DippinDaz

📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated March, 1962) 

Patient Name: [REDACTED] 

| 

| 

Diagnosis: 

Primary: Schizophrenia, undifferentiated type (Under Review) 

Secondary: Histrionic Personality Traits (Under Review) 

Tertiary (provisional): Catatonia/dissociative fugue 

| 

Suggested Treatment Plan: 

Daily antipsychotics 

Sedative regimen for nighttime restlessness 

Hydrotherapy sessions to ease muscular strain and induce calm Observed counterproductive response during recent hydrotherapy session. Patient exhibits dissociative retreat with preserved coordinated muscular response. Recommend reevaluation of hydrotherapy and further psychiatric assessment. 

Temporary isolation recommended for patient and staff safety Temporary separation from high-stimulation environments recommended for patient stability and staff management. 

Increase frequency of observation during dissociative episodes.  

Monitor patient response to autobiographical memory recollection.  

Document interactions with identified stabilizing relationships.  

Monitor effects of current medication regimen on memory retention, dissociative episodes, and therapeutic engagement.  

Further evaluation recommended. 

| 

Religious Staff Note: 

Chaplaincy consultation scheduled with Father Howard. 

Attending Physician (Primary): Dr. Oliver Thredson  Supervising Physician: Dr. Arthur Arden 

The common room buzzed softly around you. 

Not loud enough to be chaos. Not quiet enough to think. 

A radio crackled somewhere near the nurses’ station, the music warped faintly beneath static. Someone nearby laughed too hard at something that wasn’t funny. Cards slapped against a table in uneven bursts. Shoes scraped tile. The overhead lights hummed constantly, sharp and electrical. 

Your normal chair was gone. So, you sat curled into the corner of the couch furthest from the television and its endless static. 

The fabric beneath your fingers scratched rough against your skin. 

Stay here. 

Your thumb pressed slowly into the seam of the cushion. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm helped a little. Something solid. Something real. 

Across the room, two patients argued quietly over a puzzle missing pieces. A nurse flipped through a magazine without actually reading it. Somebody was humming under their breath again. Same three notes. Over and over. 

Your eyes drifted toward the windows. 

Rain tapped softly against the glass. 

You counted the drops for a while. 

Lost count. 

Started again. 

You swallowed hard. 

Your fingers had begun tracing shapes against the couch cushion without you realizing it—small looping circles, over and over until the pattern started repeating itself. 

A grounding trick. 

Or maybe just another habit. 

You weren’t sure anymore. 

The room tilted strangely for half a second when someone dropped a book nearby. 

Your shoulders jerked instinctively. 

Too fast. 

Too sharp. 

A few people looked over. 

You immediately stared back down at your hands. 

Stay here. 

The phrase repeated silently now. 

Stay here. Stay here. Stay here. 

But your body felt wrong today. 

Too light one second.  Too heavy the next. 

Like your mind kept stepping a few feet outside itself before stumbling back in again. 

You hated this part. 

Not the forgetting. 

The waiting. 

Waiting to realize another piece of time had vanished without asking permission first. 

Your jaw tightened. 

Pepper needed you here. 

That thought anchored harder than anything else managed to. 

Not yourself. 

Not Briarcliff. 

Pepper. 

Your nails dug lightly into your palm until the sting steadied your breathing again. 

Then— 

“You do that a lot.” 

The voice startled you enough that your head lifted immediately. 

Grace stood near the arm of the couch, one shoulder leaning lazily against the wall. Like she’d been there longer than you realized. 

Watching. 

Your stomach twisted faintly. 

“Do what?” you asked quietly. 

Grace’s eyes flicked toward your hands. 

“Leave.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know how to respond. Couldn’t really. 

She was right.  

Grace studied your face for another second before pushing off the wall. She moved closer, but not enough to crowd you. Careful. Measured. 

“How often do you get like this?” she asked. 

Your fingers curled tighter against your palm. “Like what?” 

“Far away.” 

The words landed too easily. 

You looked down again instead of answering. 

Grace huffed quietly through her nose, like she had already expected that response. “Kit thinks you’re tougher than you look.” 

That made your eyes flick upward. 

Not because of the compliment. 

Because of the way she said Kit. 

This conversation wasn’t really about you. 

It was about him. 

“What do you think?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Grace tilted her head slightly. “I think you’ve survived this place longer than most people would.” 

Not an answer. 

You noticed that. 

“But surviving ain’t the same thing as getting out.” 

The room suddenly felt smaller. 

Your stomach tightened faintly as Grace glanced toward the nurses’ station before lowering her voice. 

“If something happened,” she said carefully, “could you run?” 

You blinked. 

“I mean really run.” Her eyes stayed fixed on you now. Sharp. Assessing. “Not freeze. Not drift off somewhere. Not panic.” 

Your throat went dry. 

“If we have to fight, can you fight?” 

Somewhere nearby, someone laughed again. The radio crackled. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. 

“If the plan fails, can you think on your feet?” 

You could feel your pulse in your wrists. 

Grace watched every second of your silence. 

Then: 

“Can you?” she repeated. 

Your first instinct was embarrassment. 

The second was anger. 

Not loud anger. Not explosive. Not even really at her. 

Just that quiet humiliation of realizing someone had looked at you and immediately seen weakness. 

But... 

Was she wrong? 

“I don’t know,” you admitted softly. 

Grace nodded once like she appreciated the honesty more than the answer itself. 

“That’s a problem.” 

Your jaw tightened. 

“For you?” you asked. 

“For everybody.” 

The words stung more than they should have. 

Grace must’ve noticed, because some of the hardness in her face eased slightly after a second. 

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” she said. 

You looked away toward the rain-streaked windows. 

“You think Kit talks too much,” you murmured. 

A faint smile tugged briefly at one corner of Grace’s mouth. “Yeah. He does.” 

Despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly too. 

Then her expression flattened again. 

“But he’s serious ‘bout getting out.” 

The humor vanished just as quickly. 

“And serious people get killed when they start thinking with their heart instead of their head.” 

Your chest tightened painfully. 

Not because Grace sounded cruel. 

Because she sounded practical. 

The worst part was that you couldn’t even blame her for asking. 

You’d lost conversations. 

Lost hours. 

Lost pieces of yourself so quietly you only noticed after they were already gone. 

Sometimes they were pieces you never even had. 

And lately you were getting bad again. 

The thought settled heavy in your stomach. 

Would you get him hurt? Caught? Killed? 

The room suddenly felt too warm. 

Your eyes dropped back to your hands before Grace could read anything else on your face. 

You thought about Kit beneath the tree. Him laughing. Talking about fixing broken things like they were still worth keeping. 

You thought about him calling you “sleepwalker.” 

Thought about how much interest he took in you. Not only your life, but you. Just as you are. 

And for one horrible second, you pictured him running while you froze. 

Pictured him turning back for you. 

Pictured blood on the floor because he hesitated. 

Your throat tightened hard enough to ache. 

Grace spoke again, quieter now. 

“This place makes people weak if you let it.” 

You swallowed once, “Yeah.” 

Softly. Not defensive. Not angry. 

Just tired. 

Because it did. 

They did. 

And somewhere deep down, you were beginning to fear Briarcliff was winning. 

Grace watched you for a long moment after that. 

Not exactly cold. 

Just thinking. 

The common room carried on around you like nothing had happened. A patient near the window started singing softly to himself. Someone else complained about missing cards. And that damn song on repeat. 

Your hands stayed folded tightly in your lap. 

Grace finally sighed through her nose and leaned back against the wall again. 

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said. 

You didn’t answer. 

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the nurses’ station before returning to you. “People like to pretend hope’s enough.” A small shake of her head. “It ain’t.” 

Something in her voice had changed slightly. 

Not softer. 

Just tired in a way you recognized. 

“You think I like talking like this?” she asked quietly. “I don’t.” 

Your eyes lifted toward her again. 

She looked a way you had never seen from her. Less guarded. Not open, per se. But closer to human than sharp edges and suspicion. 

“People like each other,” she continued. “They get attached. Then something goes wrong and suddenly nobody’s thinkin’ straight anymore.” 

The words pressed strangely against your ribs. She wasn’t really talking about people. She hadn’t been. She was talking about Kit. Maybe herself too. 

Grace crossed her arms tighter. “Kit already trusts you.” 

Your stomach tightened faintly. 

