It was a stupid idea.
Even as I said the words aloud, as Dr. Thorne blinked at me like he wasn't sure he'd heard me right. His hand paused mid-motion, the bandage still half-rolled in his palm, the air between us suddenly too quiet.
He'd come to change the dressings on both arms and give me something to dull the ache in my side, which I took reluctantly.
"I want to see Tyler."
He didn't speak straight away. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say no — like he should've done — but instead, he searched my face. His gaze met mine with uncertainty, then dragged over the lingering thumb bruises on my neck like maybe he was trying to guess what the hell had driven me to this.
Like it was any surprise.
"Emily..." he started gently, eyes flicking to the machines behind me. Something in his tone was off. He seemed tired, almost resigned. "You're not stable enough for that kind of—"
"I don't care."
My voice was raw. Quiet but sharp. I held his gaze.
"I need to talk to him. It's important."
Something flickered in his expression — hesitation, frustration, maybe a bit of fear. "Maybe later."
I ignored his dismissive tone. "Please."
Finally, he inhaled. Then nodded.
By the time the bandages were changed and the IV drip removed, the weight of my decision sat like a stone in my gut. But I didn't back out. I couldn't. Not when our lives depended on it.
I caught Tom watching us as Dr. Thorne helped me down from the bed. He didn't speak, but he seemed to understand — or at least I hoped he did. I gave him a look, a silent vow, and he held my gaze as I shuffled around the corner out of sight.
The hallway was colder than the ward. Darker, grimier, damper. It stunk of dust, with lesser undertones of blood and metal. It made me more nauseous than the canteen food, and that was saying something.
The usual sounds surrounded us, seeming to press in on all sides. Distant screams, doors opening and closing, people mumbling behind walls, muffled conversations.
It really was a psych ward. Just not in the modern sense.
I shuffled forward step by step, rehearsing a speech I'd prepared in my head. Every word I planned to say to him. How I'd act. How I'd try to manipulate if I had to.
Finally, after walking down multiple corridors for what seemed like an eternity, we stopped in front of a large wooden door.
A brass plaque gleamed under the overhead light, illuminating a name:
T. Hemsworth
Clinical Director
'So that's his surname...'
Dr. Thorne rested his hand gently on my arm. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He sounded scared for me.
"Yes." The word left my lips even as my mind screamed, No.
He gave me a long look, as if debating whether he should just take me back, then reluctantly knocked.
Three knocks.
A pause.
"Come in."
I could recognise that deep voice anywhere.
I felt Dr. Thorne stiffen beside me, his hand gripping my upper arm just a little too tightly. His jaw ticked as I glanced up at him.
With a slow sigh, he opened the door.
I didn't see him at first.
"Thorne. Step outside."
I knew what to expect when I came here. Or at least, I thought I did. But now, standing in his office, I felt anything but prepared.
Tyler sat behind a large mahogany desk like a spider waiting at the centre of a web. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin, the sleeves of his shirt rolled carefully at the elbows, his tie tied too neatly.
His eyes darkened the second I looked at him. Not narrowed, not angry — just dark. Frustrated. Restrained.
I didn't speak at first, aware of how different this room was compared to the rest of the institution.
Shadows shrouded half of the space and pooled beneath the furniture like ink. The air was heavy. The only light came from a single lamp on the desk, casting a sepia glow over scattered papers and leather-bound books. The walls were lined in dark wood paneling. Somewhere above, a vent hissed quietly. There were no windows. Just four walls and a ceiling that felt lower than it probably was.
A clock on the far wall ticked steadily, too loud. A constant reminder of time passing in a room that seemed otherwise untouched by it.
The odour hit me next — like parchment, dust, and the intoxicating smell of his cologne. Spiced and musky. Like smoke and cedar. Like him.
He leaned back in his chair, posture casual but wary. His eyes slid over me: the bandages on my arms, the bruises blooming purple under my collarbone from Dylan's attack, the thin hospital gown that revealed more of my bare thighs than I would've liked. I felt exposed, intimidated, slightly scared, and I had every right to turn away and run out. But I wasn't going to.
Instead, I was running on pure adrenaline. On the belief — or stupid hope — that I could convince him.
He didn't speak for a long while. When he finally did, his voice was lower than usual, almost quiet enough to be mistaken for concern.
"You must be desperate," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Coming here in your little paper dress. You look like shit."
"Thanks," I said without missing a beat. "So do you."
Something twitched in his jaw. A smirk threatened the corner of his mouth but never quite formed.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice flattening in frustration. "Make it quick."
"I want Dylan dead.”
He stilled. It took a beat for the mask to slip. His eyes blinked once. Slowly. Like I'd spoken in another language.
Then came the laugh — low, breathy, and disbelieving. Like I'd just said something deeply amusing. But I wasn't laughing.
"Dylan's in isolation," he said shortly, waving a hand like he was swatting away a fly. "He's being punished. And I'm very busy."
"You don't get to dismiss me today, Tyler," I snapped, fists clenching at my sides. "I'm serious. He's got to go."
That's the thing about Tyler. Stillness with him is more dangerous than movement. He only freezes when he's thinking. Calculating. Trying not to show the crack beneath the surface.
Then, quietly, with a knowing chuckle: "I assume this is about Mercer."
Of course he knew.
"You're more stupid than I thought."
"Have you even seen what he's done?" I spat. "These bruises around my neck? And not to mention — he carved his fucking name into Tom's wrist!"
Tyler stood.
Not suddenly. No theatrics. No lurch or shout. He rose slowly, like smoke pouring up from the ground. His hands stayed loose by his sides like he was forcing them not to clench. His gaze flicked to the door, then to the wall behind me. Lips pressed into a thin line.
