James stood and called over his shoulder, "Come in."
A man filled the frame, and I vaguely recognised him from yesterday. He was the man Tyler had "arrested" Dylan with: Lee.
"Boss wants her introduced to the cafeteria," Lee said, his voice flat. "You finished?"
James glanced down at me, then back to Lee. He gave a small nod.
"Yes, we were just finishing up," he replied. Then turned to me, "Don't worry, Emily. Lee is a trusted colleague. He'll keep you safe."
He offered his hand, not assuming, just open. I took it.
The moment I slid off the table and stood, my knees wobbled. James steadied me with a light grip under my elbow. He didn't linger. Lee stepped forward to help, and I let him.
As we stepped out into the corridor, the light hit me first. Cold, fluorescent, harsh enough to make me squint. The air smelled like bleach and iron, and dust.
I didn't know how to feel about it all.
Two new faces. Two new unknowns. Friendly? Or disguising true intentions with kindness?
"You'll be alright," Lee muttered, not quite looking at me. "Cafeteria's just down here."
There was something guarded in him, like he wasn't sure whether to treat me like glass or something dangerous.
His grip was firm but not painful. Just tight enough to remind me I wasn't going anywhere on my own. It wasn't a gesture of comfort; it was control wrapped in civility.
But in my mind, I didn't pay much attention to him. I only cared that he wasn't another Tyler, or another Dylan.
For now, I had something in my system. Some answers. Some comfort. The sting in my cheek had dulled, and the scream inside me had softened to a whisper.
It wouldn’t last. I knew that.
The large iron door of the cafeteria groaned open. Lee's hand stayed firm on my shoulder as he nudged me forward.
I became uncomfortable the moment we crossed the threshold.
The smell hit me first — stale sweat, overcooked vegetables, chemical disinfectant — and then the noise. Utensils clinking, trays being dragged across tabletops, and a hushed, indistinct hum of unease.
The place was cavernous, like a warehouse masquerading as somewhere people might eat. Rows of bolted-down tables lined the centre of the space like a prison canteen, their once-red paint chipped, metal scratched and pitted from years of neglect.
The lights above were the same harsh fluorescent I'd seen everywhere else, turning skin tones sallow and bruised. There was no real colour left, just grey, faded red, and shadow.
Lee guided me towards the serving line. It kind of felt like walking onto a stage. Heads turned. Eyes flicked up from trays and locked onto me, some blank, some curious, others openly suspicious. One or two stared too long. Maybe I was a little paranoid, but I tried not to look back, not to meet any of their eyes.
I couldn't help noticing. Patients, like me, though they didn't look like it in any recognisable sense. One man, large, late-thirties, hunched over his tray like he was shielding it from thieves, his stringy black hair hanging in damp ropes around a pale face. His eyes darted, wide and bloodshot, watching everyone.
Further down the table, a woman with a narrow, angular frame picked at her food with trembling hands. Her skin was a mottled greyish-yellow, like parchment paper soaked in something sour. Her gaze flicked to mine briefly and then away, fast. Fear lived in her posture, curled tight into her shoulders.
On the opposite side to her, a younger foreign girl sat twitching and rocking slightly, her knee bouncing uncontrollably under the table.
There was a silence among all of them that spoke to the horrors of this place. If I hadn't known it before, I knew now. No one smiled. No one looked at each other for long. They didn't speak. Their faces bore marks of exhaustion and suspicion.
"Just act normal," Lee muttered under his breath as he pushed me forward into the queue.
My attention then turned to the woman behind the counter. She didn't speak either. Actually, didn't even look up at me. Middle-aged and worn thin, her face was a map of fine lines and deeper creases etched by years of quiet resignation. Her eyes were grey, dull, and heavy-lidded with boredom.
A viscous scoop of beige slop was dolloped onto my tray and slid forward. I hesitated before taking it, my eyes darting up to her, but she was already scooping the next portion for the person behind me. I stared down at it, the sight already turning my face green. The food looked like it had already been eaten once and regurgitated by an animal.
We sat at an empty table near the back. Lee took the stool next to me, facing the room, watchful.
"Try to eat something," he said quietly. "You need the energy."
I picked up the plastic fork and gave the food a tentative prod. The texture was mushy and clumpy all at once. It might have been mashed potatoes, rice, or gruel... but whatever it was, I sure as hell wasn't willing to put it anywhere near my mouth. My stomach churned in protest.
If only to distract myself from the vomit lookalike on my tray, I pretended to poke it while I looked around the space.
Being a people-watcher, even in a place like this where it wasn't advised to stare at strangers, I couldn't help myself.