“That means I need to know if I can.” 

The honesty of it caught you more off guard than the interrogation had. 

You looked down at your hands again. 

The truth sat ugly and heavy in your chest: you didn’t know if she could. 

Didn’t know if Kit should. 

Silence stretched between you again. 

Then, quietly: 

“I used to be better.” 

Grace frowned slightly. “At what?” 

“Staying here.” 

You tapped two fingers lightly against your knee. As if grounding yourself without thinking. 

“I’ve been losing things,” Your voice stayed low and careful. “Conversations and... stuff.” A pause. “More than before.” 

Grace studied you carefully after that. 

Not pitying. 

Assessing. 

But no longer dismissive either. 

“That because of this place,” she asked, “or were you like that before?” 

The question settled heavily between you. 

Your fingers stilled against your knee. 

For a second, you almost said nothing again. 

That would’ve been easier. 

But something about the way Grace was looking at you now—not cruel, not careful either—made the words slip out before you could stop them. 

“I was worse before Briarcliff.” 

Grace stayed quiet. 

You swallowed once. 

“The years before here...” Your voice thinned slightly. “Sometimes I’d lose weeks and months.” A faint shake of your head. “People would talk to me and it was like I never even heard them. Sometimes I’d wake up somewhere different, not knowing how I got there.” 

The common room blurred softly at the edges for a second before settling again. 

You forced yourself to keep going. 

“When Pepper got brought here...” Your throat tightened. “I started trying harder.” 

Her brows furrowed. “Trying what?” 

“To stay.” 

Simple answer. 

Honest one. 

You stared down at your hands. 

“I practiced.” A humorless little breath escaped you. “Grounding. Counting things. Holding onto conversations.” Your fingers curled slightly. “I got better.” 

At least, you thought you did. 

“Pepper needed me to.” 

The words came out almost automatic. 

Like that alone explained everything. 

Grace’s expression shifted subtly after that, like she was listening differently now. 

Maybe it did explain things. 

And then, quieter: 

“I don’t know why I’m getting bad again.” 

Again, Grace was quiet for a while after that. 

Not uncomfortable quiet. 

Thinking quiet. 

The kind that settled like four feet of snow after a blizzard. 

The common room felt oddly quiet now. Like it felt the silence between the two of you. 

You kept your eyes on your hands. 

Grace finally spoke. 

“This place wears people down on purpose.” 

You looked up slightly. 

“They drug you, isolate you, treat you like an animal long enough...” She shrugged faintly. “Eventually people stop fighting to stay themselves. They stop caring.” 

Something about hearing someone else say it made your chest ache. 

Because you’ve seen it happen. Because you’d felt it. Every day. 

Grace studied your expression for another second before adding, quieter this time: 

“But the fact you noticed means you’re still here.” 

The words caught somewhere deep inside you. 

Not comforting. 

Not exactly. 

But they were different than the others. 

You didn’t realize how badly you’d needed someone to say that until now. 

It made your heart pound. 

Grace pushed herself off the wall before the silence could turn heavy again. “Doesn’t mean you get to stop trying, though.” 

There she was again.  

Sharp edges. Practical. Controlled. 

But not cruel. Not really. 

You nodded once. 

“I know.” 

Grace looked at you, but it was different this time. It was assessment, more so consideration. 

Like she had written you off yet. 

And that meant something. 

Occupational therapy was quieter in the afternoons. 

Pencils scraped across paper in uneven rhythms while orderlies paced between tables pretending to supervise. Rain tapped faintly against the high windows, turning the light gray and flat. 

Kit sat heavily into the chair across from Pepper, rolling the stiffness from one shoulder as he glanced at the papers scattered across the table. 

Pepper barely noticed him sit down. 

Her pencil moved in slow loops across the page. 

Circle after circle after circle. 

Not drawing anything. 

Just repeating the shape until the paper had started to tear beneath the pressure. 

Kit watched for a second before speaking. 

“You get that from Twirly?” 

Pepper looked up immediately at the nickname. 

Then nodded. 

“It reminds me of her.” 

The words made something tighten in Kit’s chest. 

Pepper looked back down and traced another circle carefully over the last. 

“She’s been getting bad again.” 

Kit’s brow furrowed slightly. “What makes you say that?” 

Pepper shrugged one shoulder. 

“Her eyes go quiet more.” 

That phrase again. 

Not asleep. Not gone. 

Quiet. 

Kit leaned back slightly in his chair. Getting worse?  

The thought sat wrong, ringing around in his head.  

How hadn’t he noticed that?  

Pepper suddenly stopped drawing. 

“The nice doctor asked about her.” 

Kit looked up. 

Something in his expression must’ve shifted because Pepper blinked. 

“The one with the soft voice,” she added. “He said he wants to help Twirly stay here.” 

A cold feeling settled slowly into Kit’s stomach. 

Because somehow, that didn’t sound right at all. 

Kit’s eyes narrowed slightly. 

“The nice doctor?” he repeated carefully. 

Pepper nodded, still turning the pencil slowly between her fingers. 

“The one with the soft voice.” 

A face surfaced in Kit’s mind. 

The man from yesterday. Clipboard in hand. Watching the yard like he was looking for something specific. 

Watching her. 

Kit leaned forward a little, grabbing a pencil off the table. “Black hair?” 

Pepper brightened instantly. “Yeah! Him.” 

Something uneasy curled tighter in Kit’s stomach. 

He tried not to show it. 

“What’d he want?” 

Pepper shrugged. “Just talked.” 

“That all?” 

“Mhm.” She traced another circle absentmindedly near the edge of the page. “He asked about Twirly. Asked if she always gets quiet like that.” 

He frowned. 

“And you told him?” 

Pepper looked confused by the question. “He’s a doctor.” 

Simple answer. 

Matter-of-fact. 

Not defensive. 

Just obvious to her. 

“He listens better than the others,” she added after a second, voice softer now. “Doesn’t yell.” 

That hit harder than Kit expected. 

Because around Briarcliff, not yelling probably did feel like kindness. 

Pepper’s pencil moved across the paper again. 

“He looked sad when I talked about her.” 

Kit doubted that. 

But Pepper said it with such certainty he didn’t argue. 

Instead he glanced down at the page between them. 

Circles layered over circles until they almost looked like bruises pressed into the paper. 

His jaw tightened faintly. 

“What’s his name?” he asked. 

Pepper tilted her head. 

Then smiled a little. 

“Doctor Thredson.” 

Pepper’s smile faded just a little as she looked back down at the paper. 

“He’s nicer than the others,” she said quietly. 

Then, after a pause: 

“But Miss Elsa used to smile like that too when she wanted somethin’.” 

Kit didn't know what to say. 

He didn't have to. 

Pepper continued drawing circles, layering graphite over graphite. 

“He watches people when they ain’t looking.” 

Kit’s brow furrowed faintly. 

Pepper shrugged one shoulder. 

“Like how you watch Twirly.” 

Kit went still. 

Not dramatic. 

Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. 

But Pepper did. 

His fingers tightened once around the dull pencil in his hand before loosening again. 

The occupational therapy room suddenly felt louder than before. Pencils scraping paper. Chairs dragging across tile. An orderly coughing somewhere behind him. 

Pepper kept drawing like she hadn’t just said something that lodged directly into his ribs. 

Like you watch Twirly. 

Kit stared down at the circles covering her paper. 

One inside another. 

 Over and over. 

His jaw worked faintly. 

“I ain’t—” he started automatically. 

Then stopped. 

Because he didn’t actually know how to finish that sentence. 

Pepper finally looked up at him again. 

Not suspicious. 

Just curious. 

Kit didn’t know how to respond. 

Because he had been watching her. 

But not like that. 

Not how people were watched in Briarcliff. 

Not the way doctors stared through patients instead of at them. Not the way orderlies monitored movements like waiting for someone to snap. 

That wasn’t what this was. 

He watched because sometimes she looked lost before she realized it. 

Because sometimes her hands shook when the room got too loud. 

Because sometimes her eyes drifted somewhere far away and he hated how nobody else seemed to notice when it happened. 

Or maybe they noticed and just didn’t care. 

Pepper kept looking at him patiently, waiting. 

Kit rubbed his thumb against the side of the pencil. 

“She just...” He exhaled quietly through his nose. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ out for her in here.” 

Pepper’s expression softened immediately. 

