I don't remember the rest of the journey.
I don't know where they took me. Not then, not now. That part is missing from my memory.
When I woke up, it was nothing like I'd imagined. I jolted upright with a gasp, my chest heaving, breath sharp and erratic.
For a second, I hoped I was back in my bed at home. That this was just a nightmare spun from too much vodka and an overactive imagination.
But no. This was real.
Squinting, I tried to make out my surroundings.
I was in some kind of clinical room. Small. Bare. Cold and windowless. The walls were a sickly off-white, drained of colour by a flickering fluorescent light on the stained ceiling above me. Splatters of an unknown substance and mold.
Medical equipment lined one side of the room and something buzzed incessantly. The air smelled like antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood.
My arms and legs were strapped to a metal table by thick leather restraints, buckled tight across my wrists and ankles. I wasn't gagged, but my mouth was as dry as dust. I could barely swallow.
I shivered violently, not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming fear creeping up inside me.
The dim lighting cast eerie shadows on the walls, highlighting the strange, ominous equipment surrounding me.
My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to process the horror of the situation.
I glanced down at myself, only to find someone had changed my clothes. The realisation made me sick. My dress had been replaced with an oversized black sweatshirt and jeans. The fabric did very little to keep me warm in the freezing room.
I stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus on breathing. Tried not to panic.
In.
Out.
In.
Out...
But it was impossible. I was terrified.
The edges of my vision were still fuzzy. My limbs were leaden, like I'd been drugged.
I didn't understand where I was or why.
I don't know how long I lay there before they came for me. I lost any perception of time the second I entered that place.
I suddenly heard footsteps.
Loud. Echoing.
Coming closer from behind the door.
A new wave of panic surged through me. My breath hitched, chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. I wriggled desperately, trying to loosen the ties that bound me, but it was useless.
My eyes widened as the large iron door unlocked and creaked open, sending a chilling echo through the hallway beyond.
A tall dark-skinned man stepped into the room, wearing a mask and a grey formal suit. His presence was imposing, his eyes cold and emotionless as he glanced at me. His presence was clinical, detached. Everything about him said, 'I don't care what happens to you.'
The second man... I recognised instantly.
Dylan.
He smirked when he saw me. That same casual, offbeat grin that had unnerved me the first time. It unsettled me more now. Like this was a game to him.
I stared at the masked man, noting the clipboard he held. He pulled a pen from his pocket, cleared his throat, the sound amplified in the oppressive silence.
Then he spoke.
"Name?"
My stomach dropped. I hesitated, my eyes flickering between him and Dylan.
He didn't look at me when he repeated it. "You speak English?"
I nodded slowly and gulped.
"Then answer the questions," he spat.
"Emily."
He scribbled it down on the document, his hand moving fast across the paper. "Surname?"
"Parker."
"Age?"
"21."
Dylan was pacing now. Slow, deliberate steps behind the man, his hands in his pockets like he was bored. But I didn't buy it. There was something dangerous in his eyes.
"Date of birth?" The masked man continued.
"August 10th, 2002."
He clicked his pen and exhaled through his nose. "Your number will be 081002."
"W-what does that mean? Why are you asking me all this? What's going on?" I tried to ask him, but he just ignored me.
'What the fuck is going on?'
I didn't know what to think, only that this was seriously fucked up. My mind scrambled for answers, but all I felt was dread.
Deep, suffocating dread.
"Blood type?"
"I... I don't know."
"Medications?"
"Erm... Citalopram and Sertraline."
He paused for the first time, peering up at me with dark eyes over his mask. "What?"
"Antidepressants," I clarified quietly, my voice barely a whisper.
A short pause. Then:
"Fears?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Wouldn't. I wasn't about to give them something to use against me. My mind was racing. Was this some kind of sick profiling session?
But Dylan spoke for me, piping up, that stupid smug look on his face as he said, "Needles. Blood. Knives. You know, sharp stuff."
He sounded almost proud of it, wriggling his fingers in front of him like it was funny.
"This one sounds fun, Nate! Just wait till the Boss starts on her!" He cackled but was immediately cut off by the other man.
"Shut up, Dylan. Let her answer them herself."
Dylan frowned. "You're no fun."
Nate turned back to me as Dylan flipped him off behind his back like a rebellious teenager.
Then, something shifted in the room — barely noticeable, but I felt it. Like I'd just been categorised. Labelled. Stored away in a box for future reference.
He finished his notes, then spoke to Dylan as his eyes trailed down my body, subtly.
"Right. Have James transfer her to D2 when you're done."
Nate didn't look at me again. Just turned and walked out.
And then it was just me and Dylan.
Trypanophobia
(trih-pan-o-foe-bee-uh)
The overwhelming, extreme fear of medical procedures that involve needles.
Dylan waited a beat before moving, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make my skin crawl. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Then, slowly, he wandered over to the counter, dragging his fingers along the surface like he was savouring the moment. "Now that that's out of the way..."
