Morning arrived slowly, like fog clearing over a lake. I didn't remember falling asleep again, but I must have. The lights were back to daytime brightness, and faint movement beyond the curtain told me the ward was awake.
Somewhere nearby, a cart rattled. Shoes squeaked on vinyl. Monitors still beeped their indifferent rhythms.
This time, I didn't panic when I woke up. I was still in pain, stiff and sedated — but the haze had lessened. Enough to register where I was. Enough to remember the flatline and the nurses' words afterwards. It still echoed in my head, Tyler's presence here even when he wasn't physically.
"Morning, Emily," a male voice said softly.
Dr. Thorne stood beside my bed again. His white coat looked more crumpled than yesterday, and there was a faint stubble on his jaw that I hadn't noticed before. He held a tray in one hand — porridge, toast, a banana, and a plastic cup of apple juice. The most hospital breakfast imaginable. But somehow comforting.
"Don't get too excited," he said, noticing my hungry glance at the food. "It's not Michelin-starred. But it'll help get your strength up."
He placed the tray gently on the table beside me and adjusted the bed controls. The backrest hissed and tilted up slowly. Every joint in my body ached, but I managed not to wince too hard.
"There we go. Better?" I gave the smallest nod.
"Good." He took the plastic wrap off the porridge. "You don't have to eat everything, but try a few bites, yeah?"
I managed to lift the spoon. My hand shook like I'd never held one before. He observed me — not hovering, but attentive.
After a few mouthfuls and a sip of the apple juice, I paused, my hand now hovering over the toast. I opened my mouth to say something about yesterday, but the words caught in my throat. He spoke before me.
"Can I take a look at your arms?" He asked, sitting on the chair beside the bed, approaching my right arm with care. I hummed slightly, nervously watching him. He noticed my hesitation and nodded.
"We'll change these twice a day for now. They’re still quite swollen." He frowned. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."
I didn't respond. Not out of rudeness, I just didn't have the words.
He worked in silence for a while. The ointment stung at first, but the relief that followed was worth it. Fresh gauze. Soft tape. A nurse would've done it colder, faster. He took his time.
"Erm... Tyler visited earlier," Sam said carefully, like he was watching me out of the corner of his eye and gauging my reaction.
The spoon in my left hand paused halfway to my mouth.
"He didn't stay long," he continued, rushing his words a little. His tone went dismissive — or tried to, as if to dampen the impact. But it didn't. "He just wanted an update. Asked how you were doing. I told him you're improving."
The spoon touched the bowl. I didn't lift it again. Eyes narrowed. Jaw tensed. He suddenly looked nervous.
"He can fuck off."
Sam gave an apologetic look. Not disappointed. Not sympathetic. Not amused. Just human.
I sighed and picked up the banana, peeling it before taking a bite. I chewed it slowly in frustration.
"I know how you feel, Emily," Sam said quietly. But I didn't want his sympathetic words.
"No, you don't," I scoffed, a snarl wrinkling my nose.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said eventually. "I don't know what it's like to be you. To live your life."
My eyes burned, but I blinked the heat away.
He continued. "But I know what it's like to be a patient. Tyler hurts everyone, regardless of who you are."
That got to me… just a little. My hand tightened on the banana peel.
"You still work here," I said.
He shook his head slowly. "I don't have a choice. If I did, I wouldn't be here. I'd be working in a real hospital... in the real world." His head lowered and his voice trailed off quietly, bitterly.
Silence settled between us again. It didn't feel hostile. Just complicated. He finished dressing the second arm and secured the gauze with clean, neat tape. Then he leaned back, sighing heavily, as if the morning had already been longer than it should have.
"You don't have to trust me, Emily," he said gently, eyes soft. "I don't expect you to. But I want you to know you're not alone in this. I mean that."
I didn't reply. But I didn't look away, either.
He stood up, collected the wrappers and gauze, and moved to leave. "I'll be around again this evening," he said. "Let me know if you need anything, alright?"
