The silence after Tyler left felt heavy.
The door shut behind him with a resounding thud, and then... nothing. Just my own deep breaths. The straps on my limbs ached where they dug into my skin, but I barely noticed.
My mind was still spinning. Skin still burning after his touch. Neck still tingling where his thumb had brushed. His onyx eyes were burned into my memory, so badly I could almost still see him in front of me.
I didn't know how long I sat there before the shift of boots on concrete brought me out of my thoughts.
Jack. Still lurking in the corner like some quiet, obedient shadow. He was walking towards me.
I didn't speak. Neither did he.
Then came the sounds of the buckles being loosened, straps unlatched, tension releasing, and leather creaking as it gave way. One by one, my wrists and ankles were freed. Pins and needles rushed through my legs, blood finally moving again. I flexed my fingers and blinked to refocus my eyes. I'd been staring into the distance.
But I didn't have time to savour the freedom.
The cold snap of metal around my wrists made me flinch. Click, click. Handcuffs.
"Come on," Jack said.
My body was sore and uncooperative, joints stiff, muscles grumbling. Still, I stood when he guided me to the door.
He led me out of the Act room without another word. Barefoot and cold, I followed. My mind wasn't right, still fogged, still spinning, still... weird.
The heavy clunking of Jack's boots and the slaps of my feet on the concrete floor became quieter as other noises joined us in the hallway. A woman crying from behind a locked door. The incessant, familiar buzzing of overhead lights. The groaning of iron doors. The sound of someone laughing — jarring in a place like this.
The sounds freaked me out. I glanced up at Jack, hoping for even a glimpse of humanity, of empathy, of any fucking emotion. Nothing. His eyes were empty, just that blank mask of quiet detachment. I might as well have been an object, a piece of luggage. He led me down the corridor with a firm hand on my arm.
The hallway stretched on longer than it should have. We walked. And walked. And walked.
I kept count of every step. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. I didn't know why. Felt like I needed something to anchor me.
Finally, he stopped outside a pale green door with a rusting sign above it, 'Women.'
"You've got five minutes," Jack said, before nudging me inside.
Five stalls. A row of sinks. No windows. Stale air. Cracked tiles. One flickering light above the mirrors.
The cubicles were empty, except for one with a rusted door that didn't close properly. I stepped inside, sat, relieved myself, and then... paused.
My gaze drifted up.
In the corner, above the last stall, was an air vent. Square, dusty, maybe a foot wide.
I didn't hesitate. I rushed to the last cubicle and stood up slowly, precariously, on the toilet lid. It creaked under my weight, but held. I lifted my arms to reach the vent, rose to my tippy toes, and...
Useless.
"Fuck!" I hissed under my breath.
I stood there for a long moment, glaring at the ceiling like it had betrayed me. Then I dropped back down, sat, and sulked.
A knock on the door.
"One minute," Jack called.
I ignored him. Stared at the chipped grey paint on the stall door like it might've given me answers. My head was in my hands before I could even process what I was doing. And, as if I was going insane, I clapped my hand over my mouth and screamed, as loud as I could.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
"Thirty seconds, Emily."
I mumbled "fuck off," but I doubt he heard it. I leaned back against the cold porcelain, biting the inside of my cheek.
Something was wrong with me. I could feel it. I'd felt it for hours, maybe even days, but today it felt worse. This time it felt real . Tangible, even. Not just like I was losing control — but like every thought wasn't mine, every movement wasn't mine, every word out my mouth didn't feel like mine. And it was more than just dissociation, I was convinced.
The shadows had started creeping in. Flickers of things in my peripherals, eyes watching me from every corner of every room, things dancing on my skin that I couldn't see. I thought I saw things that weren't there. That's how it started, relatively tame at first.
But when I stepped out of the cubicle, the light above the mirror flickered,
and for a split second — everything changed.
There was blood.
All over the sink. Splattered. Thick and arterial. Puddles of the stuff, all over the floor.
Footprints led out of the cubicle I'd just stepped from — red and wet. One print, another, another. My own bare feet, covered in blood.
The mirrors were shattered, my reflection split and fractured a dozen times over, bleeding into itself.
I turned to leave.
But, in the corner, curled in on itself… was a body.
A girl. Her throat slit open, wide and thick, half-decapitated.
She...
looked...
like...
me.
I didn't move. Didn't scream. Because I knew — somewhere inside me — it wasn't fucking real. It couldn't be.
I blinked hard. Rubbed my eyes. Slapped the side of my head with my palm. Then slowly, opened them again.
Gone...
All of it was gone.
No blood. No body. No smashed mirror. Just me. A row of sinks. A flickering bulb. Silence.
My heart hammered against my ribs, my breathing laboured, my hands shaking.
I stumbled forward and gripped the edge of the sink to ground myself again, the world tilted off-axis. My fingers shook as they turned the tap. I ran cold water and splashed some on my face. It was freezing, just what I needed to snap myself out of it — whatever the fuck that was.
The girl in the mirror looked like me... but not really. More like prey that had stopped running from the beast.
She was pale, hollow-eyed, gaunt, lips chapped and skin dry. Her veins were brighter than her skin tone. Her hair was blonde but unkempt, brittle, and greasy. She looked dirty and in need of a wash.
