It was the sound of shuffling papers that caught my attention next — quiet and methodical, like someone trying not to disturb me.
I remained curled up on my side from the night before, still clinging desperately to the thin blanket Tyler had given me, the table biting into my bony hips. My muscles felt stiff from staying in one position too long. I turned my head and blinked slowly, my eyes squinting to adjust to the harsh ceiling light, making my head ache. My arm instinctively rose to shield my eyes.
As I slowly rolled onto my back and swept my gaze around the room, I noticed someone there, to my left. An unfamiliar man sat beside the bed, holding a clipboard and tapping his pen against it with a slow rhythm.
My body immediately recoiled, expecting the worst. Part of me still expected Dylan or Tyler to be sitting there. But this man wasn't like them. There was no immediate sense of danger radiating from him.
My arm stalled mid-air in front of me, a shield in case he moved to hurt me. I eyed him warily.
"Hey, Emily," the man said with a small smile, his voice gentle. "Are you okay?"
I moved my arm, letting it rest over my chest. Now I was more curious than scared. This man seemed different from the rest.
He looked out of place, almost. He wasn't in any kind of uniform like the others. He wore a soft blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, untucked over a pair of faded jeans. His auburn hair was neat, his face clean-shaven, and a pair of thin-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, catching the light. His bright green eyes met mine with a disarming gentleness, like someone who'd read the manual on being safe and approachable.
I gave a small nod in response.
"Good. How many fingers am I holding up?"
Three, I mumbled, my voice raspy through a dry throat. I coughed, wincing at the sting.
He offered a small, almost reassuring smile, his lips curling upward. "That's good. You're lucid, at least. How are you feeling this morning?"
The ache in my cheek reminded me of yesterday. I reached up to touch the raw edge of it, flinching slightly.
"Sore," I croaked out in a whisper. "Where's..."
I stopped myself. I didn't actually know what I was asking. Where's Tyler? Where's Dylan? Where am I? Where's home?
He stood and walked over to the countertop.
"My name's James... Dean," he said over his shoulder with a slight, bitter laugh. I didn't return it. "My parents had a sense of humour... Anyway— I'm going to be your therapist while you're here."
That made me sit up straighter. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, a disbelieving scoff catching in my chest. "A therapist?" My voice cracked. "In this place? That's ironic."
He didn't take offence. If anything, he seemed to expect my scepticism. He nodded, his gaze turning to the floor.
"I get it. Nothing about this is normal," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hands as he spoke. "But my role is to support you. To help you cope with everything that's happened… and will happen."
"Why the hell should I trust you?" I questioned, fully sitting up now, folding my arms across my chest. "Everyone says something different. In my book, you're all the same."
"Because," he said without missing a beat, "I haven't lied to you. And I won't." He returned to the chair, settled into it slowly. "And if I ever have to tell you something you won't like, I'll still tell you the truth."
That hit something inside me. It had been a while since anyone had spoken to me like that. No patronising tone. No veiled threat. Just honesty... or at least the illusion of it.
James held out a small paper cup of water. "Drink this. You'll feel better."
My fingers trembled as I took it, my eyes already inspecting it. I peered at it, then up at him.
"It's just water, I promise."
His reassurance helped. With a gulp, I let it soothe me. I hadn't even realised how thirsty I was until the first sip hit my empty stomach. I suppressed the sickness.
"I heard about what Dylan did yesterday," he muttered after a moment, watching me with quiet concern. "I'm sorry about that. He can be quite... unpredictable. Tyler tries to keep him in line, but... it doesn't always work."
The way he trailed off quietly told me more than words. Had Dylan gone after him, too?
"You talked about helping," I said cautiously, eyeing his expression as he looked back up at me. "Does that mean getting me out of here?"
"It means doing what I can," he said firmly. "Right now, that means helping you stabilise — physically and emotionally. Eventually, maybe more."
Maybe. That word felt heavier.
"So, let's start today's session," he inhaled. His hands gripped his knees a little. Was I wrong to analyse him so soon? Maybe. But I felt safer analysing than finding out too late what these people were capable of. I'd learned to since Dylan.
