Chapter 26

# Day 9 - 8:42

By the time Zhao awoke, Aida and Mei-Lin were already gone. Their side of the room was stripped of clutter, only a faint indentation on the mattress where Aida had curled the night before. He reached for the window, braced himself on the cool metal sill, and squinted out at the horizon. The morning sun bled orange through the haze; on the edge of vision, a dark line trailed them—just a smudge, but too close, too steady. He closed the curtain and prayed no one else would notice.

He showered, dressed, and moved two decks up to the new "treatment department." It had been a former VIP stateroom, but Aida and Mei-Lin had already erased any trace of the owner. The old luxury was repurposed: the front wall was now a single, slanted slab of glass that gave a panoramic view of the bow. At the very base of the window, sunken into the floor, sprawled a soaking tub large enough for three. Next to it, a platform of thick, rubberized mats—Aida’s makeshift massage parlor. Off to one side, the door to a semi-open shower led to a balcony just wide enough for two, and a curved divider half-hid a lounge area with a battered leather sofa. The room’s main event, though, was the bed: king-sized, centered like a throne on a raised dais, sheets in clinical white, with a headboard you could see from the corridor.

Zhao found the tea set first: pale green ceramic, perfectly arranged on a low table next to the sofa. Mei-Lin had lined up three mugs, already prepped, and set a thermos of near-boiling water beside them. She stood in the corner, sorting through a basket of fresh towels, her face a study in early-morning focus.

Aida was perched at the window, her skirt tucked beneath her thighs, looking every bit like the host of a high-end spa for the end of the world. She turned as he entered, eyes bright, and said, "Welcome to our new office."

Zhao tried not to gawk, but it was hard not to. He’d never seen this side of her: administrative, almost domestic, but also oddly regal.

"Where should I set up?" he asked, half-joking.

Aida gestured to the lounge. "Here, for now." She uncapped the thermos and poured tea with a steady hand. "We have ten minutes before the first session."

Mei-Lin set the towels on a shelf, checked the time, and turned to them. "It’s nice, right? The window, I mean."

He nodded. "We could see halfway to Lisbon if we wanted."

Aida smiled, then her face sobered. "The captain said we can use this as quarters, as long as it’s the main treatment area. I’d like to keep the lounge for private work, and the bed for critical cases or overnight monitoring." She looked to Zhao. "You okay with that?"

He thought about it. "Maybe we hang a curtain, so if one of us needs to crash, the others can still work?"

Aida nodded. "I like it. We’ll do it."

They sat, mugs in hand, and watched the waves for a few silent sips. He let the tea burn his tongue—better the pain than the creeping fear gnawing at him since the night before.

"So," Aida said, setting her cup aside. "How are the numbers?"

Zhao shrugged. "Haven’t checked today."

Mei-Lin took out her tablet and scrolled. "Same pattern. Those who’ve seen you twice are below twenty percent. The rest… most hover just under fifty, but a few are up to sixty. There’s a cluster on deck four that’s getting worse."

"Language group?" Aida asked, too quick to be casual.

"Yeah. They’re all Mandarin, Cantonese, or Fukienese. They eat together, sleep together, never mix with the rest."

Aida sighed, long. "It’s human nature. We self-sort. But it’s making things harder."

Zhao said, "It’s the same in every school or office. People stick with what’s familiar."

Aida shook her head, the silver ring in her left ear catching the morning light. "It's not just preference. It's slowing down the therapy. We need more cross-group sessions, bigger ones." Her fingers drummed against the ceramic mug, leaving half-moon prints in the condensation.

Zhao couldn't help himself, the words tumbling out before he could stop them: "You mean, like, a multi-group—?"

She laughed, clear and unfiltered, her head tipping back to reveal the smooth column of her throat. "An orgy? Maybe." Her eyes crinkled at the corners, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "It's not about sex, it's about trust. If they see others do it—skin against skin, breath mingling with breath—it breaks the wall."

Mei-Lin's cheeks flushed pink against her pale skin. "I was going to ask what a group coaching session looks like."