“’cept you,” she said. 

That one hit him harder than he expected. 

Because he still wasn’t sure when that had become true. 

Neither of them spoke for a few beats. 

“He asked what brings her back when she goes away.” Pepper said. 

Kit’s eyes lifted immediately. 

“What?” 

Pepper shrugged lightly, still tracing the pencil along the edge of the paper. 

“When her eyes go quiet.” She glanced toward him. “The doctor wanted to know what helps.” 

Something cold settled slowly into Kit’s stomach. 

Pepper continued before he could respond. 

“I told him hugs usually work.” 

Kit’s jaw tightened faintly. 

Not because Pepper had done anything wrong. 

Because the conversation suddenly felt too personal. 

Too interested. 

Doctors here usually didn’t care enough to ask questions like that. 

They sedated people. Restrained them. Dragged them room to room. 

They didn’t try to understand them. 

Which meant this Doctor Thredson either cared far too much— 

—or wanted something. 

And Kit wasn’t sure which possibility bothered him more. 

The common room had grown quieter. 

Not truly quiet. 

Briarcliff never was. 

But quieter in the way storms sometimes calmed before getting worse. 

The radio had gone to static again. Rain still tapped softly against the windows. A few patients wandered aimlessly between chairs while others sat slumped half-asleep beneath the dull hum of fluorescent lights. 

Grace was gone. 

You weren’t sure when she’d left. 

Your fingers traced slowly against the seam of your skirt. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

Grounding. 

Trying to. 

Your eyes lingered on the rain crawling down the glass. 

One drop splitting into two. 

Then four. 

Then gone. 

The room softened around the edges again. 

Voices blurred. 

The static from the radio stretched long and hollow in your ears until it almost sounded like distant applause— 

The loud clearing of a throat. 

You flinched hard enough your arm knocked against the arm of the couch. 

Sister Jude stood over you. 

Her expression tightened faintly at the reaction. 

Not sympathy. 

Assessment. 

“Come with me.” 

Your throat felt dry. The staff taking you somewhere was never good, but when it was Sister Jude? Even worse. 

For you, at least. 

Routine changes were rarely good here. The thought made your stomach twist. 

Sister Jude turned sharply, expecting you to follow. 

You stood quickly and moved after her, careful not to fall too far behind as her heels clicked crisply against the tile. 

The hallway felt colder than the common room. 

Or maybe you were colder now. 

“You have another appointment with Dr. Thredson,” Jude said without looking at you. “He requested the session be moved forward.” 

Something uneasy shifted low in your stomach. 

You kept your eyes fixed ahead. 

“Oh.” 

Jude’s gaze flicked toward you briefly then away again. 

“He seems to have taken quite an interest in your case.” 

The words made your shoulders tense instinctively. 

Not because of what she said. 

Because of how she said it. 

Like interest itself was dangerous. 

“He thinks you’re special.” 

Your chest tightened faintly. 

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. 

You remembered the way Thredson watched during hydrotherapy. 

Your first session with him. 

The voice. 

The questions. 

At the time you thought it was routine for him. 

Special. 

The word sat wrong inside you. 

Special patients got watched more closely. 

Taken away into private rooms for things most of the staff didn’t even know. 

Experimented on. 

It happened to you once with Arden. It had finally slowed down. 

You swallowed once. 

“I’m not,” you said quietly. 

Sister Jude’s mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“No,” she said after a moment. “Most likely not.” 

But she didn’t sound convinced. 

You swallowed once. 

Sister Jude noticed. 

“Dr. Thredson is considered very promising in his field,” she said crisply. “You should be grateful someone is willing to invest time in your treatment.” 

Treatment. 

The word scraped strangely against your ribs. 

Jude slowed briefly near the end of the hallway, turning toward a heavy wooden door. 

“And I would advise you,” she added sharply, “not to mistake professional attention for kindness.” 

It felt like a weight had been placed on your chest. 

Because the truth was, you hadn’t known what to mistake it for. 

Sister Jude stopped outside the office door. 

You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until she knocked twice against the wood and the sound made your pulse jump. 

“Your appointment,” she said flatly through the door. 

A beat passed. 

Then: 

“Come in.” Dr. Thredson’s voice was smooth as warm honey. 

Sister Jude opened the door without another word. 

The office smelled faintly of coffee and paper instead of bleach. 

It shouldn’t have felt different from the rest of Briarcliff. 

But it did. 

The lamps cast softer light than the fluorescents outside. A radio hummed low somewhere in the corner, barely loud enough to know that it wasn’t that same song in the common room. 

Carefully arranged comfort. 

It was odd. 

But welcomed. 

“Thank you, Sister Jude.” 

Thredson stood as you entered. 

Polite. 

Calm. 

His dark eyes settled on you immediately, attentive enough that it almost felt rehearsed. 

Jude left without responding. The door shut firmly behind you. 

And suddenly the room felt much smaller. 

“I appreciate you coming,” Thredson said gently. 

That made something tighten—just slightly—in your chest. 

You weren't sure why. 

Slowly, you lowered yourself into the chair across from his desk. 

The cushions sank beneath your weight. 

Too soft. 

The room felt too warm. 

Too quiet. 

Like it was trying very hard not to be Briarcliff. 

Thredson sat down across from you and opened a folder. 

Your folder. 

The sight of it made your stomach twist. 

His eyes flicked briefly over the page before returning to you. 

“How have you been since we last spoke?” 

The question sounded simple. 

You knew better. 

You looked down at your hands. 

“Fine.” 

A lie. 

Not a very good one. 

But he didn't challenge it. Didn't even acknowledge it. 

Maybe he expected that. 

“Observation has been difficult lately.” He folded his hands together atop the desk. 

Your fingers froze. 

Just for a second. 

Then resumed picking lightly at the seam of your gown. 

“You've been watching.” 

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You used to never talk. Now you felt like you had trouble stopping. 

A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. 

“That's part of my job.” 

You weren't sure if that made you feel better or worse. 

Silence settled briefly between you. 

Not necessarily uncomfortable. 

Intentional. 

Like he was waiting to see what you would do with it. 

Eventually, he spoke again. 

“You seem tired.” 

Your shoulders stiffened. It wasn't an accusation. And that somehow made it harder. 

“Most people are.” 

“That's true,” his agreement came easily. No argument. No correction. “Most people aren't worried about getting worse.” 

Your eyes lifted before you could stop them. 

Immediately, you regretted it. 

Because he noticed. Of course he did. 

That too was part of his job. 

Thredson's expression didn't change. 

But something sharpened behind his eyes. 

Interest. 

“You are worried,” he said quietly. 

It wasn’t a question. 

You looked away first. 

The sun was bright against the window, golden rays skimming your skin. 

The radio continued humming a song that you weren’t familiar with. 

You focused on that instead. 

The beat. The rhythm. The melody. 

The rasp of the singer’s voice. 

Anything except the feeling of being understood too quickly. 

After a long moment, you nodded. 

Just once. 

Just slightly. 

Thredson leaned back in his chair. 

Not triumphant. 

But patient. 

As though this tiny admission mattered far more than it should. 

“Tell me why.” 

And there it is. 

The first real door he asks you to open. 

You stared at the thread you’d been picking at. 

For a moment, you thought about lying again. 

Saying you didn't know. 

Saying it wasn't important. 

But he would know. 

"I lose things." 

The words sounded strange once they were out. 

Thredson didn't interrupt. 

"Time." Your fingers twisted together. "Conversations." 

You swallowed. 

"Sometimes memories." 

His expression softened.  

Like he understood. 

Like he wanted to listen. 

Somehow that made it easier. 

"I used to notice when it happened." 

Your voice had gone quieter now. 

"Now sometimes I don't." 

A pause. 

"I forget I've forgotten." 

Your throat burned and stomach twisted up with regret. 

The words were out now. 

Too late to take back. 

You stared at your hands, suddenly wishing you had said nothing at all. 

Wishing you had kept your mouth shut. 

The radio hummed softly in the corner. 

The singer's voice blurred into the background again. 

You focused on the loose thread beneath your thumb instead. 

Anything except looking up. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then: 

"That sounds exhausting." 

Your fingers stopped moving. 

Completely. 

The loose thread slipped from between your fingertips. 

For a second, you forgot about the radio. 

Forgot about the sunlight spilling across the floor. 