He hesitated like he wanted to say something else. Then nodded once and slipped through the curtain.
I drifted in and out after that.
Pain relief softened the edges of time and perception. The lights dimmed in the evening, and a nurse checked me, briefly saying Dr. Thorne was busy with another patient, so Sam didn't come.
I was alone for a while — or thought I was.
Until I heard them…
I hadn't slept. Not exactly. It was more like drifting in a state of semi-consciousness, half-dissociative and half-aware of my surroundings. Time dragged.
But some time in the late evening, I woke to voices. Not raised, but sharp. Cutting. Angry.
"...sick of your fucking stammering."
A second voice responded, quiet and apologetic. Nervous. I couldn't hear the words.
"You think I'm fucking stupid?"
My heart skipped a beat, eyes snapped open.
A man's voice. Hostile. Instantly familiar.
Dylan.
The curtain was drawn fully around my bed, apart from a slight crack where the two curtains met in the middle. The ward was bathed in the same low, orange glow from the nurse's lamp.
I didn't move, just strained my ears to listen. And my blood ran cold.
"What was that, Tom? You wanna fucking repeat that?"
My eyes widened, my fingers tightening around the edge of my blanket.
'Tom? The boy from the cafeteria?' The realisation pulled the air from my lungs.
Tom... He'd been so small. So skittish. Lee called him Dylan's "pet." The memory instantly came back to me, his image resurfacing in my head — a pale, badly bruised face. Haunted eyes. Terrified posture. Trembling.
He was still here. Still alive... Barely, by the sound of it.
And then— scuffling, a metallic clang, a chair or something being knocked over. Dylan muttered a threat, low. I couldn't make it out.
I stayed perfectly still, breath caught in my throat.
"God, I fucking hate you. You're pathetic!”
A pause. Then the other voice — shakier, softer. "D-Dylan... please... I—"
A thud. Not a punch, but the sound of him hitting something solid. Tom yelped.
"You're lucky you taste so good…”
My mouth parted, dry and silent. 'What the fuck did he just say?'
Every muscle in my body went taut, the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck lifting like static. My eyes locked onto the thin crack in the curtain at the foot of my bed — that sliver of shadow and movement, just enough to make out a figure stood by the bay opposite mine.
Dylan was right there .
"Now, say you're sorry."
No answer.
"Say it!"
"S-Sorry! I'm sorry, Master."
Master.
The word dropped like a bomb.
My stomach turned. Not from the pain meds, not from the porridge I hadn't finished. Something deeper. Rotting. Wrong. It wasn't just the word. It was the way Tom had said it. Like someone who'd been broken in half, and then told to thank the person who did it.
Dylan snapped. "You screw up again, and I swear to God, they'll be taking you out in a fucking body bag! I'll easily find another plaything."
I clutched the blanket tighter. My heart had kicked up, thudding against the inside of my ribs like it wanted out.
He was close. Far too close.
And I knew — I knew — if he caught me, I'd be next.
Footsteps. Boots.
I was motionless, afraid to even breathe.
I could see him more clearly now. Both of them. Through the crack in the curtains.
He had his back to me.
'Don't fucking move, Emily. Don't move...'
Dylan shifted.
I gasped. Faintly. Ever so briefly.
Fuck.
His head snapped in my direction with an audible crack.
I saw his face.
He heard me.
I knew it the moment he spun round, suspicion plastered all over his face as he stared at the curtain, eyes narrowed.
For a split second, nothing happened. No sound, no breath, no movement.
Listening...
Then a low, knowing chuckle.
The curtains flew open. Violence in the way the fabric tore.
Dylan stood there, framed in orange light and rage. His eyes locked onto mine — recognition, sharp and immediate like a blade, like seeing me had just confirmed something.
"Well, look who we have here," he snarled, low and poisonous. "Fucking knew I heard you."
I didn't speak. Didn't move. Couldn't.
He stepped closer. One foot. Two.
Both hands braced against the rail at the foot of the bed.
