Chapter 1: The Anesthesia Anonymous Meeting
I adjusted my Speedo for the twelfth time, the tight fabric riding up in ways that made me question all my life choices. "I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered to the peeling beige wall of the changing room. The mirror showed a man who'd clearly lost a bet with himself—tan lines, questionable swimwear, and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be the weirdest thing I'd ever done.
Spoiler: It already was.
The basement lab hummed with the kind of energy usually reserved for mad scientists and tax audits. A single flickering fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting long, skeletal shadows across the metal tables and shelves of chemical bottles. The air smelled like disinfectant and regret.
I stepped further in, my bare feet sticking slightly to the cold tile. A guy with a clipboard—probably the group leader—was droning on about "recovery protocols" and "potential side effects." His voice had the enthusiasm of a DMV employee explaining parking violations. I tuned him out almost immediately.
My eyes swept the room instead, searching for anyone who didn’t look like they were here for court-ordered therapy. Most of the other volunteers sat stiffly, arms crossed, like they were waiting for a root canal. Then I saw her.
Auburn hair, green eyes that somehow sparkled even under this depressing lighting, and a nervous smile that hit me like a shot of espresso. Emily. She caught me staring and gave a tiny wave. I returned it, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous I looked in a Speedo.
The group leader cleared his throat. "Let’s go around and share why we’re here."
A woman with smudged mascara sniffled. "I’m trying to overcome my fear of hospitals," she said, twisting a tissue in her hands. Next to her, a guy in a polo shirt mumbled something about "expanding his horizons," which sounded like code for "my girlfriend dumped me and I’m spiraling."
Then it was my turn.
"I'm curious," I said, keeping my voice casual. "About the... potential of the research."
Emily snorted softly, covering her mouth with her hand. I shot her a grin. At least one person here didn’t think I was a complete freak.
The leader moved on, mercifully skipping any follow-up questions. I risked another glance at Emily. She was fiddling with the strap of her tank top, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm against her collarbone.
I imagined her under the gas mask, those green eyes widening as the first sweet hit of anesthesia rolled through her. The thought sent a slow, warm shiver down my spine.
"Ten-minute break," the leader announced, and the room exhaled. People shuffled toward a sad-looking coffee station, where the pot had clearly given up on life hours ago. I made a beeline for Emily instead.
"So," I said, leaning against the table next to her, "you here to conquer your fear of dentists, or are you just as twisted as I am?"
Her smile widened. "Let’s just say I’m open to new experiences," she replied, her eyes locking onto mine. "Especially if they involve a little... gas."