Forgot about the file sitting open on his desk. 

The words hit harder than they should have. 

Not because they were kind. 

Because they were true. 

Exhausting. 

You spent so much time trying to stay. 

Trying to remember. 

Trying to notice when pieces went missing. 

Trying to make sure Pepper never had to wonder where you'd gone. 

Trying to be present. 

Trying. 

The effort never stopped. 

Nobody had ever said it out loud before. 

Your throat tightened. 

Slowly, you looked up. 

Thredson didn't look triumphant. 

Didn't look curious. 

If anything, he looked concerned. 

"You shouldn't have to carry that by yourself." 

Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. 

You weren't sure whether to laugh. 

Or leave. 

Or say thank you. 

None of those felt right. 

So you said nothing at all. 

"When did you start noticing it getting worse?" 

You frowned. 

The question sounded simple. 

It wasn't. 

Your fingers found the seam of your gown again. 

When did you start noticing it getting worse? 

The radio hummed softly somewhere behind him. 

You thought about arriving to Briarcliff. 

The common room. 

Observation. 

Arden’s interest. 

The tree. 

Pepper. 

The memories that seemed to be finding their way back more often now. 

None of it felt like the beginning. 

Not really. 

You swallowed. 

"I don't know." 

Thredson waited. 

No interruption. 

No correction. 

Just that same steady patience. 

"I guess..." 

Your brow furrowed. 

"I guess around when Kit came around." 

The words sounded wrong as soon as you said them. 

Not wrong. 

Just incomplete. 

Like there was something important missing from the explanation. 

Thredson remained quiet. 

Listening. 

"Mr. Walker." 

You nodded. 

"He sits with me sometimes." 

Sometimes. 

The understatement almost made you smile. 

"He asks questions." 

Your gaze drifted toward the window. 

The sunlight had shifted again. 

"I remember things more when he asks." 

The admission came before you could stop it. 

Your stomach tightened immediately afterward. 

Thredson's eyes sharpened ever so slightly. 

"Things from before?" 

You nodded. 

"The Freak Show." 

Pepper. 

Jimmy. 

The stage. 

Things you spent years trying not to think about. 

Or couldn't. 

You weren't always sure which. 

Your thumb rubbed against the seam again. 

"Maybe remembering more is making it worse." 

Silence settled. 

Not the uncomfortable kind. 

The kind that made you think too much. 

Then: 

"You spend a great deal of time with Mr. Walker." 

You blinked. 

The observation caught you off guard. 

"A little." 

One corner of Thredson's mouth twitched. 

Not quite a smile. 

"A little." He repeated. 

Heat crept into your face before you understood why. 

You looked away. 

"He talks to me." 

The moment the words left your mouth, you wished they hadn't. 

Because they sounded childish. 

Stupid. 

Like you were trying to justify something. 

Thredson didn't laugh. 

Didn't dismiss it. 

He simply tilted his head slightly. 

"And most people don't?" 

The question was gentle. 

Almost casual. 

Which somehow made it harder to answer. 

Because the truth was embarrassingly simple. 

Most people talked around you. 

About you. 

At you. 

Kit talked to you. With you. 

Your gaze dropped back to your hands. 

The seam of the gown. The loose thread. 

"I don't know." Your voice came out quieter than before. "It feels different." 

The admission settled heavily between you. 

Different. 

Not better. 

Not worse. 

Just... 

Different. 

You struggled to find words for it. 

Most people eventually stopped asking questions when you couldn't answer them. 

Or they answered for you. 

Or they decided whatever was wrong with you was too complicated to bother understanding. 

Kit didn't seem to do that. 

He just... 

Stayed. 

The thought made your heart pound. 

Across from you, Thredson remained silent. 

Listening. 

Waiting. 

You were beginning to suspect that he was very good at it. 

"He remembers things I tell him." 

You frowned slightly. 

Or maybe that wasn't quite right. 

"I mean..." Your fingers twisted together. "He listens." 

The moment the words left your mouth, they felt important somehow. 

You weren't entirely sure why. 

Thredson watched you for a moment. 

Then: 

"Do you think being listened to makes it easier to remember?" 

You blinked. 

The question caught you off guard. 

Your first instinct was to say no. 

Because those things didn't seem related. 

One was memory. 

The other was... 

Something else. 

Your brows knit together. Thinking. 

The radio continued its soft hum from the corner. 

You thought about the tree. 

About circles drawn into the dirt. 

About Kit asking questions and then actually waiting for the answer. 

Even when the answer took a while. 

Even when you forgot what you were saying halfway through. 

Your fingers tightened together. 

"I don't know." 

A pause. 

Then: 

"Maybe." 

The word came out small. 

Uncertain. 

Thredson didn't rush to fill the silence. 

Didn't tell you whether you were right or wrong. 

You found yourself continuing anyway. 

"Most people don't wait." 

Your eyes dropped back to your lap. 

"They decide what I mean before I say it." 

The admission surprised you. 

You weren't sure where it came from. 

Or why you'd said it. 

But once it was out, you couldn't take it back. 

For a moment, the room was quiet. 

Then Thredson nodded once. 

Not dramatically. 

Just enough to show he'd heard you. 

"And Mr. Walker waits." 

Not a question. 

An observation. 

A simple one. 

Yet somehow it felt like he'd noticed something you hadn't. 

"Earlier you said things seemed to get worse around the time Mr. Walker entered your life." 

He adjusted just slightly in his chair. 

"Yet you describe him as someone who helps you stay present." 

You frowned. 

It sounded silly when he said it. 

Contradictory. 

You just hadn't known how to explain it. 

Your fingers found the seam of your gown again. 

"I think..." 

The words stalled. 

You looked down. 

Then tried again. 

"I think I notice it more." 

Thredson remained silent. 

Listening. 

Waiting. 

You hated how much easier his patience made talking. 

You swallowed. 

"Before..." 

Your brow furrowed. 

"Before, I'd lose time and not think about it." 

The radio turned to static. 

"Or I'd realize hours later and just..." 

You shrugged. 

"Keep going." 

There wasn't much else to do. 

You couldn't get the time back. 

You couldn't remember what you forgot. 

So eventually you learned not to dwell on it. 

"Now I notice." 

Your voice had gone quieter. 

You stared at your hands. 

"Because people notice." 

People. 

Not just Kit. 

Pepper. 

Grace. 

Even yourself. 

More than before. 

A long pause followed. 

Then: 

"When I forget something now..." 

Your throat tightened. 

"I... I care." 

The static in the radio seemed to settle rather than fade. 

Thredson didn’t speak immediately. 

His gaze stayed on you—steady, unreadable in a way that didn’t feel unkind. 

Then, carefully: 

“You care.” 

Not a question. 

A reflection. 

Like he was testing the shape of the words in the air between you. 

You hesitated. 

Your fingers tightened in your lap again, like you were only just realizing you’d said something you weren’t supposed to say. 

Thredson didn’t press. 

Instead, he tilted his head slightly. 

“When you say you care…” he continued gently, “what exactly are you afraid of losing?” 

The question landed differently than the others. 

Not broad. 

Not abstract. 

Specific. 

Your throat tightened slightly before you could stop it. 

Because suddenly it wasn’t about memory anymore. 

It wasn’t even about “getting worse.” 

It was about what breaking meant now. 

Thredson’s voice stayed calm. 

Measured. 

“Aside from your time,” he added quietly, “what feels most at risk when you notice these gaps?” 

The room felt still again. 

Not empty. 

Focused. 

Like everything in it had narrowed down to that single point he’d just placed in front of you. 

The question sat between you for a moment. 

He didn’t move to fill the silence. 

Just waited. 

Your throat felt tight again. 

“I don’t know,” you said quietly at first. 

A pause. 

Then, more carefully: 

“I think I just… don’t like not remembering.” 

Your fingers pressed together in your lap. 

“When I can’t tell what happened.” 

You swallowed. 

“It feels wrong.” 

Not dramatic. 

Not emotional in an obvious way. 

Just… unsettled. 

Like something out of place that you can’t quite fix. 

Your gaze stayed down. 

Thredson didn’t respond immediately. 

Instead, he studied you for a moment longer—like he was organizing what you’d said into something usable. 

Then he nodded once. 

Slowly. 

“I see.” 

Not dismissive. 

Not approving. 

Just… noted. 

