"People don't run out of fear. They run out of hope."
- Rick Yancey, The 5th Wave
Something in him had shifted again.
Gone was the strangely gentle man who'd lingered at my bedside, who'd offered me a blanket and almost — almost — looked ashamed. That person, if he ever existed, had vanished.
What stood before me now was a stranger wearing Tyler's face like a mask. He stalked toward me, slow and taunting.
I was strapped down again: wrists bound to the steel table, forearms turned outward, ankles secured to the chair legs, tighter this time.
My mouth was sealed with duct tape, thick and suffocating. I couldn't scream. Not that it would save me. I just glared at him.
"There's a rumour going around," he said, his voice flat and deep. He tilted his head, amused. "That I'm going soft for you."
Bracing his hands on the table, he leaned down until his face hovered inches from mine. His breath touched my skin, warm and sour. Onyx eyes stared into mine, unreadable as ever.
"They think I'm changing. Like you've done something to me," he smirked, lips curling into something sick.
A pause.
"Wouldn't that be pathetic?"
Breath against my ear, his head beside mine. Too close.
"Don't let it get to your head," he whispered, venomous. "You're not special."
He straightened with a sharp breath, tension rippling through his shoulders. Pacing followed — restless, erratic, but slow. He moved like a caged animal hunting for an excuse to explode.
Then he stopped, abruptly, and chuckled.
"Isabel called."
The words hit like a bullet.
I jerked forward in my restraints, muffled cries tearing against the tape. Panic flared, immediate and blinding. I didn't care about pain. I needed to know.
His eyes locked onto mine, and he smiled, cold and wide. Cruel.
"Oh, don't worry," he said softly. "She's fine. For now ."
His arms were folded across his chest, one hand absently tapping against his bicep, like he was waiting for something. He stepped closer, slowly, deliberately.
"But if you don't behave..." He caught my chin, tilted my head up — that common manipulative tactic. His voice trailed off, letting the threat settle between us. "Well. You understand, don't you?"
I nodded, fast, desperate. I hated how he could stop my heart with a single sentence. I hated that he knew it.
"But she did say something interesting."
I stilled, hope flickering through the terror.
"She said she's done trying. She knows they're not getting you back. I told her you're safe with me now. But she didn't even ask where I'd taken you. Interesting, that, isn't it?"
I shook my head violently, a muffled sob rising up my throat. The room spun around me.
'No... No! She wouldn't say that! Not Isabel! He's lying! He has to be!'
I screamed behind the tape, tried to beg, tried to curse him out, desperately tried to speak. To deny his words.
But the doubt creeped in, regardless. Like rot.
My entire body went rigid. Tears blurred my vision. I started to hyperventilate. And he just watched me unravel.
He turned slightly, then glanced back over his shoulder. "You have no idea, Emily."
There was a long silence while he observed me, while I tried to come down from the panic.
I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes? An hour? But he let me calm down before he continued. And I didn't know whether to appreciate that or not. I just wanted it all over with.
His hands clasped behind his back. The pacing resumed. The game resumed. Forcing me to watch in fearful anticipation.
Five minutes more.
Then he reached into his pocket.
A scalpel.
I whimpered. What else could I do? I had no choice but to watch.
He brought it close to my face, and I flinched at the cold kiss of metal brushing my cheek, right over the healing scar where Dylan had cut me last week. He just wanted me to remember.
"Remember what I said last time?" he asked, voice unnervingly gentle. "Act One was just the beginning. Now we move to Act Two."
The blade dipped lower, resting on my forearm.
"Are you afraid, Emily?"
I nodded. Rigid. There was no point pretending. He could smell the fear on me. It clung to my skin like sweat.
"Good," he whispered. "Fear keeps you alive."
He drifted behind me, leaning in close enough for his breath to warm my neck.
"But it doesn't keep you safe."
The scalpel pressed harder. I flinched and whimpered more, the sound buried by the tape. He laughed, quiet and delighted.
"Desensitisation," he murmured. "That's what this is. Exposure therapy. You face what you fear... until it stops scaring you."
His hands slid to my shoulders, gentle. Disarmingly so. Like he hadn't just threatened to carve me open.
"You're going to be better after this, Emily." And for a moment, I almost believed he meant it.
He hesitated. Just for a moment.
"You don't even see it, do you?" he muttered. "You still think you're you."
My eyes narrowed, barely. A confused frown.
"God, I envy that."
Then came the pain.
The blade kissed my skin, shallow but searing. I gasped against the tape. My vision swam.
"The first cut's always the worst," he cooed, watching blood bloom from my arm. "You get used to it. You learn."
Another cut.
Deeper.
My body jolted.
I screamed — rage, fear, fire, helplessness — trapped in my chest.
All I could do was breathe. Shallow. Fast. Panicked.
