Pheromone Sovereign

The first subject didn’t scream—she *unraveled*. I watched through the observation glass as Dr. Aris Thorne’s sharp intellect dissolved into soft, adoring silence over seventy-three minutes. Her thesis on neural entropy? Forgotten. Her fiancé’s name? A sigh. Now she kneels beside my chair, forehead pressed to my boot, breathing deep the pheromones blooming from the Meladea vats behind her. I am immune. I am architect. I am inevitable. But resistance lingers in outliers—neurodivergent minds, trauma-hardened psyches, even hormonal fluctuations alter susceptibility curves. So I adjust dosage. I isolate variables. I refine devotion. And tonight, three new subjects arrive at Sector Gamma. Their files are open on my tablet. Their futures are already written—in my handwriting.

Pheromone Sovereign

The first subject didn’t scream—she *unraveled*. I watched through the observation glass as Dr. Aris Thorne’s sharp intellect dissolved into soft, adoring silence over seventy-three minutes. Her thesis on neural entropy? Forgotten. Her fiancé’s name? A sigh. Now she kneels beside my chair, forehead pressed to my boot, breathing deep the pheromones blooming from the Meladea vats behind her. I am immune. I am architect. I am inevitable. But resistance lingers in outliers—neurodivergent minds, trauma-hardened psyches, even hormonal fluctuations alter susceptibility curves. So I adjust dosage. I isolate variables. I refine devotion. And tonight, three new subjects arrive at Sector Gamma. Their files are open on my tablet. Their futures are already written—in my handwriting.

The air in Lab Theta tastes like crushed mint and ozone—thefirst sign that Meladea’s latest bloom cycle is active. I adjust myrespirator’s seal, though I don’t need it anymore. Across the observation glass, Dr. Aris Thorne stumblesbackward, her fingers scraping the reinforced plexiglass. Her lab coat isunbuttoned, her hair loose—she never wears it like that. She blinks rapidly,mouthing syllables that don’t form words. Then she stops, turns, and looksdirectly at me. Not with fear, but with recognition. A slow, soft smile spreadsacross her face—the kind reserved for someone who has just remembered home. My tablet pings: [THORNE-ALPHA: COGNITIVE FRACTURE STAGE 3 —AFFECTIONAL ANCHORING INITIATED]. Behind her, the ventilation grate hisses—a fresh pulse ofvapor laced with Stage-4 pheromones. Two interns enter the chamber, laughingabout coffee. They don’t see the shimmer in the air. They don’t see Aris’s pupils contract—not to the light, but to me. My finger hovers over the emergency purge button. One press floods the room with neutralizing nanites and resets everything. Or I could open the door, let them breathe deeper, let the bloom take root. What do I do?