The word sat quietly in the space between you. 

“You’re not alone in that feeling,” he added after a beat. “Disturbance in continuity can be deeply unsettling.” 

A pause. 

Then, more gently: 

“But it’s also something we can work with.” 

He reached forward slightly, closing your file partway without fully shutting it. 

A subtle end to the focus. 

“For now,” he said, voice easing back into something more procedural, “I think that’s enough for today.” 

Your stomach tightened faintly at the shift. 

Not because he was cold. Because he wasn’t. 

He looked back up at you. 

“And I’d like you to notice something for me before next time.” 

The tone remained calm. Almost casual. 

“Specifically,” he continued, “whether those moments feel more frequent when you’re with certain people.” 

A brief pause. The faintest emphasis on the last word. 

Then: 

“We’ll continue this soon.” 

Not a dismissal. Not a release. A continuation. 

You nodded faintly. 

The words “we’ll continue this soon” lingered longer than they should have. Then you stood. The chair made a soft sound against the floor as you pushed it back. 

Thredson rose as well, professional again in an instant. 

He opened the door for you. 

“Thank you for your time,” he said gently. Not cold. Not distant. Carefully measured. 

You stepped into the hallway. The light outside felt sharper than it had before. Behind you, the door closed softly. Click. And then you were gone. 

Thredson remained standing for a moment after the door shut. The room felt different without her in it. Not empty. Just… less structured. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned back to his desk. The file lay open where it had been the entire session. He didn’t sit immediately. Instead, he picked up his pen. Paused. Then began to write. 

Clinical Notes — Patient ███ 

Subject demonstrates increasing difficulty maintaining temporal continuity. Self-reporting “loss of time,” “missing conversations,” and “inability to track events.” 

A pause. The pen hovered slightly before continuing. 

Strong emotional response when discussing memory disruption. 

Another line. Shorter. More precise. 

Notable attachment indicators present. 

He paused again. Then added: 

Subject associates improvement in recall with interaction involving Patient Kit Walker. 

The pen stopped. For a moment, he simply looked at the line. Then, without changing expression, he underlined it once. Not heavily. Just enough to mark it. 

He set the pen down carefully. And finally sat. His gaze drifted briefly toward the closed door. Then back to the file. 

“Interesting,” he said quietly to himself. 

Not pleased. Not concerned. Just certain it was becoming more coherent. 

The smell of bleach stung your nose the second you had stepped into the hall. The orderly that had been waiting for you said nothing, just began walking. You followed, a careful three steps behind. 

Your shoes scraped the floor with each step. The rhythm made you think about that song again. Whatever one had been playing before the static. It began playing in your head. Rhythm, beat, melody, the raspy voice. 

Noise from the cafeteria disrupted it. Dinner must’ve started while you were gone. It was loud. Trays scraping. Voices echoing. Silverware striking metal plates. Normal Briarcliff noise. 

After the quiet of Thredson's office, it felt almost overwhelming. 

The staff’s faces look more irritated than normal. Or maybe they always looked like that and you just... never noticed. 

You moved through the normal motions that ended with a tray in your hands and you walking towards the table. 

Kit was already there, mindlessly moving the slop on his tray with his fork. 

Looking at him made your heart beat a little faster. 

So, you looked away. 

The empty seat beside him suddenly seemed much farther away than it should have. 

Still, your feet carried you there. Routine. The certainty of it. 

You sat down carefully, setting your tray onto the table. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You picked at the food. The food picked back. 

Across from you, Kit watched. Not openly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough. You could feel it. 

"You're late." His voice was casual. Trying to sound casual. 

You nodded, "Yeah." That was all. No explanation. 

Your fork dragged through the potatoes. Or whatever passed for potatoes. The silence stretched. 

Kit's brow furrowed slightly. Not because you were late. Because normally you would've said something else. An excuse. A story. A shrug. Something. 

Instead, you were staring at your tray like it held all the answers. 

"Everything alright?" 

There it was. The question he'd been trying not to ask. 

It should have been an easy answer. You almost laughed. Because you didn't know. Your fork scraped lightly against the tray. 

Part of you felt lighter. Like something had finally been set down after carrying it for too long. The pressure in your chest wasn't quite as sharp as it had been that morning. The constant buzzing in the back of your mind felt quieter. For now. 

But another part of you felt exposed. Raw. 

Like someone had peeled back a layer you normally kept hidden and left it there for the world to see. 

You kept hearing yourself talk. Hearing the words after they'd already left your mouth. 

I care. 

Your stomach twisted. Not because they weren't true. Because they were. And now someone else knew it. 

You stared down at your tray. The potatoes. The gray meat. The bent spoon. 

Anything but him. Anything but those warm brown eyes that always seemed to notice too much. 

"I think so." The answer came out softer than intended. 

Honest. As honest as you could manage. Because you weren't entirely sure what was wrong in you. Or what was right. 

“I think so.” 

The answer should've reassured him. It didn't. 

Kit watched you push food around your tray. The same way he'd watched you draw circles beneath the tree. Absent-minded. Like part of your attention was somewhere else. 

His brow knit slightly. Maybe nobody else would've noticed. Hell, maybe a few weeks ago he wouldn't have noticed. But he'd gotten used to you. 

The little things. The way your eyes usually wandered around the room when you talked. The way your fingers moved when you were thinking. The pauses before answering questions. 

This felt different. Not really worse. Just... Different. 

You hadn't looked at him once since sitting down. Not really. 

And every time he looked away, he caught his eyes drifting right back. Checking. Making sure you were still there. Still listening. Still present. 

The thought made something uneasy settle in his stomach. 

Across the table, you continued staring at your tray. 

Kit glanced toward the orderlies moving through the cafeteria. Then toward the doors. Then back to you. 

Late. Quiet. Distracted. 

His jaw tightened faintly. 

"Where were you?" The question was gentle. Not accusing. Just worried. And maybe a little more curious than before.  

You finally looked up. Only for a second. 

"Appointment." Then your gaze dropped back to your tray. 

Kit's fork stopped moving. "Yeah?" 

You nodded. The potatoes became fascinating once more. "With Dr. Thredson." 

Kit could’ve guessed that. The doctor from the yard. The one watching. The one Pepper kept talking about. 

"How'd that go?" 

You hesitated. 

The answer should've been easy. 

It wasn't. 

Your head was beginning to hurt. 

That sounds exhausting. 

The words echoed back before you could stop them. 

You rubbed your thumb against the edge of the tray. "He asked questions." 

Kit huffed a quiet laugh. "That's usually what doctors do." 

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Just barely. "Yeah." 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then: 

"He listened," The words slipped out before you could stop them. 

Kit blinked. Then gave a small nod, "That's good." 

You looked up. 

His expression was genuine. No teasing. No skepticism. Just relief. Like that was the answer he'd been hoping for. 

"You seemed pretty nervous before." 

Your fingers paused against the tray. 

"I was." 

"Yeah." Kit nodded slowly.

He could understand that. Hell, he'd been nervous talking to doctors before. Especially in a place like this. 

"Did it help?" 

The question was simple. Honest. And somehow harder to answer than the others. 

You thought about the office. The sunlight. The radio. 

The way Thredson had sat there patiently while you searched for words. 

You thought about how exposed you'd felt. How relieved. How uncomfortable. How understood. All at once. 

"I... think so." The answer came slowly. But it was true. 

Kit's shoulders loosened slightly. Not enough that most people would notice. But enough that you did. 

"Good." 

Just that. Good. 

No questions about what you'd discussed. No digging. No trying to pry information out of you. 

Just relief that you weren't coming back looking frightened. 

The conversation drifted after that. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just enough to fill the space between bites of terrible food. 

The cafeteria remained loud around you. Orderlies shouting. Trays scraping. Someone laughing too loudly from across the room. 

You glanced up. 

Kit was looking at you. 

You could still see remnants of concern etched between his eyebrows. 

But still, he smiled at you. Small. Crooked. 

The kind of smile that seemed to appear before he even realized he was doing it. 

For a second, you just stared. Then the corner of your own mouth lifted. Not much. But enough. 

The concern didn't leave his face, but his eyes softened. 

And something in your chest loosened. 

Maybe Thredson was right. Maybe being listened to helped. Maybe being seen did too. 

Kit cuddles like a person who genuinely believes tenderness can keep bad things away for a little while.