Aida's eyes softened as she traced the rim of her cup with her index finger. "Sometimes it's just confession—women sitting cross-legged on cushions, voices trembling as they admit things they've never said aloud. Sometimes, I demonstrate techniques—my hands guiding theirs, showing them where to press, how to breathe." She set her cup down, her gaze distant. "A few days ago, I let Yuri and Camille use my body as a learning canvas. Their fingertips trembled at first, hesitant on my skin, but by the end..." She smiled, a private memory flickering across her face. "Last night, we commandeered the observation lounge on C deck," she nodded toward the ceiling, "fifteen women arranged in a circle on meditation cushions we'd found in storage. Skirts hiked up or pants discarded, eyes closed at first, then gradually opening to watch each other. Most had never touched themselves with witnesses before, never seen their own pleasure mirrored in another woman's face. It was..." she paused, her lips parting slightly, "...like watching flowers bloom in time-lapse." She sipped her tea, steam curling around her face, then added, "We'll have a mixed session today at four in the same space. You can observe from the back corner, if you want."

Mei-Lin nodded, her stylus moving rapidly across her tablet screen, the scratch-scratch barely audible over the hum of the ship's engines.

Aida set her mug down, glanced at Zhao, and said: "I need to apologize. I’ll be playing with my own breasts a lot for the next few weeks. If you see me doing it, please ignore, or—" she looked at Mei-Lin, "—help, if you have time."

Mei-Lin blinked, then smiled. "We’re supposed to help you lactate, right?"

Aida shrugged, almost embarrassed. "Every minute helps. If we can get three women producing, we can save twenty more from direct risk." She looked at Zhao, then at her hands. "If it’s awkward, just say so. I’ll stop."

He shook his head. "It’s less awkward than the rest of this job."

She smiled, grateful.

Aida checked her phone. "Zhao, your first session is in five minutes. Are you ready?"

He scrolled the roster. The name at the top was one he’d flagged days ago—someone who’d missed every appointment, dodged every check-in. He sighed. "It’s always the tough ones."

"Can you handle it?" Aida asked.

He nodded. "I’ll manage."

Aida said, "If you run into trouble, call for backup."

Mei-Lin said, "If you need tea after, I’ll have it ready."

He left them like that, Aida unbuttoning her cream-colored cardigan with practiced fingers, exposing the gentle slope of her porcelain skin, while Mei-Lin's delicate hands were already at work, her thumbs making slow, methodical circles around Aida's left nipple. Their heads were bent close together, Mei-Lin's glossy black hair falling forward to brush Aida's shoulder, both women's expressions caught between clinical concentration and something more intimate—eyes half-lidded, breaths synchronized without their knowing. Zhao felt oddly lighter as he closed the door, like he'd just been let in on a secret that made everything in this apocalyptic nightmare slightly more bearable, the weight of responsibility briefly lifted by their matter-of-fact acceptance of this new, strange reality.

He closed the door behind him, checked the horizon, and headed down the hall.

The dark line behind the ship hadn’t budged.

But inside the suite, it felt for the first time in weeks that he belonged.

# Day 9 - 14:00

He took the call on the main corridor, three decks below the bow. On the screen: his assignment, bolded red for urgent. Patient: Sophie Laurent. Age: 57. Deck 2, VIP cabin 3. The photo was formal, slightly out of date, with the icy composure of a stateswoman or maybe an actress past her prime. Zhao read the note at the bottom—“CONFLICTED, WILL RESIST”—and groaned inwardly.

He'd never treated anyone over forty before. Aida, at thirty-eight, had been his oldest—and she'd been all business, clinical in her approach, almost maternal in her guidance. This would be different. He braced himself for tears, maybe a tirade about lost youth, maybe a request to fake the paperwork and just let her die quietly.

As he rounded the corner, his brain snagged on the name. Laurent. French, high status. Like Vivienne. The resemblance in the photo wasn’t just cosmetic—she had the same stare, the same architectural cheekbones, the same way of tilting her chin as if daring the camera to blink first.

He checked his notes. The owner had supposedly forbidden mothers aboard—part of the weird design, or maybe just a quirk of his own biography. Was this an exception? If so, why? The more he thought, the more it nagged. Maybe she’d lied her way on. Maybe she was more important than anyone knew.

His hands sweated as he knocked, then wiped them quickly on his cargo pants.

The door slid open. Vivienne herself stood in the entry, hair loose over one shoulder, the faintest blush on her cheeks. Her eyes darted past him, scanning the empty corridor.

"She's expecting you," she whispered, voice gentle but edged with something that made his stomach tighten. "Don't fail. Not with her." She gripped his wrist suddenly, nails digging in. "If anyone discovers who she is to me—" She seemed to reconsider, then just motioned him inside, her expression hardening to marble. She stayed behind as the door closed, leaving him alone in a fog of expensive perfume and warm, washed light, her unfinished warning hanging in the air like a blade.