"Couldn't mind your own business, could you?" His mouth twisted, that familiar wicked grin returning to haunt me. "You nosy little bitch."
I opened my mouth, but the only sound that came out was a wheeze.
Another step closer. And another.
That scarred face now inches from mine, white-knuckled fists gripping the rails on either side of my body.
I trembled, trying to sink myself further into the mattress to get away from him.
He leaned in close — way too close — breathing too heavily, shaking with rage. The stench of tobacco breath and alcohol flooded my nose.
He was drunk.
"G-Get away from me." It came out as a whimper. Tiny. Pathetic.
A hand shot out. I didn't see it happen. I felt it.
I flinched as he wrapped his whole hand around my neck and squeezed.
"You think I won't hurt you just because you're in a hospital bed?" he spat, squeezing harder. "You think this fucking bed makes you safe?"
The grip tightened. Fingernails dug into my skin.
My vision blurred.
I couldn't breathe.
My legs kicked uselessly under the blanket.
My fingers clawed at his hand.
He leaned in even further until his mouth was almost at my ear. "I wanna fucking kill you," he whispered. "No more warnings. You're gonna fucking die."
The way he said it. The way he meant it. Meant every word.
And I was so close to death.
So fucking close.
My vision darkened at the edges, my skin turning blue, my head throbbing.
Something cracked.
Not my neck — thankfully. Not in my body, even.
A door. A shout.
"Hey! HEY! GET OFF HER!"
A blur of white and green.
Suddenly, Dylan was yanked back, his grip torn from my throat.
I gasped and choked, tears spilling down my cheeks. Air burned its way back into my lungs. My vision whited out with the rush of oxygen.
There was a scream. Dylan's. Rabid.
His hands reached for the curtain as he crashed to the floor. Half of the rail and the fabric ripped from the ceiling in a clatter of metal.
More shouting. Scuffling feet.
"Get the restraints!"
"Get down!"
"—FUCK OFF ME! I'll fucking gut you!"
A security guard had tackled Dylan to the ground, pinning him face-down with a knee between his shoulder blades and a hand on his head. One nurse yanked his arm behind his back while the other hovered between me and the chaos, shielding me with her body, trying to speak to me — but the words didn't register.
Dylan thrashed on the floor like an animal, roaring, spitting, trying to break free.
"I'll fucking KILL her!" he howled. "This isn't over! You hear me, slut?! I'll fucking finish what I started!"
The guard dragged him backwards by the collar, out of the ward and into the corridor, his boots scraping lines across the floor. His fury echoed as he was hauled away — voice fading, swallowed by distance.
What followed wasn't silence. It was deafening noise. Static. Buzzing. Ringing in my ears.
I had stars in the corners of my eyes as I vaguely glanced at the curtain rod hanging loosely on one side of the bed like a snapped neck.
The nurses stayed a moment longer, until the air was clear, just as stunned. The older nurse turned to me, her voice cracking. "Emily, sweetheart, can you hear me?"
I stared straight ahead, unable to move, breathing shallowly. My throat hurt too much to speak.
She gently brushed hair from my face and checked the bruises already blooming along my neck. "You're safe now. He's gone. You're going to be alright."
But the words rang mhollow in my ears.
She glanced at her colleague, who began untangling the curtain and calling someone. "You're okay," she repeated, her hand wrapping around mine and squeezing lightly as if trying to ground me. "You're going to be okay."
I coughed once. Then more. Spit spluttered in my mouth. My throat seared, but the air went in.
She adjusted my pillows, checked my vitals, and smoothed the blanket over me. I didn't resist. Barely moved. Just kept staring at the space where he'd stood. I lay there, chest rising and falling too fast, adrenaline wearing off into a trembling aftershock.
The hush settled. Seemed to. But I heard something else — a quiet noise coming from the bed opposite.
My eyes refocused. I listened.
Sobbing.
Tom was sobbing.
I could barely see him. He was hiding under the blanket, curled into a ball, crying.
And in that moment, I wanted Dylan dead.