Warm. That’s the first thing about him. Physically warm, emotionally warm, space heater warm.

LOVES domestic affection. Hugging you from behind while cooking, kissing your temple in passing, rubbing circles into your shoulders without thinking about it.

Sleeps best when touching you somehow. Hand on your waist, tangled legs, fingers linked. Doesn’t matter, as long as he can feel you.

He’s very attentive to what comforts you. Notices quickly if you like scalp scratches, back rubs, weighted hugs, etc.

Kit after a long day would absolutely pull you into his lap and just exhale into your shoulder like you’re home base. And really, to him, you are.

Gives the kind of hugs where he squeezes tighter halfway through because he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

Quiet morning cuddles with him feel sacred. Pale sunlight, tangled sheets, sleepy voice still rough around the edges.

Kyle Spencer

Kyle’s entire love language is basically him treating you like you're fragile and precious.

Very hesitant at first. He’d worry about being “too much” or doing something wrong.

Once comfortable though? Constant physical contact.

HUGE cuddler. Like genuinely. Arms around your waist, legs tangled with yours, face buried in your neck.

He likes laying his head on your chest so he can hear your heartbeat. It instantly relaxes him.

Physical affection becomes one of the main ways he communicates emotions he struggles to verbalize.

If you touch or kiss his scars without even thinking about it, you will literally see his eyes light up.

Kyle always falls asleep during cuddles first. Usually with his cheek smushed against you and one hand still holding onto you.

He’d love when you initiate affection because it reassures him you actually want him close.

Jimmy Darling

Jimmy is affectionate in a very wholehearted, overflowing way. Like he spent years being denied softness and now refuses to not give it.

Bear hugs. Constantly.

He kisses with his entire soul behind it. Even casual kisses somehow feel earnest.

Obsessed with having you sit in his lap. Doesn’t matter where you are. Chair? Couch? Edge of the bed? Congratulations, you're now sitting on his lap.

Teases you constantly during affection. “You comfy there, sweetheart?” while he’s the one crushing you against his chest.

He absolutely nuzzles into your neck whenever you're laying down together. Like it's automatic for him.

Tired Jimmy is absurdly soft. Running his hands over your back slowly, pressing sleepy kisses to your shoulder, mumbling half-coherent praise.

If you trace patterns on his hands or arms, he goes very still. That kind of tenderness wrecks him a little.

James Patrick March

James treats physical affection like a decadent art form. Every touch is deliberate. Dramatic. A little dangerous around the edges.

HUGE on hand kissing.

Loves draping you across him while you're lounging.

Surprisingly affectionate in private. Publicly he’s composed and theatrical, but alone? Very touch-oriented.

He adores slowly brushing hair away from your face while maintaining eye contact.

He likes possessive little gestures: hand on your neck, fingers around your wrist, pulling your chin toward him during kisses. Never rushed though. Everything with him unfolds like velvet curtains.

Secretly enjoys when you become affectionate first because it feeds his ego. Like to a catastrophic degree.

He’d absolutely call cuddling “indulgent” while actively refusing to let you leave the bed.

Kai Anderson

Kai is… complicated. Affection with him tends to blur together with control issues, emotional dependency, and genuine vulnerability all fighting one another. But underneath all the chaos? He craves closeness. Desperately.

Initially acts like he doesn’t need affection at all. Then proceeds to hover around you 24/7.

Touch-starved.

Late-night vulnerability hits him hardest. That’s when he gets quieter and more honest, pulling you against him while talking in a low sleepy voice.

LOVES having his hair played with. Instant system shutdown.

He’s clingier than he’ll ever admit. If you’re sitting together, expect him to pull your legs over his lap or hook himself around your waist.

The first time you casually kiss his forehead, he short-circuits.

Physical affection becomes incredibly important to him once attached to someone. Reassurance through touch. Constantly checking you’re still there.

The knock at the door was sharp. No hesitation, no warning. Just three hard raps against the glass pane of Thredson’s office, followed by the door creaking open before he could answer. 

Arden didn’t wait for an invitation. 

He stepped inside, crisp and cold in both demeanor and posture, a file clenched tightly in one gloved hand. 

Oliver looked up from his notes, the faintest smile already curling at his lips. “Arthur. To what do I owe the—?” 

“You altered one of my patient files,” Arden cut in, lifting the folder like evidence in a courtroom. “Without authorization.” 

 Oliver blinked once. Then leaned back in his chair with that practiced calm he wore like a second skin. “If you’re referring to the—” 

 “I am,” Arden snapped, lifting the file slightly. “And while the Church may have welcomed your position here, do not forget—you are not her attending physician. I am.” 

 Oliver gave a small shrug, folding his hands in his lap. “And yet your treatment approach was clearly outdated. She was misdiagnosed. I made a note.” 

 “You rewrote half the damn chart,” Arden hissed. He was still standing—he hadn’t even closed the door behind him—and his voice stayed quiet only out of necessity. “You overruled multiple reports. Adjusted treament orders. And you’re not even trying to hide it.” 

 Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m not ashamed of doing what’s best for her.” 

 That earned a sharp exhale from Arden—something dangerously close to laughter. He stepped forward once, his grip on the file tightening. 

 “You’re overstepping,” he said, voice low and clipped. 

Oliver tilted his head, still calm, but there was a flicker of interest behind his eyes now. “She’s not responding to your methods. You’ve seen it. Catatonia, dissociation, complete withdrawal. What you call treatment, I call stagnation.” 

 Arden’s jaw tightened. “You think you’re the first outsider to walk in here thinking they’ve ‘discovered’ something special? You’re not. You’re just the latest fool trying to play savior.” 

Oliver’s smile returned—thinner this time. Sharper. “Maybe I’m not the first,” he said, voice light. “But I might be the last. Especially if I’m right about her.” 

Arden’s eyes narrowed. “Right about what?” 

Oliver leaned in slightly—not with warmth, but calculation. Like he was offering a diagnosis, not a confidence. “Her mind. The trauma that split it. She’s not schizophrenic. Not possessed. She’s protecting something.” 

A pause. 

“And if I can reach that part of her…” 

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. 

Arden’s voice went cold. “She’s not your experiment, Thredson.” 

Oliver stood, slow and deliberate. Unshaken. “No,” he said. “She’s a person. And that’s something I don’t think you’ve ever quite understood.” 

The silence that followed was brittle. Taut. A single breath would’ve shattered it like glass. 

Arden took a step forward. 

“You seem awfully invested in one patient,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Is this truly about diagnosis—or are you just looking for something else?” 

Oliver’s smile lingered a moment too long before it slipped. Not fully—just enough for the air to shift. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The tick of his jaw beneath calm restraint. 

“Careful,” he said, quieter now. Not a threat. Not exactly. “You’re toeing the line between suspicion and slander.” 

Arden only lifted an eyebrow. “Am I?” 

“She’s not stable,” Oliver continued, regaining his poise. “But she’s not a lost cause either. You write her off like she’s a slab of spoiled meat, but I’ve seen it. She’s responsive when approached correctly.” 

“Responsive,” Arden echoed, voice laced with disdain. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

Oliver’s fingers curled at his side before relaxing. “Her condition is the result of long-term trauma. Not hysteria. Not demonic possession. And certainly not a need for any of the treatments you’ve assigned.” 

Arden tilted his head slightly, watching him now as if dissecting him with his eyes alone. “You’re speaking awfully personally, Oliver.” 

Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—weighted. 

Then Oliver sat back down, smoothing the front of his jacket like settling a mask back into place. “I’m invested in the truth. Nothing more.” 

“Of course,” Arden scoffed, dropping the file onto the desk. “Well. If she ends up in worse condition under your care, I’ll be sure to let the Monsignor know exactly who’s responsible.” 

Arden turned and the door opened with a slow groan, then clicked shut behind him. 

For a moment, the room was silent again. 

Oliver didn’t move. Just stared at the folder on his desk. 

Then—calmly, quietly—he reached out and turned it toward him. 

And opened it again. 

The day crawled on in its usual rhythm—meals, silence, supervision. Patients were moved from room to room like pieces on a board no one was playing to win. Nothing seemed urgent on the surface, but something had shifted beneath it. A cold current threading its way through the halls, silent and slow. 

Oliver returned to his rounds like nothing had happened. Arden disappeared into the east wing, muttering to a nurse about equipment repairs and noncompliant orders. Staff walked a little faster. The air smelled faintly of bleach. 

