CHAPTER 05
THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The West Wing Corridor -> Dr. Graves' Private Suite
Track:Every Breath You Take– Chase Holfelder (Dark Minor Key Cover)
Sensory:The throb of bruised skin, the crackle of static, the scent of rain on the windowpane.
Mood:Paranoia & Realization.
The walk back to Alaric’s suite is a blur of terrazzo and terror.
I clutch the small black MP3 player to my chest as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled out. My other hand—the one he marked—throbs in time with my heartbeat. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his teeth sinking into the meat of my palm, a sensation that is simultaneously painful and confusingly grounding.
You are stamped.
I pass a nurse station on the way back. Two women in those crisp, navy uniforms look up as I approach. They don’t smile. They don’t offer help. Their eyes drop to my hand, to the red, angry crescent mark fading on my skin, and then flick up to my face.
There is no pity in their gaze. Only recognition. They know what that mark means. They know I am no longer just a patient in Ward 13. I am the Director's personal project. I am the bird he decided to keep in the gilded cage instead of the aviary.
I keep my head down, staring at the grey wool of my dress, and hurry past them. Theclick-clackof my ballet flats on the marble sounds frantic, a staccato rhythm of panic.
When I reach the heavy oak door of his private quarters, I fumble with the handle. It turns easily. It wasn’t locked. He trusts the perimeter. He trusts that I have nowhere else to go.
I step inside and slam the door shut behind me, engaging the deadbolt with trembling fingers.Lock the door from the inside,he said. The irony is suffocating. I am locking myself in a prison to feel safe from the warden, but the wardenisthe prison.
The room is exactly as I left it. The unmade bed where I woke up. The tray with the remnants of the breakfast he force-fed me. The smell of him—sandalwood, scotch, and cold rain—is baked into the very curtains.
I lean back against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. The Persian rug is soft beneath me, a luxury I don’t deserve and didn't ask for. I bring my knees to my chest and look at the device in my hand.
It’s an older model, heavy and sleek, the kind that stores thousands of songs. The headphones are wired, the cords tangled in a black knot.Music is a reward.
My fingers itch. Not for the device, but for a piano. For the ivory keys that Alaric denied me. He knows exactly where to cut to make me bleed the most. He knows that silence is my enemy.
"Okay," I whisper to the empty room. My voice sounds thin, fragile. "Let's see what you think I sound like."
I untangle the wires. My hands are still shaking, the fine tremor that Alaric diagnosed as "withdrawal from perfectionism" making the task difficult. It takes me a full minute to straighten the cord. I put the earbuds in. They fit snugly, blocking out the hum of the air conditioning, sealing me in a vacuum.
I press the center button. The screen lights up. There is only one playlist. It is titled simply:ELODIE.
I press play.
I expect Chopin. I expect the Rachmaninoff prelude I played at my last recital. I expect, perhaps, something cruel—a requiem, a funeral march.
What I hear is... static. Low, crackling white noise. I frown, reaching for the volume button. Is it broken? Then, a sound cuts through the static.
Thump. Thump. Thump.A metronome. The steady, rhythmic ticking of a mechanical metronome set toAdagio.
My breath catches in my throat. I know that sound. I know the specific, slightly off-beatclickon the third beat. That ismymetronome. The vintage Wittner taking pride of place on my piano at home.
Then, the piano starts. It’s a scale. C Minor. Simple. Warming up. But the audio quality is terrible. It’s muffled, distant, as if recorded through a wall or from a hidden microphone across theroom. I hear a sigh on the track.Mysigh. Then a voice."Focus, Elodie. Again. Fourth finger is weak."
I freeze. My blood turns to ice water in my veins. That’s me. Talking to myself. I remember that day. It was raining. I was practicing for the conservatory entrance exams. I was alone in the house. The staff were off. My parents were in Gstaad.
I was alone. Or so I thought.
