Some hours later...
The room stayed the same, the light just a blank, sterile glow, indifferent to the passing hours. Time dragged on, no longer measured in numbers, just the ache behind my eyes and the numbness in my backside where I sat.
I stayed curled in the corner, legs folded beneath me, eyes fixed on the floor like it might open up and swallow me if I stared long enough.
James was gone. I hadn't moved since. My limbs ached, stiff and heavy, like it had calcified me. My mind had drifted somewhere far off, half-submerged in something close to sleep.
So, when someone suddenly knocked on the door, it shattered the quiet like a gunshot.
I snapped upright before I could think, adrenaline coursing through me. My body knew before I did. That knock didn't mean anything good.
I was on my feet in seconds, back to the wall, fists clenched.
It was instinct now. Pure muscle memory. The fear, the readiness. After Tyler, Dylan — everything. I didn't wait to see who it was. I'd lunge if I had to.
'I swear to God, if that's Dylan, I'm gonna fucking—'
The lock turned. It opened slowly.
It wasn't Dylan. I let out a breath I'd been holding. But it wasn't anyone good, either.
Tyler.
He paused mid-step and looked at me, wild-eyed, fists up, backed to the wall like a cornered animal, and sneered. Rolled his eyes.
"Jesus."
He didn't move toward me right away. Just stood there, studying me.
"What, you gonna swing at me now?" he asked, head tilting slightly with an amused smirk. "That your plan?"
I didn't answer. Just stayed frozen, heart hammering, breath too loud.
"Put your fucking hands down. You're not scaring anyone."
He crossed the room without looking at me and set the tray down on the counter with a dull thud, not thrown but not placed with care. The smell hit me a second later, something lukewarm and bland. I glanced at it, then back at him, cautiously. My stomach turned - Hunger? Dread? I couldn't tell.
His mouth curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Are you going to eat it, or just keep staring?"
I didn't move. Didn't speak.
"You're getting on my nerves," he grumbled as he walked over. "Think you're so fucking special."
'Swearing more than usual... What's that about?' I squinted. He caught it and smirked, probably misreading it as a challenge. Then turned to stare at me. I held it still, my jaw clenching at the same time as his.
I don't know where this courage came from, or if it even was bravery, but for the first time since arriving here, I didn't feel as scared of him. It was reckless, I know, maybe even a death wish. But I wanted to stand up to him, maybe to prove I wasn't the meek little thing he thought I was.
"Eat," he said through gritted teeth, a bony finger pointing to the tray.
My fingers tightened in my palms. I couldn't remember the last thing I ate. It'd been at least two days since that trip to the cafeteria, and the stomach cramps were still there, but I'd learned to block them out over everything else.
His pupils were dilated. He wasn't blinking, and that struck me as odd. The coldness in his glare didn't carry any weight this time, wasn't as icy as before.
Like the mask was slipping.
"What? You think I poisoned it?" There was a hollow growl in his throat, as if he was trying to overcome something with feigned anger. "You wouldn't be so lucky."
Something in me twitched, refused to respond. A flicker of heat. Not anger exactly. Something less than that but more reckless.
"I don't care," I muttered. My voice cracked mid-syllable.
That stopped him. For a moment, he just scowled, and I felt his mood change — not soften, but splinter. Something twitched in his temple. His tongue pressed against his cheek like he was chewing on what not to say, holding something back. Maybe a laugh, maybe a threat. Then his eyes narrowed.
"Oh, really? You don't care?" he said slowly, tasting the words. "That supposed to scare me, princess? Or impress me?"
He took another step forward. Head tilted. Too close now. Still, I held my ground. Held the stare. Lifted my head. Didn't reach for the tray. Didn't yield.
"I said eat," he repeated, sharper now, clipped. His hand twitched at his side.
But I just stared at him. Swallowed once. I watched the shift as his smirk faded. A glimmer of confusion surfaced in his eyes, like I'd stepped outside the rules of the game and he wasn't sure what came next. Like his mind was working overtime to come up with a quick solution. To regain composure without outwardly showing it.
And that scared him.
So, to assert dominance, get me back in line, he did exactly what I expected.
He lashed out.
Without warning, he spun around and slammed his hand down on the counter beside the tray. Metal clanged. I flinched instinctively.
"Fucking eat it!" he barked. He watched me for another beat, chest rising and falling fast now. Then he laughed once, short and bitter.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to spit in his face. But I couldn't. My stomach clenched again, a sharp, angry twist that bordered on nausea. My hand instinctively moved to grip it.
"You're getting brave now, aren't you?" He said lowly. Not a threat. An observation.
"I think you want me to be, too," I replied shortly, my eyes squinting further.
He stared at me like I'd said something in another language. Like I'd just uttered the most foul insult he'd ever heard.
Then he chuckled.
"Oh, I see what this is. How did I miss it? You think you've figured me out, don't you?"
"No," I said nonchalantly, crossing my arms over my chest. "But I think you have."
