The government building smells like every government building: industrial-strength cleaner, bad coffee, and copier toner. Underneath it all, the faint funk of human sweat and whatever stale lunches people microwaved in the break room. Nothing special, except it's the NSRA Field Office, which means there's also that specific sterile smell they use in labs and hospitals. Antiseptic. Trying to mask something worse.

  I check my watch again. 2:17 PM. Jennings is making me wait. Probably on purpose.

  The receptionist keeps glancing at me like I might suddenly transform and tear through the waiting room furniture. Not how it works, lady. Sundown is 6:08 PM. Get worried if I'm still here by 5.

  My leg bounces without my permission. I force it to stop. Breathe through my nose, out through my mouth. Seven years since my first transformation and I've never been this nervous about an appointment.

  When the door finally opens, Jennings looks exactly like I expected: pressed pantsuit, practical shoes, expression like she's mentally calculating how much overtime this is costing her department.

  "Mr. Taylor," she says, not quite a question. "Follow me."

  I stand, aware of the receptionist watching me. Waiting room's got three other people in it. One of them has something undefinably wrong about their scent, sort of like buzzing metal and chlorine. The other two are probably family members. Or handlers. Hard to tell sometimes.

  "Been waiting a while," I say as I follow Jennings down a hallway that smells like bleach and metal.

  "Busy day," she replies without looking back. "You're not my only appointment."

  Her office is small, windowless. Two chairs, a desk, and enough filing cabinets to suggest either extreme organization or complete chaos. Hard to tell which. A laptop sits open, screen dimmed.

  "Take a seat," she says, closing the door behind us.

  I sit, trying not to look too eager. The chair creaks under my weight.

  "I know you've been waiting for this follow-up meeting," Jennings says, sliding into her chair. "You know what I'm here about."

  "The trial program," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Did I make the cut?"

  She pulls a folder from a stack on her desk and flips it open. I can smell the paper - fresh prints, ink still giving off fumes. My file, probably. New additions.

  "Three months of screening, blood work, psychological evaluations," she says, scanning the pages. "Everything looks clear. Even your psych profile."

  "That last part's bullshit," I say before I can stop myself. "But the rest sounds right."

  Her eyes flick up to mine, one eyebrow raised slightly. "Candor. Refreshing."

  "Figure honesty's better when you're about to start drugging me."

  "This isn't a recreational pharmaceutical, Mr. Taylor. It's a highly controlled metabolic suppressant developed specifically for cases like yours." She closes the folder. "And you did qualify for the trial. Congratulations."

  The relief hits me like a punch to the chest. Seven years. Seven years of being locked in a cage every night of my life. Seven years of never seeing stars, never taking an evening walk, never doing anything normal people do after sunset.

  "When do I start?" I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  "Today, if you'd like." She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small black case, setting it on the desk between us. "There's paperwork first."

  Of course there is.

  She slides a stack of forms across to me. Each one smells like a different printer - some freshly run, others photocopied so many times they've lost their crispness.

  "Standard liability waivers. Acknowledgment of experimental status. Consent for ongoing blood work and monitoring. Agreement to maintain your NSRA registration and comply with all metahuman regulations." She taps a finger on the top form. "And most importantly, the dosage and reporting protocols."

  I start signing without reading. I know what I'm getting into. I've been researching this program since rumors about it first leaked two years ago.

  "You should read those," Jennings says, frowning.

  "I know what they say. No driving after dosing. Report all side effects. Don't reproduce while on the meds. Follow-up appointments mandatory. I lose the meds if I break the law or miss check-ins." I keep signing. "Government gets to use my data however they want. I'm just another lab rat. Got it."

  "Protocol requires informed consent," she snarks back.

  "I've been waiting for this my whole adult life. Consider me informed," I reply, rolling my eyes. "Any particular reason why this is happening on such short notice?"

  "New trial drug made it through the filters. Extremely promising, I've been told." She watches me sign the last page, then collects the forms, tapping them into a neat stack. "Your dosage is calculated based on your body weight and power metrics. The effects last approximately three to four hours per dose. You've been approved for a weekly allotment of fourteen doses, free of charge."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Two a day," I say. "That's not enough for full coverage. Either I've got to overload on some days or accept not being fully cured."

  "It's not meant to be." Her voice is clinical, detached, like this doesn't mean dick to her. I bet it doesn't. I'm just another guy on welfare to her. "The purpose of this trial is to measure efficacy and side effects of intermittent suppression, not to completely eliminate your condition."

  "So I still need the cage at night."

  "Yes. But you'll have windows of time where transformation isn't a concern." She opens the black case, revealing fourteen small autoinjectors nestled in foam cutouts. Precise, white. "Vysera? (daxerimab)", labeled with lot numbers, expiration dates, bar codes. I can't smell any of the blue stuff inside of them. "The medication is administered intramuscularly. You'll need to wait thirty minutes for full effectiveness. Side effects may include dizziness, nausea, injection site soreness, formation of surface-level cysts, and in rare cases, dissociative episodes. Power suppression is absolute. Your daytime scent enhancement will almost certainly be suppressed along with your transformations."

  I consider it for a moment. The smell thing has been useful. But compared to having a few hours of human nighttime? No contest.

  "It's fine," I say. "Small price to pay."

  Jennings nods, clicking the case shut. "You'll receive a new case each week when you come in for your check-up. Any unused doses must be returned - they're tracked by lot number."

  "Like I'd waste them."