"Can you tell me how you're feeling today?" he asked, pen poised over the clipboard.
I stared at my folded hands resting over the blanket bunched in my lap, then muttered flatly. "Scared. Confused. Angry. Depressed. Anxious. Tired. Take your pick..."
I almost laughed. It was ridiculous. Except it wasn't.
He didn't interrupt. Just nodded and waited. He glanced at me over the rim of his glasses, then scribbled something onto the clipboard. The pen moved quickly, but his expression stayed unreadable.
He clicked his pen once, inhaled. "That's a lot to carry," he hummed. "And it sounds like it's been that way for a while."
I gave a noncommittal shrug. It wasn't a question, so I didn't owe him an answer. Still, he wasn't wrong. The emotions I'd listed, those weren't new. I'd been carrying them around long before I was kidnapped.
He studied me for a moment, my hesitation, my silence, then asked gently, "Do you feel safe right now?"
My mouth opened, then closed again. Safe? In a cold, clinical room with a metal table for a bed, ominous shouts in the hallway beyond the door, and men like Dylan and Tyler roaming the halls?
No. Not at all. Was that even a question?
"Define 'safe,'" I muttered, fiddling with the hem of the blanket.
"Well, what's your definition of it?"
I looked past him to the wall. That off-white, sterile wall, full of a static buzz that I could feel in my bones.
"You're not yelling or threatening me... That's a start," I replied, my gaze returning.
He nodded thoughtfully, scribbling down the answer. I watched the pen scurry across the page like something alive.
"What about trust?" he asked next, locking me back into eye contact. "Is there anyone here you feel you can trust, even a little?"
I hesitated. My first thought was no. "I don't know that yet," I mumbled.
"What about me? What's your impression of me?" James tilted his head, like it was something worth acknowledging.
I clenched the blanket tighter.
What did I think of him?
Part of me wanted to dismiss the question, to treat it like some therapist's trick — get me talking, comfortable, open . But another part of me... didn't know what to make of him at all.
He hadn't touched me yet. Hadn't raised his voice. He didn't hover, didn't prod too much. And still, there was something calculated in his calm, like a man who'd learned exactly how to be harmless on the outside, even if he wasn't on the inside. That alone made me suspicious. But it also, somehow, made him easier to tolerate than the others.
I met his eyes, just for a moment. What was he thinking? I couldn't tell.
"You seem... different," I admitted, finally. The words felt dangerous out loud.
"Different how?" he questioned, but his tone wasn't pushy.
I shifted uncomfortably, pulling the blanket higher around me. "You don't feel like a threat... Yet. But that doesn't mean I can trust you."
His expression didn't change. If anything, it softened a little, like he appreciated the honesty.
"That's fair," he said, and then, more gently, "Caution's kept you alive this long. I'm not asking you to give it up."
Something twisted in my chest. A flicker of something I didn't want to name. Not trust. Definitely not that. But maybe— I don't know... the absence of fear? And that was rare enough to feel unsettling.
I dropped my gaze again, watching my fingers twist the fabric. "It's not just this place," I said quietly. "It's not like I was fine before I got here."
The words spilled before I could stop them, surprising even myself. Maybe it was the way he didn't flinch, didn't fill the air with empty reassurances. Or maybe I was just tired.
"Do you want to talk about that?" he asked carefully, tentatively.
I shook my head. "No."
"Okay," he said, without hesitation. No guilt trip. No 'you'll feel better if you share.' It made me feel like maybe I had some say in this, however small.
Then his voice broke the quiet, low and even. "When was the last time you truly felt safe, Emily?"
My breath caught. I almost said never. But that wasn't true. Instead, I closed my eyes for a second.
I saw flashbacks.
My mother humming over the kitchen sink. A blanket fort in a bedroom that was too small for us. The way she used to kiss the top of my head. And her . At least, the vague memories that were left of her. The happy ones from a simple childhood.
And then... the sharp contrast of silence.
Fear.
Hands that took instead of held...