"You're playing with fire, today, Emily. You're either really stupid, or reckless. And I hate both."
Then he moved.
He crossed the space between us before I could blink. My breath caught — and I hated that it did. He didn't touch me. Just towered over me, as if hoping I'd cower. Just enough to control. He didn't need to raise his voice to remind me who he was.
"If I'm reckless, I wonder what that makes you," I tilted my head, almost mocking him, "for protecting a criminally insane sadist."
He growled. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then tell me."
"You think you're some tragic little heroine, don't you?" he murmured, voice brushing against my cheek. "Here to save the broken boy and bring down the monster. You're just a silly little girl with a death wish."
"You're sick," I hissed.
"I know."
Then he let go. Stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, composure returning.
"Tom is none of your concern," he said evenly. "He's the only patient in this entire facility I can't touch. He belongs to Dylan."
My face twisted. "Why, though?"
"Because!"
Because he didn't have an answer. He knew it was wrong, but let Dylan have his own way.
"But you don't get to come into my office," he continued through clenched teeth, each word a shard of glass, "and tell me how to do my job. You don't get to stand there like you're different. You're not. You're just another patient."
I stared up at him, unflinching. And through my teeth, mimicking — low, deliberate, and poisonous: "Stop pretending you're in control, Tyler. You're not. Not of Dylan. Not of me. And sure as hell not of yourself ."
That did it.
He shoved me.
My back hit the bookcase behind me with a thud, breath rushing out of me. Pain shot up my ribs and my palms slammed flat against his chest. I tried to push him off of me. He didn't budge. His body was taut, vibrating under my hands like a wire pulled too tight. Too close. His breath hit my cheek.
He glared at me, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to explode. One hand found my wrist, the other on my hip.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he snarled, sharp and guttural. "I don't know what's gotten into you."
I didn't speak. I stared. Long and hard. Those onyx orbs met mine with the same intensity, searching like he was looking for something — weakness, fear, regret. He found none. Only fury. Maybe confusion.
Then his eyes dropped to my lips — just for just a second.
Then back up.
"You can't keep doing this to me."
"Yes, I can."
His grip didn't loosen.
Neither did mine.
Something twisted in his expression. Something quieter. Wounded. Then it vanished, replaced by the familiar flicker of mockery.
"You know," he murmured, so low it almost wasn't there, "most of them don't look at me like you do."
"Because they're terrified."
"And you're not?"
"No," I lied, the word sounding too unconvincing even to myself.
His gaze narrowed. He knew. Of course he did. He always did.
Then he leaned in. I hated the way my breath hitched. Hated the way he noticed.
His lips curled into something not quite a smile. Something mean. That told me he knew exactly how much power he still held, no matter how hard I pushed.
"Tell me why you tremble so badly during Acts," he said, voice a low, poisonous drawl. "Don't lie to me."
"You use my fears against me, of course I'll tremble. You made me lose my shit last time." My voice was sharp, but there was a tremor at the edges. I straightened my spine. Met his stare. "Doesn't mean I'm scared of you."
His laugh was quiet. Dry. Unimpressed.
"You've got a fucking gob today, haven't you?" His hand at my hip flexed, just enough to remind me it was there. "Where has this pretty mouth come from?"
I leaned forward, just an inch. Enough to make sure he felt the defiance radiating off me.
"You're distracting from what I came here for." My voice was ice cold. "Maybe you need reminding."
There was a pause, tight and stretched, held between us like the beat before lightning.
"You want him dead?" he said. "Fine."
I blinked.
He stepped back. Just far enough for me to breathe again.
"But everything has a price."
I steadied myself, but felt it. The shift in my confidence. Just under the surface, barely noticeable to him. "Name it."
He smiled slowly, like he was savouring the anticipation.
"Not yet," he said. "It's a favour. I'll tell you what it is when the time comes."
I didn't move.
He tilted his head, eyes glittering. "Unless you're scared of what I'll ask."
"I'm not," I said. Another lie.
He took a step closer again, deliberately crossing back into my space. I didn't flinch this time. I lifted my chin.
He leaned in like he was going to kiss me, but didn't. His lips hovered.
"I already know what I want from you, Parker," he whispered. "I've known for weeks."
"Then tell me."
But part of me already knew. God, I already knew. And I dreaded it.
"Where's the fun in that? I'll collect later. When the moment's right."
And just like that, I knew I'd sold something I couldn't get back.
"Just tell me."
He clicked his tongue. "That's not how deals work."
I folded my arms. "Then forget it."
He grinned. "But you won't. You want it too much."
He was right. My fists clenched at my sides. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction he wanted.
"I want him gone," I whispered. "Out of this place. Out of my life. Out of Tom's life. Dead."
His smile turned into something darker. "You'll regret it."
I said nothing.
His eyes gleamed with something close to admiration. Or amusement. "God, you're hot when you're angry."
I recoiled, but he was already turning away, walking back behind his desk.
"Act Four starts next week," he said with a smirk, "I've got something... different planned. A little performance. I think you'll find it enlightening."
Then he pressed the intercom. "Thorne," he said coolly. "You can come in now."
His eyes met mine again, and the glint was unmistakable. "A pleasure, as always."
Dr. Thorne looked between us, visibly tense. He stepped forward, eyes flicking to my face. His hands twitched.
"She's all yours," Tyler said.
Dr. Thorne's hand touched my shoulder, guiding me gently toward the door. "Emily—"
"I'm fine," I said, voice flat, pulling my arm from his grasp. "Let's go."
Then, just before I stepped out, I turned and looked back.
Tyler was watching me now.
Not smug. Not cruel. Not angry.
Riled up.