  "It's procedure, Mr. Taylor." She slides the case toward me. "You'll also receive a monitoring bracelet. Similar to what probationers wear, but with additional biometric sensors."

  That wasn't in the briefing materials. "You're tagging me?"

  "We're monitoring you. There's a difference." She pulls another, larger case from beneath her desk. "The bracelet measures heart rate, body temperature, and hormonal markers. It also tracks your location."

  "So I'm on house arrest now?"

  "No. You're free to go anywhere the general public can go. The tracking is for your safety and ours. If something goes wrong with the suppression, we need to know where you are."

  I stare at the bracelet she removes from the case. Black, bulky, with a small digital display. Looks like an oversized fitness tracker, except for the lack of any visible clasp or opening. Frankly, looks like the one Sam wears. Maybe the same brand?

  "Once it's on, it stays on for the duration of the trial," she explains. "Tamper-proof. Waterproof. If it detects that you are transforming, such as a surge of hormones, or snapping off your wrist because it's suddenly grown three times the size, it'll alert our rapid response team."

  "And how long is this trial?" I ask, eyeing the bracelet with new wariness.

  "Initial phase is six months. After that, we evaluate continuation based on your results and compliance." She holds out the bracelet. "Left or right wrist?"

  I extend my left arm. "Non-dominant."

  She secures it around my wrist. There's a soft click, and the display lights up with my ID number and what looks like a battery indicator.

  "There's an app for your phone," she continues, all business. "It will alert you thirty minutes before the suppression is expected to wear off. I strongly recommend being in your secured location before that happens."

  "Yeah, no shit." I rotate my wrist, feeling the weight of the bracelet. It's lighter than it looks. "What about my benefits? This gonna mess with my welfare?"

  Jennings's expression shifts slightly - the bureaucrat confronting an unexpected question. "Your participation in this program is classified as medical treatment for your condition. It shouldn't affect your eligibility."

  "Shouldn't?"

  "Won't," she corrects. "But if you find gainful employment during the trial period, that's a different matter. Normal income restrictions would still apply."

  Great. So I can have night hours or I can work. Not both.

  "Any volunteer work needs to be documented and approved," she adds, as if reading my thoughts. "For liability purposes."

  "I help old ladies cross the street sometimes. That need paperwork?"

  She doesn't smile. "Any regular volunteer activity, Mr. Taylor. Particularly anything utilizing your enhanced capabilities or potentially exposing you to stressful situations that might trigger transformation."

  "That's not how it works, but I'll keep that in mind."

  She hands me a thick packet of papers. "Instructions, FAQ, contact numbers, emergency protocols. Read these ones."

  I take the packet, stuffing it into my jacket pocket along with the case of vials. "That it?"

  "Almost." She taps something on her laptop. "I need to emphasize that this medication is still experimental. We've had success in clinical settings, but real-world application is different. You're one of thirty-seven participants nationwide in this phase."

  "Guinea pig. Got it."

  "Subject," she corrects, not looking up from her screen. "And while we believe the suppression is effective, we cannot guarantee it. Hence the monitoring, the reporting requirements, and the emergency protocols."

  "I understand the risks."

  "Do you?" She looks at me directly now. "Because once you leave this office with that medication, you're taking responsibility for managing a condition that, uncontrolled, could result in harm to others. The NSRA is providing tools, not absolving you of accountability."

  "I've been managing this for seven years without your magic potion," I point out. "I think I can handle a few hours of being normal."

  "Normal is relative, Mr. Taylor." She closes her laptop. "Your first follow-up is scheduled for one week from today. Same time. Bring any unused doses and be prepared for blood work."

  I stand, suddenly eager to be out of this sterile office with its sharp-edged furniture and sharper-edged bureaucrat. "Looking forward to it."

  Jennings hands me a card with her direct number on it. "Call immediately if you experience any severe side effects. And I mean immediately."

  "Will do." I pocket the card. "Thanks. For... you know. The opportunity."

  She looks surprised by the gratitude, however grudging. "You're welcome. Just follow the protocols."

  I head for the door, already planning which night hours I'll claim first. If I dose at 5:30...

  "Mr. Taylor," Jennings calls after me. "One more thing."

  I turn back. "Yeah?"

  "This program has many critics. People who think we're either doing too much or not enough for metahumans like yourself." Her expression is unreadable. "Its continuation depends on successful outcomes. Don't make me regret selecting your application."

  "No pressure," I mutter.

  "Exactly." She gives me a thin smile. "Have a good evening, Mr. Taylor. Enjoy your night hours."

  Outside, the October afternoon is bright and cool. My nose picks up every scent - exhaust from buses, food from the halal cart on the corner, perfume from a woman half a block away. All that will be dulled in a few hours. Worth it.

  I check my watch again. 3:22 PM. Plenty of time to get home, check the reinforcements on my cage, and still have a couple hours of night to myself.

  The black case in my pocket feels impossibly heavy. Fourteen doses. Fourteen windows of something approaching normal life.

  My phone buzzes with a text. Sam.

  Meeting at 4:30. Location change. The old boxing gym on Porter. Amelia has updates.

  I text back: Can't today. Something came up. Tomorrow?

  The response is immediate: Fine. But you're missing the cool stuff.

  Sam has no idea what I'm missing. None of them do. All these kids playing superhero like it's a choice. For them, maybe it is. But tonight, for a few hours at least, I get to choose.

  I wonder how my pops is doing?