“Because if I wake up to another strange man’s scent in my room, you’re going to have a problem.”
She goes pale. “No one?—”
“Don’t lie.” I tip my chin at the sheets. “Who’s been in my room? While I was out of it. I remember…and I can smell them. Different. Male.”
A flicker – there it is. Just the faintest blanch, a tiny tightening of her throat before she finds her voice. “You were monitored. Standard medical protocol.”
“Monitored?” I tilt my head. “Or guarded?”
She swallows. Doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.
She exhales through her nose, sets the clipboard down again. I notice her fingers trembling when they brush the paper. “You have had major surgery. You were severely dehydrated. And you’ve been asleep for almost a week. You need time to recover.”
I flex my fingers, stare at the tape marks on my arm where IVs lived. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She doesn’t. She turns instead, pours water from a jug into a paper cup, offers it to me like we’re in polite society. I don’t move. I want her to say it. When she realises I’m not taking the cup, she sets it down carefully, just out of reach.
“You’re safe here,” she repeats, softer now, as if repetition will make it true.
My eyes go to the corners of the room. Clean, yes, but wrong. One small camera tucked behind a ceiling vent. Another blink of red above the door. I feel my mouth stretch into something that might be a smile but isn’t. For a heartbeat, the world stops moving. The hum, the light, her voice – they all blur.
“Kayla, you’ve been through severe trauma. You’re safe here. The asylum?—”
I stand. Too fast. The world tilts, but I don’t let it show. “The asylum what?”
“—won’t find you,” she finishes quietly. “You have my word. They can’t hurt you anymore. Or your child.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Use that word like it’s leverage.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are. Every time you say ‘safe,’ what you mean is ‘contained.’ Every time you say ‘child,’ what you mean is ‘asset.’ You think I don’t hear it?”
Her hands clasp in front of her, white-knuckled. “You’ve been through enough,” she says softly. “You don’t have to fight anymore.”
That makes me laugh. Not polite. Not human. Just sound and teeth. “You think I fight because I have to?”
She flinches.
“Tell me this, Doctor,” I say, pacing slow, like the ground itself is my patient. “If I’m safe, why the cameras? Why the locked door? Why can’t I hear anything past these walls?”
Her voice breaks, almost a whisper. “Because they’ll come for you. The asylum,” she says. “Seytan’s people. They want you contained or gone. You know too much. They think—” She swallows. “They think you’re unstable.”
“They’re not wrong.” Silence stretches. Then: “But you’ll keep me alive.”
Her chin lifts, brave. “Yes.”
“Because someone told you to.”
“Because it’s right,” she says. But her lie doesn’t reach her eyes.
We stare at each other for a long time. Her breathing’s too fast. The hum in the walls grows louder, or maybe it’s just my blood.
“Right,” I say finally, and sit back down on the bed. “So what now? You keep me drugged and docile? Teach me breathing exercises? Make me journal about my feelings?”