And then, my eyes landed on a black form in the corner of the room.
I fixed my gaze.
A boy. No more than eighteen or nineteen. He wore an oversized black hoodie, the hood dragged over his head, casting the upper half of his face in shadow as he hung low over the table. What little skin was visible — his jaw, the curve of his cheek — bore fresh bruises that bloomed like sick violets against pallid skin. The hoodie swallowed his frame like it belonged to someone much larger than him, and the sleeves had been pulled deliberately past his wrists. His shoulders curled inward, his spine bent as though he were trying to fold himself out of sight. Each time he lifted his fork, his hand trembled. He barely ate, nudging food from one side of the tray to the other like he was trying to convince himself it might change into something edible.
There was something about the way he sat, almost curled into a ball, movements small and careful, like he was trying not to take up too much space. Like he knew better than to be noticed. He wasn't just still. He was braced. Waiting.
So I followed his gaze...
And it led me straight to Dylan.
Of course. Who else would it be?
He stood a few feet away, making no move to sit. His arm was in a sling, and a large purple bruise adorned his ugly, scarred face. Recognition dawned on me.
So, Tyler did punish him.'
The thought should've sparked some flicker of justice or satisfaction. But it didn't. Not when Dylan's eyes found mine.
Hatred.
Not loud, not wild. No threats. Just a quiet, concentrated hate. It sat heavy in his stare like something waiting for me to react. And I knew what he wanted.
The boy in the hoodie felt the immediate shift when Dylan moved a step closer, because he visibly flinched. When Dylan's gaze slid to him, he lowered his head even further, shoulders bunching, as if waiting to be struck.
My chest tightened. My jaw clenched. My eyes narrowed.
And then Dylan smirked.
Evil — the only word that came to mind.
It was the kind of smile a leopard would wear when they've cornered a fawn, small and helpless. And he held it, because he knew I was watching.
Because it was for me.
I looked away too late. My reaction had landed.
He'd seen it. And he liked it.
Across the room, a harsh cough broke the air. Then, with a grating scrape across the floor, the boy was on his feet, his chair shoved back behind him. He kept his head down and shoved both hands into his pockets as he hurried towards the exit. Dylan tracked him with his eyes, grin widening.
Savouring it.
Then he looked back at me.
There was something in his stare now that hadn't been there before. Not just cruelty. I didn't understand it fully. But it made my hackles raise.
It felt personal.
Lee noticed too. He didn't say anything at first, but I felt the subtle way his body shifted, angling slightly towards me, like a barrier between me and Dylan.
"Try to eat," he repeated, voice low, almost apologetic.
I stared down at the tray, not really seeing it. Just shapes and colours that didn't belong together. I shook my head.
"I'm... not hungry anymore," I muttered. My voice felt distant.
Lee didn't argue. He just gave a small nod, the kind that said he got it. That he knew it wasn't really about the food anymore.
We sat in silence for a while, wrapped in the uncomfortable din of cutlery on steel and the quiet schizophrenic mumbling from someone on the other side of the room. The overhead lights buzzed, and the air felt heavy, like it was pressing in from all sides.
My fingers unconsciously picked at the edge of the tray as my mind wandered.
Something about that boy had unsettled me more than anything I'd seen before. Even seeing the other patients and their haunted faces didn't compare. That boy was... someone I needed to know more about. It made my chest feel tight just thinking about it.
I didn't know what drew me to that kind of pain — whether it was curiosity or recognition, but I knew I couldn't ignore it. Especially after seeing the way he reacted to Dylan. Whatever history was buried there between them, he didn't just exhibit fear. And some part of me, the part that still hadn't figured out how to stop watching people, knew I'd have to find a way to talk to him. Even if he wanted nothing to do with me. Even if it meant peeling back things I wasn't sure I was ready to see. And even if it meant getting my neck slashed by Dylan.
Then, quietly, I asked Lee, the curiosity and unease getting the better of me. "Who was that?"
Lee hesitated. I saw it in the flick of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped once against the table before rising to his lips. He rubbed at his bottom lip like he could erase the words before they came out.
"Tom," he said eventually. His tone was flat, but not careless, more thoughtful. "Dylan's... pet."
My eyes snapped to him. "Pet?"
It came out louder than I intended. A few heads turned. Heat rose to my cheeks, but I pushed it down. I turned back to him and lowered my voice. "What do you mean?"
Lee leaned in slightly, drawing towards me on his elbows. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I mean... Dylan owns him. Keeps him on a tight leash. No one else talks to him. Not even the Boss."