He moved fast, closing the distance between us, hands snapping out to brace on the wall on either side of my head. His face was inches from mine now, hot breath fanning my face and eyes blown wide.
"You think this is you getting the upper hand?" he hissed, livid now. "This little game you're playing?"
I didn't answer. But I didn't look away, either. And that was enough.
I could feel the tension in his arms, taut against the wall, his fingers flexing slightly like he wanted to grab something, maybe shake me, maybe worse. But he didn't. He just hovered, like proximity alone could do the damage.
"You really don't get it, do you?" he whispered, poisonous. "This isn't a game you get to play. You're not built for it, Emily."
I could smell the bitterness on him, anger, frustration, maybe something else he couldn't name. The need to control, unravelling at the edges.
"You think standing here, looking me in the eyes, makes you strong?" he continued, mocking me. "You think not flinching makes you brave?"
I didn't reply. Not because I didn't have words, but because I knew silence was power now. Silence was fuel. It filled the space between us, pressed into the cracks of his performance.
He didn't like that.
"You don't get to look at me like that," he spat. "Like you're not scared. You should be fucking terrified!"
And I was. Somewhere deep in the marrow, the fear still curled into me, pressed against my ribs, made my knees weak, and clouded the back of my mind. But right now, I couldn't feel it. Didn't acknowledge it. Right now, I felt something else. Something he didn't want, nor expect.
Pity.
And I realised something: He was shaking more than I was.
"You're scared," I whispered.
He went rigid. Blinked. Uselessly covered it with a snarl.
"What did you just say?"
"You're scared," I repeated, trying not to let my voice waver.
He shrank back like I'd burned him. Stood up too fast. Turned away, hands balled into fists. For a long moment, he just stood there, shoulders rising and falling like he'd been running.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he muttered, almost to himself.
Then he spun on his heel, stormed to the counter, and flung the tray at the wall.
It crashed, food splattering everywhere, plastic cutlery skittering across the floor. But I didn't move. Not even when the tray clattered to a stop at my feet. He stared at the mess like he hadn't meant it.
"Feel better?" I said softly, almost mocking him.
Then, slowly, he looked up at me. And for the first time, his expression wasn't cold, or cruel, or even angry.
It was... lost.
"I should've broken you by now," he whispered. Voice hoarse.
I didn't look away. My pulse was roaring in my ears, but I stayed still.
He turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding clang.
The silence returned, but it wasn't the same. Not oppressive anymore, just vacant.
I stood there for a while, staring at the door and gathering my thoughts. My body buzzed with the last traces of adrenaline, but I wasn't scared. I wasn't shaken.
I actually felt calm for once.
I glanced down. The tray had landed in a sprawl against the wall next to me — its contents flung out, a sad mess of smeared grey and something green clinging to the plaster in clumps. But the tray itself had landed like an offering at my feet.
I picked it up. What remained of the food was something solid, almost. Grey and dense, maybe protein, and something vaguely green beside it. Could've once been an overcooked vegetable. But I ate it anyway. Picked up a piece of the grey whatever-it-was and brought it to my mouth. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. It was dull and dry, but not revolting. My stomach twisted, unsure if it wanted more or to hurl it all back up.
Still, I sat, slowly, deliberately, on the edge of the table. Bit by bit, I ate. Each bite settled something in me. Not just the hunger. Something different, almost dangerous, like resolve.
The last bite tasted the same as the first, but it went down easy. Easier than it should've. I set the tray aside, what little was left of it, and wiped my hands absently on my pants. My gaze drifted to the dent in the wall where the tray had hit. The splattered food had started dropping onto the floor. I gagged slightly.
Tyler had left more than a mess in that room.
He'd left uncertainty. He'd come in expecting to win, to intimidate. To put me back in the corner like a kicked dog. But I hadn't given him what he wanted. Not fear, nor submission.
And for the first time, it wasn't me who'd walked away shaken.
It was him.
That look in his eyes — the flicker of doubt, of confusion, of something unravelling — that was mine now. I tucked it away like a weapon.
Let him wonder what changed. Let him feel the shift and scramble to fix it. Because from now on, it wasn't just about survival. And I wasn't playing by his rules anymore. No matter how dangerous it was.
I leaned back on the table, lay down, and folded my arms across my chest. My mind replayed the whole thing, every second of it — from the knock, to the tray, to the venom in his voice. I ran it over and over in my head, picking it apart like a puzzle. Analysed it. Analysed him.
It had all been a power play. The sneer, the shouting, the tray thrown like a tantrum. A performance he was convinced I'd fall in line for. The same script he'd probably always used with other patients.
But I hadn't. Not this time. And the cracks in his mask weren't hairline anymore, they were full-blown rifts in his armour.
He said it himself, he should've broken me by now. He said it like a confession, like admitting to a failed plan.
But I knew why. He couldn't. Not because I was stronger than him in any sense, but because something in him needed me to resist. Needed the pushback and friction, the game to keep playing.
And that gave me the upper hand.
Because this time, I wasn't broken.
He was.