But no response came. The number, when I tried calling, went straight to automated disconnect. When I tried texting back, messages failed to deliver.
A ghost. A wish. My desperate mind creating meaning from coincidence.
Or him, watching from distance, measuring my progress.
I stared at those four words until they burned into my retinas.You did well today.But I hadn't. Had failed spectacularly. Unless... unless failure was the point. Unless he wanted to see me struggle. Wanted proof that his conditioning ran too deep for independent function.
"Is that it?" I asked the phone, the walls, the possibility of hidden cameras. "Needed to see me broken in public? Needed proof that you'd made me too dependent to survive alone?"
No answer came. No second text. Just those four words that could mean everything or nothing.
I curled on the couch—my prison, my safe space—clutching the phone like a lifeline. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he'd seen me fail to be Lilah, seen Bunny leakthrough every crack. Maybe he was pleased by the evidence of his thorough work.
Or maybe I was losing my mind. Creating meaning where none existed. Seeing patterns in random numbers because the alternative—that I was truly alone—was unbearable.
"I'll try again," I promised the phone, the ghost, myself. "Go out again. Fail better. Show you how thoroughly you've ruined me for normal existence."
Because what else was there? I couldn't be Lilah. Could barely approximate human. But I could be his broken doll, struggling beautifully in a world I no longer understood. Could perform my dysfunction for an audience that might not exist.
It was something. A purpose. A framework for the days that stretched ahead.
I'd venture out again. Let the world see what he'd made. Let strangers touch what he'd abandoned. Let old friends witness the murder of who I'd been.
And maybe, if I was very good, if I struggled prettily enough, he'd send another message. Another sign that somewhere, somehow, he was still watching his creation navigate a world she wasn't built for.
The thought should have been horrifying.
Instead, it was the only hope I had left.
Wrong Hands
The knock came at 10 PM, three days after the coffee shop disaster. Three days of hiding in my apartment, living off delivery food and that mysterious text message. Three days of constructing elaborate fantasies about Gabriel watching, waiting, planning something.
I almost didn't answer. The building had security—no one should be able to reach my door without being buzzed in. But the knock came again, authoritative and impatient, and my conditioning responded before logic could intervene.
She stood in my doorway like something out of my nightmares and dreams. Leather jacket over a black dress, boots that meant business, energy that commanded attention. Nothing soft about her except the knowing smile when she saw me.
"Bunny." Not a question. A statement that froze my blood.
"I... who are you?"
"Someone who knows about the Mire Institute." She stepped forward, and I automatically stepped back, letting her into my space without conscious decision. "Someone Gabriel sent."
My heart stopped. Started. Raced into overdrive. "Gabriel sent you?"
"We need to talk." She pushed past me entirely, surveying my apartment with calculating eyes. "Nice setup. He always did like to keep his pets comfortable."
The word 'pets' should have warmed me. Should have felt like recognition, like belonging. Instead, something cold slithered down my spine. Wrong. This felt wrong, though I couldn't articulate why.
"You know Gabriel?" I hated how desperate I sounded. How eager. But three weeks of abandonment had stripped away dignity, left only need.
"Oh, honey." She settled onto my couch—my safe space—like she owned it. "I know all about Gabriel. About his methods. About what he does to girls like you."
"He sent you to get me?" Hope overrode caution. "To bring me back?"
"Something like that." Her smile sharpened. "He's been watching, you know. Seeing how you handle independence. That disaster at the coffee shop? He wasn't pleased."
Shame flooded me, hot and immediate. Of course he'd seen. Of course he'd judged my failure. But how did she—
