I'd just finished breakfast when I looked over at Tom.
He was still asleep, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket, face turned towards the wall. His hands were curled under his chin like a child's. I wondered if he'd dreamt anything peaceful. If the nightmares ever stopped for him. I doubted it.
I closed my eyes.
Last night, one of the nurses had taken me to the washroom. A small, dim room with chipped tiles and a row of overhead showers with the chrome corroded — the kinds you find in public leisure centres and prisons. Those two examples wildly contrast, but I'm sure you can imagine.
I'd been quiet, obedient, and kind of numb, especially after hearing Tom's confession. I let the nurse strip off the thin hospital gown and pat me down, then felt uncomfortably exposed as she watched me shower. She didn't seem to care in the slightest. I let the weak stream of water wash over me, my back turned to her. At least the water was warm — a small mercy, I guess.
The shower itself wasn't anything memorable. I scrubbed the blood, sweat and dirt from my body and washed my tangled hair. But it was what the nurse handed to me after that struck me as odd.
A black dress.
Not the uniform grey sweats I'd been used to — what every other patient wore. It was simple enough to pass as modest, but short, like a statement. She'd handed me a pair of black polyester shorts to wear underneath, just enough to cover what mattered. I hated it, and not just because I never usually dressed like this.
'Wait... Did Tyler...?'
The thought slipped in uninvited, crawling over my skin like a swarm of insects. I rubbed the spot on my elbow where the cannula had been, hand trembling slightly, and swallowed dryly.
No one else wore anything like it. Everyone else in the ward wore either the same pale blue gowns or identical institutional sweats. But me? I looked about dressed for an open-casket funeral.
But I couldn't dwell on it.
Someone appeared at my bedside — a male nurse I didn't recognise. He was Asian, possibly Indonesian or Malaysian, around my height and a little older, with messy brown hair and dark eyes. A black surgical mask concealed the lower half of his face, leaving only his unreadable eyes visible.
I immediately didn't like him.
He looked at me only briefly. Didn't speak. Pushed a wheelchair up to my bedside like it was a chore.
Right behind him came Dr. Thorne with a friendly but tired face. His white coat swayed slightly as he walked, clipboard in hand, expression somewhere between kind and concerned.
"Morning, Emily," he smiled slightly. "How are you feeling?"
I didn't answer right away, just shrugged, still suspiciously eyeing the new male beside him.
Thorne gave a small nod, like he understood too well. He turned to gesture at the man. "This is Nurse Vincent. He'll be taking you back to your room today."
Back to my room. The phrase hit like a hammer. Final. Cold. There was no offer in it. Just inevitability.
Thorne came closer, placing a hand on my ankle with gentle pressure, as if trying to centre me. "I've spoken to James about resuming your therapy. He might come to see you later today."
'Great. Therapy. Because that’s done so much good,' said the voice in my head, sarcastically.
Then the nurse stepped forward. I instinctively flinched. He was removing the bandages on my arms, and I hadn't even noticed his hands move. They were gentle but cold, moving only with practised robotic gestures.
"The wounds are closing nicely. No sign of infection," Sam said.
I looked down.
I shouldn't have.
I caught sight of what lay beneath the gauze. My reaction was immediate. Bile shot up my throat. I gagged, then had to swallow my breakfast back down. The wounds had healed, technically. But the skin was a mess of ridges and jagged scabs — like language carved into flesh.
I tore my eyes away, flicking them toward Tom instead. But he was still asleep. 'Good,' I thought. I didn't want him to see me like this.
Vincent moved, gestured towards the wheelchair, letting out an impatient tut when I didn't budge. I rolled my eyes, scooted to the edge of the bed, and slid off.
My legs were unsteady as they took my weight, and the dress rode up my thighs, revealing the black shorts that just about covered my crotch.
As soon as I sat, he came around and placed handcuffs on my wrists, clipping them onto the armrests of the wheelchair. I tested them with a quick tug but they had me secured.
"Is this really necessary?" I rolled my eyes and mumbled, just loud enough to be heard.
Neither of them answered.
Sam gave me a faint, apologetic smile, then left.
Vincent wheeled me out.
I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to Tom.
The journey back was silent, except for the faint squeak of the wheels and the occasional clunk of a door closing. The hallway was too cold. Goosebumps prickled along my arms, and the restraints pulled tight with every small movement.
Vincent didn't glance at me, not even once. I shifted slightly and groaned. No response. Then tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.
"Great bedside manner," I muttered under my breath.
We passed a woman on the way. A staff member with long dark hair and a tray of food in her hand like she was going to visit a patient. She glanced at me as we passed, but not with sympathy. Not like I expected. Instead, the look in her eyes was a sort of... recognition. Like she knew exactly who I was. Like they all did now. Like I was notorious in all the wrong ways. The violent one. The defiant one. The one Dylan attacked. The one they had to sedate.
Or just... Tyler's favourite.
I didn't even know what stories they'd heard, but I could feel them pressing against me like the muzzle of a gun at the back of my head.
They all knew something about me. They just didn't know enough.
The hallway twisted a few times, we rounded corners, passed through double doors and past endless rows of patients' rooms.
Finally, we stopped in front of a plain metal door. Vincent paused just long enough for me to read a small white card taped to it.