I didn't speak. Didn't even blink. I couldn't. Every breath I took was shallow, fearful that even exhaling too loudly might provoke him.
"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" he mumbled, sighed. Then fixed me with a stare that immediately gave me goosebumps. "It's cute. Pathetic, but cute."
I stayed still, my muscles locked, frozen. Panic pressed against my ribs, but I buried it.
He was waiting for it — waiting for me to break.
And then, his tone dropped, colder.
"And don't think I've forgotten what you did to me on the flight." He paused, just long enough to let that sink in. "But don't worry. I'm definitely gonna return the favour."
I felt sick. Actually nauseous. And it would only get worse from here.
He opened a drawer without taking his eyes off me. Something metal clinked. I heard it.
Then he pulled out a syringe — long and filled with some foul yellow fluid. Like pus.
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't exhale. Couldn't move. Couldn't relax. Couldn't think straight.
He wanted me to see it. He held it up like a trophy, the needle catching the low light, glinting with something malicious.
He tapped it once with his finger. Deliberately. Just for show.
I flinched, couldn't help it.
He grinned. All teeth. Like a shark.
"So... scared of needles, huh?"
He stepped closer. Slow, menacing steps. I instinctively shrank back against the table, restraints the only reason I couldn't bolt for the door.
"Let's see if we can fix that," he teased, voice dangerously low. "Or better yet..." His eyes flicked to the syringe, then back to me. "Maybe I'll make it worse."
He leaned in, inches from my face, eyes dark and wild. Predatory. " I like watching people squirm ... So don't hold back, yeah? Scream if you dare."
My heart started pounding. Hard enough to hurt. The restraints dug into my skin as I pulled against them, desperately trying to escape, desperately trying to get away from him.
But it was impossible. I was trapped.
"You don't have to do this," I began to sob, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I stared up at him, eyes wide and terrified.
I could do nothing but whimper.
He chuckled. "I don't have to do a lot of things."
His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped, almost thoughtful. "But I do... because some people deserve to suffer."
My tears came freely now, rolling down my cheeks as I sobbed, helplessly.
"And some people," he continued, walking towards me now, syringe in hand, "are just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place... with the wrong fucking guy ."
He leaned over me, slow and deliberate, until I could see every detail of his horrible, scarred face. His eyes bore into mine. Angry. Furious, even.
A low, vicious whisper came from his throat.
"And if it wasn't for Tyler... I'd fucking destroy you. "
I was in hell.
And Dylan Payne was hell spawn.
I tried to jerk away. Couldn't. He pinned me down with ease as I thrashed. Like he'd done it before.
My eyes widened, the fear set in, and I tried to scream but it came out as a whimper. I sobbed uncontrollably and couldn't breathe, panic taking over my body.
"Oh, shut up and let me enjoy this. It's about the most fun I've had all month."
I hated him. I hated what he was doing to me, and I hated that he knew what he was doing and took pleasure in watching me suffer.
"Fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath.
Then, without warning, he pressed the needle to my skin.
I cried behind his hand. Muffled. Helpless.
He didn't flinch, didn't rush.
Instead, he paused. Kept the needle there, just hovering. Letting the cold metal kiss my skin. Teasing it. Teasing me. His breath was hot on my cheek as he leaned in again.
"You feel that?" he whispered. "That little sting right before it goes in?"
He laughed, low and guttural.
"Yeah. That's the good part."
Then he plunged the needle in.
White-hot pain shot up my arm, burning like fire under my skin. My back arched involuntarily, a choked cry slipping from my throat.
But Dylan didn't move. Didn't ease off.
He held me down, still smirking, eyes gleaming with sick satisfaction as he pushed the plunger down, slowly.
"Look at you," he said, almost gently. "Falling apart already."
The fluid burned. God, it burned. Like acid, like something alive was crawling through my veins, spreading, tearing me apart from the inside.
I couldn't think. I couldn't see. My vision blurred, and everything was spinning and shaking and wrong .
"Breathe," he cooed, brushing hair from my face with mock tenderness. "You're not gonna die. Not today."
I was burning up.
He slapped my cheek, not hard — just enough to keep me conscious. My head lolled to the side. I was fading fast, but not fast enough.
He pulled the needle out with a sharp jerk. I whimpered, blinking slowly as the pain ebbed into a strange, heavy fog.
Almost immediately, drowsiness washed over me. My limbs grew weak, and my struggles became feeble. My vision blurred, and the room began to spin. The fear and panic that had consumed me moments ago were replaced by an overwhelming lethargy. My body felt lifeless, unresponsive to my desperate commands to fight back.
Dylan's voice became a distant murmur as my consciousness slipped away. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" He giggled. "Night night, bitch!"
My eyelids grew heavier, my thoughts scattered, and my breathing slowed. The last thing I saw was his twisted grin and the eerie glint of the syringe before everything faded to black.