I followed his gaze towards the door Tom had disappeared through, feeling an unfamiliar flicker of something rising in my chest. Not yet anger, not quite confusion, but something in between.
"But why? Why does he—?"
"Because he can." Lee's jaw tensed as he said it. "Dylan gets off on breaking people. Tom's just the one who never fought back."
A wave of nausea climbed the back of my throat. I glanced down at the tray again, the food blurred and shapeless. I pushed it an inch away with the side of my hand.
I didn't know Tom. I didn't know what Dylan had done or how long it had been happening. But I knew that posture. That stillness. That shaking.
And something deep in my chest lit up, dark and hot. A quiet, furious need to do something.
Lee must have seen it on my face. He leaned a little closer, voice soft but firm. "Don't. Whatever you're thinking— don't. You can't save him. You'll just get yourself killed." He exhaled through his nose, slowly, like he'd had this conversation before.
After a long silence, Lee finally moved, "We should probably go."
I stood, leaving the tray where it was. Lee led me out without another word. As the door swung shut behind us, I glanced over my shoulder. The cafeteria seemed darker than before.
The hallway felt too quiet. Like sound had been drained from the air, leaving behind a vacuum.
"Lee?" I asked after a minute, my voice cracking slightly. "Can I ask you something?"
He shot me a sideways glance, cautious, and his grip on my arm tightened. "Depends."
"Were you a patient?"
His steps faltered, just for a beat. Then he nodded. Just a small nod, I could've missed it.
"All the staff have been... haven't they?"
Another small nod.
I rubbed my hands together, suddenly cold despite the stale warmth of the corridor. "What was your fear?"
After a pause, he mumbled something, his voice flat like he almost didn't want to admit it. "Spiders. Ever since I was a kid. Terrified me."
A small, unexpected smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Not much, but enough to surprise me. "That's... surprisingly normal.”
"Not everything here has to be dramatic," he replied, but there was something in his tone that tried to be light and didn't quite get there.
I nodded slowly. "Do you know mine?"
"We know every patient's fears."
I glanced at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Tracks," I hummed.
"Why do you work here?" I continued. Something about drawing out the conversation seemed to settle a bit of the discomfort gnawing at my insides.
He didn't answer right away. I could see the stiffness in his posture, the way his shoulders pulled back like he was bracing or wincing.
"I didn't have a choice," he said after a sigh. "Tyler gave me two options when I finished my 'treatment.'" His fingers flexed at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "Work here... or leave in a coffin."
My stomach dropped. The hallway suddenly felt colder. More confined. He looked at me then, really looked. There was something raw in his eyes, wounded.
"No one gets out of this place, Emily," he said. "It's a death trap."
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I said nothing.
"You haven't noticed it yet, have you?"
My eyes narrowed as I peered up at him. His expression had changed. "Noticed what?"
"The changes. With the Boss. With the staff."
"That... doesn't make sense," I sighed, confused. “What's that supposed to mean?”
He gave a dry, humourless chuckle through his nose, nothing more than an exhale. "That's the point. Nothing here makes sense until it's too late."
We passed a nurse who didn't meet our eyes. She stepped aside quickly, like the space we took up was something volatile.
"And why are you telling me this?" I asked, getting slightly agitated.
"Because, Emily. I've been here long enough to know when the rules start bending," he said. "And they're bending around you."
He stopped in front of my door, his hand hovering over it like he might say something else.
Then: "Just... pretend I didn't say anything. You don't even understand."
"You're being cryptic, of course I don't understand," I fussed with a scowl.
He shook his head like he'd already given up. But his words lingered in my head.
"Get some rest," he murmured. "You'll need it."
I stepped inside slowly, the room swallowing me with its familiarity. But just before the door closed, I turned back.
"Thanks, Lee," I said, quieter than before.
He gave the smallest nod, more of a gesture than an answer, and then the door clicked shut between us.
I stood still for a moment. The silence in the room was deeper than the hallway's. Heavier.
Then I sat on the edge of the metal table, my heart was still thudding, my mind running loops. I reached for the thin blanket on the counter and wrapped it around myself, but it didn't help. Not at all.
Lee's words came to mind first. That cryptic message about changes around me. What did that mean? What did he see in me?
And then Tom's bruised face. That brokenness in his posture, the way he flinched when Dylan stepped closer, as if he was used to being beaten. He cowered like a battered dog. Like he was conditioned.
And then the image of Dylan's smirk, poisonous and smug. Hateful. The way his eyes burned through my core and analysed everything about me. The man I already knew was sick in the head just became even worse.
And for the first time since I'd arrived, it wasn't fear curling in my chest.
No.
It was anger.