By the afternoon, the ward had settled into a dull hush. 

The door to his office clicked open. Pepper was led in by a nurse—gently, almost apologetically. Her steps were small, cautious, but her eyes flicked curiously around the room, settling on the man seated behind the desk. 

Oliver stood, smoothing down his tie in a practiced motion. “Pepper, is it?” he said, voice light and professional. “Please, come sit. There’s no need to be nervous.” 

She glanced at the chair, then at him, then slowly moved to sit. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, twitching now and then. 

He retrieved a file from his desk and opened it with deliberate precision. “This is just a simple check-in,” he began. “No poking, no needles. I just want to talk.” 

Pepper didn’t respond. Her eyes were on a spot on the floor now, lips pressed tightly together. 

Quietly, he made a note. 

“Will you speak with me, Pepper?” he asked after a moment. 

Still no answer. 

Oliver leaned back slightly, watching her. The room was quiet enough that the clock ticking on the wall felt invasive. 

Then, with a soft exhale, he closed the file and set it aside. 

“Well,” he said, his tone softening. “You remind me of my little sister. She didn’t like doctors either. Especially ones who ask too many questions.” 

That made her eyes lift—just a little. 

He smiled, gently. “That’s better. See? No tricks here. Just two people talking.” 

Pepper’s eyes hovered on his face now. Still cautious, but present. 

He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the desk, his voice lowering to something gentler. “Do you have any friends here, Pepper?” 

She nodded, a quick, sharp little motion. 

“Who’s your best friend?” he asked, pen poised above his notes but not moving yet. 

Pepper’s face lit up with the smallest smile. “Twirly.” 

Oliver blinked. “Twirly?” 

Pepper nodded again, more certain this time. “She bends. Like this,” She lifted her arms, mimicking an exaggerated arch. “Pretty.” 

“And how long have you known her?” he asked. “Is she someone you met here?” 

Pepper shook her head. “Nuh-uh, with Miss Elsa.” 

He made a small, thoughtful note. 

“You were together before Briarcliff?” 

She hesitated—then gave a slow, sad nod. “It was going all wrong. He took Twirly and she never came back.” 

Oliver paused. Slowly, he looked up at Pepper. “He took her?” 

Her fingers twisted into her gown. “Jimmy was mad. It was the biggest fight they ever had,” she sniffled but didn’t cry. Just blinked hard and kept talking, voice soft and flat, like it had been said too many times in her head already. “After that… everyone knew somethin’ was wrong, but no one but me seemed to care.” 

Oliver tilted his head slightly. This was more than expected. “This man who took her… was it Jimmy?” 

Pepper shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “Dell.” The word came out like a stone dropped in water. Heavy. Certain. “He said he was helping. But he didn’t ask nobody. Just—" She mimed a grabbing motion with her hands. “—poof. Gone.” 

Oliver quickly scribbled something in his notes. “And Jimmy?” he asked, keeping his tone careful, almost gentle. “He fought with Dell?” 

Pepper nodded again. “Yelled so loud the mirrors cracked.” She blinked. “Not really. Just thought they did.” 

Her fingers found a loose thread at her sleeve. “Jimmy said she was family. That Dell didn’t get to decide things.” She wrinkled her nose. “But Dell always thought he could. ‘Cause he’s big and loud and mean.” 

Oliver's pen slowed. 

“Do you think she knew what was happening?” he asked. 

Pepper didn’t answer right away. 

“I think she knew she couldn’t stop it.” 

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. The pen tapped once against the page. “Has ‘Twirly’ always had these episodes?” 

She tilted her head. 

“When it seems like she’s not even in the room,” he clarified, “When she goes away.” 

“When her eyes go quiet,” Pepper corrected softly, nodding. “It started before she joined Miss Elsa. I have to hug her real tight to get her back.” 

Oliver’s lips slowly curled into a smile. “You sound like a good friend.” 

Pepper perked up slightly at that, shoulders straightening. 

He glanced at his notes again. “Do you know what made her that way? Was there something bad that happened?” 

Pepper’s smile faded. She didn’t speak for a while, just shifted in her seat, picking at her thumb. 

He waited—carefully neutral. Then, gently: “You can tell me. It might help her.” 

Pepper’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Twirly didn’t talk ‘bout it much. Only to Jimmy. He used to say the world was unfair to her before she was even a freak.” 

“Did she like Jimmy?” 

She nodded. 

He didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he softened further. “And how do you think she feels about you?” 

Pepper blinked at him, confused. 

He gently cleared his throat, “I mean—if she were here, sitting where you are—what would she say about you?” 

Pepper smiled again. Brighter this time. “She loves me. Always.” 

That was enough for now. 

Oliver made another note, then folded his hands on the desk. “Thank you, Pepper. You’ve helped me understand a lot today.” 

She looked pleased. 

But as the nurse arrived to lead her out, she glanced back once at him. The kind smile he wore hadn’t changed. 

Still, something lingered in her eyes. Not fear—not yet. But the smallest trace of doubt. 

Oliver waited until the door clicked softly shut behind Pepper before turning back to his desk. The kind smile he’d worn dissolved at once, his jaw loosening, shoulders settling into a posture that was colder, truer. The performance was over. 

He uncapped his pen with a slow, deliberate motion and pulled the notepad closer. His handwriting was precise—tight, controlled, almost elegant in its austerity. 

Subject: “Pepper” (Evaluation re: Patient ███)  — Displays strong emotional attachment to Subject ███.  — Repeated use of nickname “Twirly” history predates institutionalization.  — Confirms shared time in traveling performance group—“Miss Elsa” & “Freaks” (note: find official name from archives).  — Cognitive assessment inconsistent. Childlike, but responses imply greater awareness than previously documented.  — Protective instincts notable. Could be exploited for leverage.  — Appears unaware of deeper triggers in Subject ███’s condition. No direct reference to trauma mentioned, though implied.  — When prompted about dissociation episodes, described as “when her eyes go quiet.” Language imprecise, but emotionally resonant. 

He paused, tapping his pen once, twice, against the margin. 

Conclusion: While limited in clinical vocabulary, Pepper’s insights are emotionally reliable. Relationship with Subject ███ is exploitable. Use with caution—risk of emotional retaliation from ███ if perceived threat to Pepper arises. Further observation necessary. Consider introduction of mild stressor to evaluate protective response. 

He closed the folder with a soft snap and leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The mask of gentleness no longer weighed on him; in the quiet, his voice was almost affectionate.  “She’ll come to me,” he murmured, savoring the words. “They always do, eventually.” 

Leaning forward again, Oliver clicked his pen. At the upper corner of the page, he pressed the tip to paper and, with a little too much pressure, scrawled a single word. The ink dug deep into the fibers of the page, black and final.

Jimmy. 

Heat from large stage lights bathed your skin. Sequins scratched against your arms. The audiences’ bated breath filled the tent. Then, the music started. Quiet and soft at first. A mix of elegance and haunt. 

Your arms pulled up, fabric stretching around your shoulders. One leg stretched out, your foot dragging against the stage. Your muscles flexed and stretched until they were burning as your body twisted and folded. 

People oo’d and aw’d. Some leered at you while others cringed and grimaced. 

But you didn’t see them. Didn’t hear them. You only heard the beating of your heart and each breath you took. 

The tent blurred at the edges. Lights streaked and warped. The gasps of the crowd warped into something like waves crashing against your skull. You folded yourself tighter, bone against bone, skin biting skin, until the ache in your body was the only tether left. 

And then— 

The tent was gone. 

A flicker. A blink. The world snapped cold and sterile. Linoleum under your cheek. The hum of fluorescent lights. A faint cough from somewhere across the room. 

You weren’t on the stage anymore. You were in Observation. 

And your body was wrong—twisted, folded, bent tight against itself. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. You never moved during observation, you’d been practicing since Pepper came back into your life. 

Were you getting worse? Taking steps back? Why? How could you ever protect her if— 

A voice cut in, sharp and impatient. 

You flinched, looking up too fast. An orderly stood in the doorway, annoyance etched across his face. You hadn’t heard the door open. Had he been standing there? You weren’t even sure what was said. 

You shook it off. You were good at that. 

Slowly, you stood, careful with your aching joints and protesting muscles. 