"You're learning already," he murmured. "Good girl."
I hated how calm he sounded. How he purred.
I forced my head up. Locked eyes with him through the blur.
He stared back.
And for a heartbeat, something flickered.
A crack. A shadow of doubt.
But it vanished as quickly as it came.
"You're doing so well, Emily," he said softly. "But we still have so far to go... Let the pain in. Let it change you."
That broke something.
Tears spilled. Hot, silent, unstoppable. Not surrender. Just overflow.
I wanted to tell him I wouldn't break. That he'd never have all of me. But all that came out was a raw, desperate, useless cry.
He watched me like watching a wildfire catch. Detached. Fascinated.
And when he stepped back, he left nothing but pain.
And blood.
And silence.
He didn't leave.
He slinked behind me again.
My arms throbbed, blood pooling onto the table beneath them. The smell — iron, metallic, thick — curled in the back of my throat. Suffocating.
I looked down. I shouldn't have, but I did.
I immediately regretted it.
Two cuts. Wounds. One barely a scratch, the skin pink and raw. But the other, deeper. Jagged. Split wide open like a seam. Blood welled at the edges, dark and glistening, and trickled down my forearm in slow, syrupy threads.
I threw my head back and pulled violently at the restraints, desperate to get away from it.
'No! No, fuck! Fuck!'
It wasn't real. At this point, those arms weren't even mine. I could barely feel them. My brain refused to connect. They might as well have belonged to a mannequin, limp and painted for some grotesque display.
The floor swam like an ocean beneath me, shadows dancing tormentingly over the walls. My vision blurred, shifted, writhed .
Vomit surged up the back of my throat, bitter and burning. It came sputtering through my nose onto the table and I couldn't stop it. I swallowed the rest and forced myself to breathe before I could pass out. My whole body was shaking, cold and trembling and utterly detached.
I went still.
Quiet footsteps. A shift in light. He was in front of me again.
The scalpel hung loosely in his fingers now. His other hand reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from my face.
Then, without a word, he leaned in and… kissed my forehead.
I seized up.
Warm lips lingered too long.
He pulled back, only slightly.
His eyes — those black, endless voids — held mine. Staring. Searching.
I couldn't look away.
"Do you know what you look like right now?" he asked, voice low and unreadable.
I didn't respond. Couldn't. I hated him for it. Hated how my body froze beneath that touch. Hated how the warmth lingered like poison. That wasn't affection. It was control. A cruel parody of comfort. And yet something in me still tried to understand him.
"You look like you're waking up," he said. "Like you're starting to see me for what I really am."
His thumb wiped a tear from my cheek.
"I could break you right now, you know," he whispered. "Shatter whatever's left of that little girl who still believes in good people."
I flinched. He didn't move. Just watched me tremble.
"But I don't want to do that. Not yet. I want you to understand first. To choose it."
And then, softer, more to himself:
"You don't know how close you are, princess."
The word made my stomach twist.
Not mocking. Not cruel. Almost tender. It didn't belong.
I gazed up at him, watery-eyed and broken.
He jerked upright, back rigid, fists curling at his sides. Like I'd seen something I wasn't supposed to.
"Don't look at me like that."
With a sharp, guttural sound, he spun and slammed his fists onto the table.
I jumped, the restraints biting into my wrists.
"Fuck!"
His hand cracked across my face before I could react.
White-hot pain burst behind my eyes.
He staggered back, panting.
Then smiled. A smirk without warmth. The storm in his eyes raged now, untethered.
"There she is," he said, voice rough and shaking. "That's the look I like."
I didn't look up at him.
"See? I told you not to let it get to your head."
He returned to the tray, wiped the scalpel with slow precision, laid it down like a sacred thing.
When he turned back, he'd flicked the switch again. Back to the lighter, softer tone of voice.
He swiped two fingers through the blood on my arm. No flinch. Just wonder. Stared at it on his fingertips, rubbed it with his thumb.
"They all bleed so easily..."
A whimper escaped, uncontrolled. Small.
He inhaled. Slowly. Deeply. Savouring it.
And then, suddenly, he reached for me.
The duct tape tore from my mouth with a violent rip, louder than my scream. Pain bloomed across my skin, raw and burning.
I gasped. Chest heaving. My body curled forward, trembling against the table.
He slid into the chair opposite me. Composed now. The strip of tape dangled from his fingers like a trophy.
"I see you now, princess ," he whispered.
A sob escaped. Hot. Broken. I couldn't hold back.
He just watched.
"Please..." I choked out between sobs. "Let me go... I can't... do this anymore..."
He leaned forward, voice quiet and sharp.
"Crying won't help you. It only makes me want to break you faster."
Then leaned back again, satisfied.
And I just sat there, shaking. Trying not to break apart before he decided to do it for me.
But I already had.