupted into loud, sycophantic applause as Aris delivered a self-deprecating punchline about his golf handicap. Chloe took a deliberate step backward, letting the shifting, applauding crowd swallow her retreat.
She slipped through a set of heavy velvet drapes at the edge of the grand ballroom, stepping into a network of hushed, carpeted corridors. This private wing of the estate was technically off-limits to the catering staff, but someone had carelessly pushed the velvet rope aside. She rounded a corner, finally leaving the suffocating noise and the heavy smell of roasted meat behind. The profound quiet of the hallway was a massive physical relief, though it did absolutely nothing to stop the relentless spinning sensation behind her eyes. Her fingers brushed the textured, embossed wallpaper, seeking physical support as she navigated the dim, shadow-filled corridor. She was looking for the discrete guest powder room she had spotted on the architectural map near the coat check.
Her bruised elbow gave a sharp, agonizing throb as she flexed her arm to adjust her slipping purse strap. The borrowed velvet sleeve was far too tight, constricting the thick cotton bandage underneath and cutting off her circulation. She just needed two uninterrupted minutes in a private stall to breathe, peel the medical adhesive tape off her skin before it welted, and consume her emergency sugar. A heavy mahogany door sat at the very end of the hall, slightly recessed into a darkened alcove. It perfectly matched the description of the private suite bathrooms the event staff had mentioned during their brief orientation.
Chloe approached the alcove, her halting footsteps entirely muffled by the thick Persian runner rug. She pressed her cold, trembling palm against the polished wood of the door. The heavy brass handle turned silently under her grip, offering absolutely no resistance. She pushed the heavy door inward, stepping over the threshold into the dark room in desperate need of a sink and a mirror. She froze instantly, the breath catching in her throat, as the pale light from the hallway spilled over the chaotic, sprawling wreckage inside.