Her clothes — a thin grey sweatshirt and grey tracksuit pants — hung loosely over her frame, as if they were either deliberately oversized or had fit her before she lost weight.
'How could he love me like this?'
The thought was... intrusive. Hurtful. It clung to my tongue and curled in my throat like carbon monoxide. There was truth in it somewhere... something I couldn't deny. I was a mess.
The door creaked open. Jack was standing there now. He watched me calmly, as if daring me to call him out for entering the women's bathroom. My eyes remained on the mirror.
I heard his boots on the tiles.
"Get out," I warned, my voice shaking.
He didn't say anything, just reached for the chain between the cuffs with one hand and tugged me.
I followed him out reluctantly.
The walk back felt shorter. Or maybe I'd just stopped noticing the space around me.
"Wait, why are we going back?" I asked, panic returning as we reached the door to the Act room.
He didn't answer.
"Jack??”
Silence.
He opened the door, nudged me through, and steered me back to the table like it was routine.
My stomach sank.
He guided me to sit back down. Tightened the straps again. Wrists first. Then ankles. Each click louder.
Then he strolled back to his usual post, near the door. Hands clasped in front of him. Silent sentinel.
I sat there, jaw clenched, seething and scared, but exhausted. Too tired to put up any more of a fight. Not today. Sweat gathered in the crooks of my elbows. Tinnitus started in my ears, ringing, not too loud, but there.
There was an unreachable itch on the back of my neck. An uncomfortable feeling of being... watched. Not just by Jack. I felt it. The weight of unseen eyes. Like the shadows were alive, dancing just beyond my peripheral vision.
I scanned the room, growing wary.
And then — I saw it.
In the corner of the room, almost hidden in the shadows.
A blinking red light.
I squinted.
A camera.
My heart beat faster.
It wasn't just a camera. It was him . Tyler. I could feel him behind the lens, perched in some dark little room with his eyes narrowed, dissecting and studying me, my every movement.
Feeding.
I stared into the lens, unblinking. A slow scowl formed. My lips curled. A stupid impulse crept in — the kind you can't explain. The kind you regret even as you're doing it.
I stuck my tongue out.
Held the look. A half-smile, sharp with hate. Then shame swept in. My mouth snapped shut.
I flicked my eyes to Jack. He hadn't moved.
I sat still. Let the dread stretch across the room. Stared at the buckles on my wrists, the cracks in the old leather. I thought about how many people had sat here before me. How many had walked out. How many hadn't.
Eventually, my brain dragged me back to Tyler. To his thumb brushing against my neck. To his breath, hot against my ear. The way he leaned in, whispering sugar-coated poison. I could smell him, like whiskey, anger, and sex.
'I fucking hate him...'
But I hated myself more for thinking about him…
The door opened again.
Every muscle in my body locked. My head snapped toward the sound before I even registered it.
I couldn’t see him at first.
Then he giggled.
And I knew…
Not Tyler.
Dylan.
Same swagger as he waltzed up to me. Same smug half-smile that twisted my stomach into knots. Like he thought this was funny. Like it was foreplay.
"Hey, babe."
I didn't answer. Didn't blink. I hated how used to this I was becoming — the games, the performance, the bile that never quite reached my mouth. I just sat there and felt sick.
He strolled forward, slow and easy, hands behind his back. Too casual. His eyes crawled over me, like a hyena circling an injured calf.
He leaned in close, breath tinged by tobacco and something metallic and far more potent.
Blood.
I gagged. Noticeably. He just chuckled.
"I'm so happy to see you again," he whispered, voice dripping in sarcasm.
"Go away," I whispered.
He glanced over his shoulder at the camera in the corner, then back at me, smirking. "Tyler said I could have a little chat."
I didn't believe that for a second. Fucking liar.
"You've been very difficult lately," he said, crouching beside me. His face hovered inches from mine. I could almost taste his latest cigarette. "Everyone's talking about you, you know? The special one ."
"What?"
His smile warped. "You think Tyler gives a shit about you?" he asked, tilting his head. "He doesn't. Not about you, not about anyone. And I'm enjoying watching him break you."
I stared ahead, jaw clenched.
"'Cause it's already happening, isn't it?" he whispered. "The cracks. The visions. The shadows. That's how it starts, babe. You're slipping. And soon... you'll be just like me."
That landed. I winced. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't help the small, broken sound that escaped my throat.
That's when Jack spoke. His voice came loud and clear, saving me. "That's enough, Dylan.”
Dylan glanced up, annoyed. "Relax. We're just talking."
"You've had your word." Jack's eyes were colder than before. "Do it, then leave."
Dylan sighed dramatically, like a scolded teenager. Then he stood and sauntered to the tray table by the far wall.
I tensed, knowing exactly what was coming next. I couldn’t escape.
He picked up a syringe. I knew the drill by now, expected it. He turned back to me, moving slow, theatrical, dragging out every second. Milking it.
The needle caught the overhead light, sharp and glinting. The liquid inside was deep purple. Wrong.
IPD.
My hands pulled at the restraints, to no avail. Desperate. Pathetic. My heart jumped to my throat.
"No—no—don't—" I gasped. "Please."
He stepped closer, eyes lit with something sick. "Time for your dose, sweetheart. Boss's orders."
I begged. That's all I could do.
He leaned in again, voice suddenly soft.
"This won't hurt a bit."
And I froze.