Turn 3 of 15

Go into the salon and ask for a treatment

I wait until mid-morning, when the watchful cluster of grey-clad women has drifted down towards the bus stop, their attention caught by the arrival of the 214. The coast is clear, but my heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird as I cross the street. I push through the glass door, triggering a small, electronic chime that sounds startlingly loud in the quiet. The air inside hits me first—that same sharp ozone tang, but thicker now, mixed with the cloying sweetness of coconut-scented lotion and something metallic, like warm copper. It makes the back of my throat itch. The walls are painted a soothing, sterile white, and soft, generic pop music plays from hidden speakers, but the atmosphere feels heavy, pressurised.

The woman behind the reception desk is the one I saw unlocking up, tall and severe in her grey tracksuit. She looks up from a tablet, her expression not hostile, but utterly vacant, like a computer that has been switched on but hasn't loaded its programme yet. Her lashes are so long they cast tiny shadows on her cheekbones. She doesn't smile.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is flat, a perfect monotone that matches the others.

"I'd like to book a session," I say, trying to keep my own voice steady. "Just a standard tan, I suppose."

She taps at the tablet without looking at me.

"First time? We have a new client special. The Solaris Experience." She says the name with the same inflection as someone reading a serial number.

"It's much more effective than standard beds. Complete transformation." The word hangs in the air between us, clinical and strange.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Fine. The Solaris, then."

She stands, her movements fluid and efficient.

"Follow me." She leads me not to a curtained cubicle, but to a heavy, soundproofed door at the back of the salon. She pushes it open, and the ozone smell intensifies. Inside is a small, windowless room. In the centre stands one of the machines from the shop floor, now unveiled. It's not a tanning bed. It's a tall, curved pod of pearlescent fiberglass, like a futuristic sarcophagus. The interior is lined with a dark, textured material that seems to drink the light. Thick black cables snake from its base to a humming, metal console. The woman gestures towards it.

"Step inside. It's perfectly safe. Everyone says so."

Her eyes are fixed on a point just over my shoulder, and a faint, programmed smile touches her lips for the first time. It doesn't reach her eyes.