0810033 — My number. I'd never noticed it before. Maybe because I'd never been on this side. He pulled out a key from his pocket and unlocked it with a hollow click .
The room inside was exactly how I remembered.
A metal table in the centre, bolted to the floor. Cabinets and a sink to the right. Medical equipment still scattered on the counter.
My prison cell.
He wheeled me in, unlocked the handcuffs, and guided me up onto the table. I lay and spread my arms, knowing what was coming next. He began strapping me down again. Arms first. Then ankles. Thick leather straps and clinking buckles.
I didn't fight it. What was the point?
He left without a word. The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone again.
My eyes fixed on the ceiling, its blank expanse as lifeless and grey as my thoughts. I let the silence wash over me like bleach. And I needed the cleanse.
The quiet wasn't peaceful. It pressed against my ears, thick and muffling, like someone had stuffed cotton balls into my ear canals. Every sound — distant shouts, a creaking pipe, the buzzing fluorescent light overhead — dulled into nothingness. I surrendered to it and let my mind float in that void for a while, untethered.
But the silence never lasted long enough.
Eventually, my thoughts returned, slow and creeping at first. Memories. Echoing voices. But this time, they weren't the usual ghosts — no flashbacks of my childhood, no image of my father's belt cutting through the air like a whip.
No. This time, it was something more recent.
My mind began to replay the chaos of the last few days, a grim highlight reel. A recap of the whirlwind, as if my brain had hit "rewind" and was forcing me to watch every scene.
Each memory landed like a stone in my gut. One by one, they lined up, daring me to look away. And I couldn't.
It started with Act 3.
The blade. The cuts. The blood. The look on Tyler's face. The way he'd carved into my arms. The pain, bright and dizzying, still reverberating through my body like a phantom. Me screaming into the tape, trying to leave my own body just to survive.
The hallucination — blood pouring down the walls, flooding the floor, drowning everything.
Then the kiss . I'd almost forgotten about it. But my mind dragged me back to it like an unwilling child. The moment he'd leaned over, peeled back the mask of cruelty and gave me softness — just long enough to confuse me. And I'd liked it.
That was the worst part. Liking it.
His voice lingered in my head, and one line lingered longest.
"You want me to kiss you."
The way he'd whispered it — ever so softly, so teasingly . Like he knew I couldn't deny it.
Then the scene in my head changed.
I'd forgotten the nightmare I'd woken from, but I remembered waking up in a panic, in a sweat.
My introduction to the hospital ward. How I'd drifted in and out of consciousness, in pain. Machines beeping. Nurses at my bedside.
And then, hearing that man being wheeled in, his vitals crashing, the nurses and Dr. Thorne trying to save him. But he died.
"Tyler's gone too far."
I already knew that, but hearing them say it...
Next came Dylan's voice, raised and wild. Shouting, even in my current dream-like state. Alive and conscious, just not present.
The noise got closer, louder. I remembered hearing Tom's frightened voice for the first time and recognising him as the boy I'd seen in the cafeteria that time.
"Master."
That word still made my blood run cold.
I shivered against the table, suddenly very aware of my surroundings. My eyes looked around the room for a moment. I paused, took a shaking breath. Then delved back in. Like I'd just come up for air after swimming in a deep pool, and dived back down.
Memory of the attack came next. The worst part. Dylan's hands on me, cutting off my air supply. Fingers digging into my oesophagus. The straps cutting into my skin as I struggled helplessly beneath him. The chaos. The screaming. Security finally dragging him away.
And Tom hiding beneath the blanket, crying silently. Not from fear, but from knowing it would never really be over. That hurt more than being choked. The emotional pain.
His bruised face. His sunken eyes. His body flinching at the smallest noise. The way he'd asked for help. So soft. So desperate.
That was the moment it changed for me. When I decided Dylan's games were no longer just about surviving him.
I went to Tyler’s office. I asked for Dylan's death. I said it out loud. Felt the words in my mouth and didn't spit them out.
Tyler agreed to it. But not for free. The favour. The debt. A deal with the devil, signed by my own reckless determination to save a boy who couldn't save himself.
And now?
Now I was here. Back in this room. Waiting for Act 4, the next performance.
I didn't know when he'd call the favour in. I had a feeling, but it was baseless. Just a bad feeling in my gut like food poisoning. I also had a feeling I knew what it would be. What he'd ask of me. But I couldn't speak it out loud, and I knew the price would be high.
I would pay that price because I'd already decided on self-sacrifice — either recklessly or naively — that Dylan would die. And Tom would live. Even if it broke me.
I lay there, strapped to the metal bed like something dangerous. And for the first time, I believed it .
I wanted to believe I was dangerous. Not because of what Tyler had done to me or who I'd become. But because of what I was going to do next.
A knock at the door snapped me back. My eyes widened, panic made my heart kick, and I lifted my head to watch the door, as if I'd forgotten who was supposed to be visiting.
Three soft raps.
The door opened.
James.
He stepped in slowly, notebook in hand, shirt sleeves rolled up, neatly dressed.
His eyes met mine. Calm. Curious. Professional.
But there it was. The flicker in his eyes. The moment he and I both understood:
Everything was different now.