Somewhere, I imagine Doctor Callaway’s hand hovering over a switch, wondering whether I’m testing her or thanking her.
Two things can be true.
My pulse is still racing, the echo of the orderly’s scream still coiled inside me. It burns through my veins, sharp and electric. Power feels like this – hot and clean and terrifying.
I lean back against the wall and let the adrenaline hum under my skin until it turns to something else. Something darker. Something that feels almost like peace.
The camera light blinks once, red, steady. Watching. Always watching.
I grin up at it. “Sweet dreams, Doctor.”
And then I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of blood, smoke, and victory.
RELIEF HIT LIKE A DRUG
Big Bad Me - Power Haus & Revanant (feat. Lloren)
Hatchet
The room won’t let me forget my hands. Every tremor is a signal. Every twitch a confession. The cuffs hold my wrists at chest height, metal biting just enough to stay present. I’ve tested them already – slow pressure, fast jerk, rotation, leverage through the shoulders. Nothing gives. The angle is wrong on purpose. If I fight it, I hurt myself first.
They want that.
Hunger crawls through me like a live wire. Not pain. Heat. A restless, burning insistence that turns every thought into motion. My body wants to do something. Anything. Smash. Tear. End.
There is nothing to end.
I lock my jaw and breathe through my nose, counting the seconds between inhales. Slow is better. Slow saves energy. Bones told me that without words earlier, with a look and a tilt of his head. I listened. I can listen.
My hands don’t care. They shake anyway.
I clamp my fingers into fists, then force them open again because clenching burns fuel and tightens the tremor. The effort sends a spike of frustration through me so sharp my vision whites at the edges.
Across the room, Honey stands and then sits again. Moves too much. Cares too loudly. I feel the room lean when he does, attention sharpening like a blade finding its edge.
When he stepped closer earlier – slow, open, careful – my body responded before my head caught up. Breathing slowed. The fire eased. Relief hit like a drug.
I hated that.
Not him. The effect.
Because the moment my body settled, the room noticed. I felt it in the pressure behind my eyes, in the way the lights seemed to focus. Honey gave them a handle, and they grabbed it.
I won’t be a handle.
I set my feet wider, distribute weight evenly, and let my shoulders drop a fraction. I fix my gaze on a point on the far wall and refuse to look at my hands.
They keep shaking anyway.
Sweat runs down my spine, cooling as it goes. I don’t wipe it away. Movement costs. I breathe and let it drip.
Time stretches. Or snaps. I can’t tell.
The hunger changes. It stops shouting and starts negotiating. A voice low in my gut offers bargains: Move and it will stop. Hurt something and it will stop. Let me loose.
I don’t answer.
Bones shifts on the bench. I hear it – the faint scrape of fabric, the careful adjustment of weight. Pain management. He’s hurting. He’s hiding it.