His hands.
"I don't remember," I whispered, shivering slightly as I tried to remove the thoughts from my head with a hard blink, forcing myself back into the present.
Fuck, it hurt . More than any of the physical pain I'd experienced since coming to this place.
And that felt true.
James didn't speak right away. Just nodded once, as if he understood the words I wasn't saying. Then:
"What about before?" he asked. "Was there anyone you trusted then?"
"My Mum.”
After a beat, he continued. "When was the last time you felt in control of your own choices?"
The words stung. I stared. My voice came low, almost ashamed. "I don't remember."
He sat with the silence like someone who understood that sometimes, no answer was the only answer.
My gaze stayed fixed on my lap, but I wasn't really seeing it anymore. My fingers had gone still. The blanket in my hands was soft, but I couldn't feel it, just the faint texture.
The room faded, the edges darkening. The walls, the floor, even James's voice — all drifted somewhere out of reach. My body was still there, but my mind slipped sideways. Backwards.
Back to... a bloodied kitchen. A man I didn't recognise anymore... with a knife—
Unwelcomed trauma.
I was watching it happen again. Not as a memory, but as fragments, snippets, disjointed parts. I didn't notice that I'd stopped blinking. That I wasn't breathing quite right. That I was violently trembling. My hands had loosened their grip on the blanket, fingers now twitching uncontrollably.
Then James's voice came again, closer.
"Emily?" Just loud enough to thread its way through the fog.
"Emily," he repeated, louder, like someone calling out in a snowstorm.
I blinked once. Twice. My eyes refocused, the room coming back into view like a camera lens adjusting. The off-white walls. The hard metal bed beneath me. James was leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
My chest gave a small, shaky rise. Air finally filled my lungs again.
"You drifted for a minute... It's okay. You're back now."
I swallowed hard and it felt like sandpaper down my oesophagus. My throat burned, my hands suddenly clammy.
"Sorry," I muttered, though I wasn't sure why. For spacing out? For remembering? For reliving my trauma?
"No need to apologise," he replied. "That happens sometimes when things get heavy."
I nodded faintly. My face felt warm, but my arms had goosebumps. I wrapped them around myself, grounding. Trying to pull all the scattered pieces of me back into one place.
"You're safe now," he added with a small smile, and though I didn't quite believe it, I appreciated that he said it. Like a life ring tossed into deep water.
He didn't rush me. Just let the quiet settle again, because he understood I needed it — not filled, not fixed, just held. And somehow, that helped.
He waited a moment longer, then twisted his body around to set the clipboard aside on the counter behind him. When he turned back, there was an almost mournful expression on his face.
"Emily," he said, his voice softer now, "I need to administer the IPD again..."
The words made my stomach clench. My eyes snapped to the counter, the silver tray, the vials, the thin glint of metal.
I froze.
He must've seen the flicker in my face. "I promise, I'll be gentle... I don't hurt people like Dylan does."
That name alone was enough to make me flinch again. I gave a slow nod, more reflex than agreement.
He rolled up his sleeves further and began prepping the syringe. His glasses slid again, and he nudged them back with his wrist. Everything he did was steady. He wasn't rushing, like he wanted me to see that he wasn't hiding anything.
"This will sting for a moment," he warned. "I'll count you through it."
I clenched my eyes shut as the needle met my skin. It wasn't like before. Not sharp and punishing. Still torturous. I held my breath, jaw tight.
"One... two... breathe in. Three... there."
Prick.
The dizziness came, like it always did, but this time it seemed softer. The room swayed. My vision blurred around the edges, but I didn't feel like I was falling. Not like last time.
Maybe it was just because I was less afraid. Not of the syringe, I still hated that. Of James. I wasn't afraid of him.
I blinked slowly, my gaze finding him again.
James was already disposing of the syringe, moving with a kind of quiet efficiency.
"All done, Emily," he smiled, gentle as before. "That's the worst of it for today. You did really well."
I nodded faintly, though my limbs still felt weary. I didn't get a chance to respond properly.
There was a knock at the door.