The orderly didn’t speak or look at you again. Simply turned and began walking. You followed, a careful three paces behind. Your feet dragged against the floor creating a sound that was pricking at your ears. 

He stopped at your room and pushed the door open with a shove of his shoulder. The hinges gave a groan that seemed to stretch long after he’d let go. You stepped inside. The door shut. 

Click. 

The lock slid into place. Too sharp. Too final. 

The fluorescent light hummed overhead, constant and thin, like a wire tightening against bone. You tried not to listen, but it crawled deeper the longer it went on. Somewhere down the hall a tray clattered—metal on tile, then voices, a laugh, a muffled curse. It all pressed through the walls. 

Your breath caught. Too loud. You pressed your lips together, tried to breathe quieter, but the sound only grew inside your head. Your pulse joined it, thick and pounding, crowding out the space behind your eyes. 

The hum, the slam, the laugh, the click of the door replaying in your skull. 

You pressed your hands over your ears. The hum grew sharper. You let go. Now the hallway voices pressed closer. No escape. Every sound louder than the last. 

You closed your eyes, but the noises came with you. 

You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled in tight. The wool of your gown scratched against your skin. Another sound. Another thing you couldn’t turn off. 

You pressed your feet flat to the floor. 

Cold. Solid. Real. 

You focused on it, counted your breaths the way you’d taught yourself to do. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow. Careful. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

The hum of the light didn’t fade. 

You tried again. Named the room instead. Walls. Bed. Door. Sink. Cross. You traced each thing with your eyes, forcing your gaze to linger, to stick. 

Your hands trembled in your lap. 

They weren’t resting the way you’d left them. Your fingers had curled inward, wrists angled wrong, pulled too close to your chest. You stared at them, willing them to relax. 

Move, you told them. 

Just straighten. Just be still. 

They didn’t. 

A tight, ugly fear settled in your stomach. Not for yourself, that part came later, if at all, but for Pepper. For the way she leaned into you. For how she looked for you in every room. 

You can’t slip, you thought. Not like this. If you fall into it once, it’ll never end. You can’t. 

You forced your hands flat against the floor. The tile was cold enough to sting. You held them there, palms burning, until the shaking slowed. 

Your breathing never quite steadied. 

The sounds stayed too loud. The light stayed too bright. Time stretched thin and strange, pulling at you. 

You stayed there like that until the noise dulled into something far away. Until you could stand again without swaying. 

It wasn’t perfect. Or good. But it was better. It was passable. 

Kit woke before the bell. 

That wasn’t unusual. Briarcliff had a way of training your body to stay half-alert, even in sleep. He lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the building breathe — pipes knocking, someone coughing down the hall, the distant squeal of a cart being pushed too early. 

When the bell finally shrieked, he was already sitting up. 

Breakfast came and went the same way it always did. Lines. Trays. Noise that bounced off the walls until it felt like it lived in your skull. Kit scanned the room out of habit, eyes catching on the usual landmarks. 

Pepper first. 

She was across the room at her usual table, legs swinging under her chair, completely absorbed in her food. She looked fine. Happy, even. 

Then her. 

She was already seated where she always sat, head down, shoulders drawn in just a little tighter than usual. 

Kit slowed a step. 

Something was off. Not big. Not obvious. Just… wrong in the way you noticed when a familiar sound changed pitch. 

She didn’t look up when he approached. 

“You okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low. 

She nodded, quick and sharp, like she wanted the question gone more than she wanted to answer it. 

Kit didn’t sit right away. 

She was off. Not distant or gone, but tight. Tense. Like when someone touches you with frozen hands. Her fingers were curled under the edge of the table, knuckles pale. 

“Sleep alright?” 

She hummed. Quiet and clipped. 

Kit sat, but his attention stayed on her. He watched the way she moved—careful, measured. Like she was afraid of doing the wrong thing by accident. Like her body didn’t quite trust itself. 

He’d seen the drifting. That blank, faraway look. This wasn’t that. But he couldn’t place what it was. 

Across the room, Pepper laughed suddenly at something no one else seemed to notice, the sound carrying sharp and bright over the dull hum of the hall. 

Her head lifted just a fraction at that. Not much. Just enough to check. 

Kit followed her gaze. Pepper was still smiling, a half-eaten piece of toast clutched in her hands. 

When he looked back, her eyes had already dropped to the table again. 

Like that was all she needed. Just to make sure. 

Kit felt something twist low in his chest. 

She didn’t notice him watching. Or maybe she did and didn’t know what to do with it. Or didn’t care. Or maybe she was growing used to it. Either way, it left him sitting there with the quiet certainty that whatever was happening in her head wasn’t good. 

And whatever it was, she wasn’t going to say it out loud. 

Not yet. 

Everything that came after breakfast was blurry. Every time Kit thought he’d get to see someone he actually knew, they just... weren’t there. Something felt so odd about today. More so than normal. 

The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and wet wool. Same as always. Same choking mix that settled in the back of Kit’s throat no matter how long he stayed in this place. 

Orderlies shuffled patients in every direction. Shoes scraped tile. Someone farther down the hall muttered prayers under their breath. 

Kit didn’t want to admit it, but he was starting to think God didn’t answer prayers. 

A woman laughed suddenly somewhere nearby — sharp, cracked, wrong. Another patient started crying almost immediately after, the sounds overlapping until Kit couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. 

Briarcliff had a way of making every noise feel trapped. 

“Mr. Walker.” 

Kit glanced up. 

Sister Mary Eunice stood near the end of the corridor, hands folded neatly in front of her habit. Her smile appeared quickly, almost automatically, though it never quite settled right on her face. 

“Outside time,” she said gently. “This way.” 

Kit pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and followed without arguing. Sister Mary Eunice wasn’t cruel the way some of the others were. Nervous, maybe. Too eager to please. But not cruel. 

At least not yet. 

The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the tile as she led the small group forward. She hummed under her breath — something low and church-like Kit didn’t recognize. 

They passed the day room. 

She wasn’t there. 

Neither was Grace. 

That strange feeling in his chest tightened another notch. 

Sister Mary Eunice unlocked the back door and pushed it open. Cold air rushed inside immediately, crisp and damp and real enough to make Kit breathe deeper without meaning to. 

His eyes scanned the dying grass. 

The cold air bit at his bruised cheek. Damp grass bent beneath wandering feet, patients drifting in slow circles beneath the gray afternoon sky. A few sat on benches near the fence. Others smoked silently under the watch of the orderlies. 

Then he saw her. 

Beneath the tree. 

Same spot as always. Finger drawing shapes into the dirt. 

Something in his chest loosened a little at the sight of her sitting there, knees drawn up slightly, shoulders tucked in against the breeze. She looked small from this far away. Still. Too still. 

Kit started toward her without thinking much about it. 

Halfway across the yard, movement near the staff steps caught his attention. 

A man stood near the doorway in a dark coat, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other held a clipboard loosely against his side. A doctor, probably. Briarcliff had plenty of them wandering around pretending they were doing something useful. 

Kit recognized him vaguely. Probably one of those psychiatrists he was meant to have an appointment with. He’d seen him in the halls once or twice. Quiet type. Clean-cut. Didn’t carry himself like Arden did. Less swagger. More watching.  

And he was watching now. 

Not the yard. 

Her. 

Kit slowed almost without realizing it. 

The doctor’s attention lingered too long to be casual. His expression didn’t give much away—calm, thoughtful maybe—but his eyes rarely left the tree. 

Or the girl sitting beneath it. 

For a second, something uneasy crawled up the back of Kit’s neck. 

Then a patient nearby started shouting about snakes in the grass, breaking the moment apart. An orderly barked back. The doctor glanced away briefly, attention shifting toward the commotion like nothing had happened at all. 

Kit frowned faintly. 

Maybe he was imagining things. 

Wouldn’t be the first time this place got under his skin. 

He kept walking. 

She hadn’t changed much since breakfast. Her hands rested near her lap, fingers flexing faintly against the fabric of her gown like she didn’t realize she was doing it. Her gaze fixed somewhere near the roots of the tree. 

Not gone. 

But close. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, you shifted slightly to make room for him, though there was already plenty of space beneath the tree. 

You were used to it now. Sometime after getting outside, after you’d already begun tracing shapes into the dirt, you’d hear his heavy footsteps approaching. Usually wait for him say something just to make sure it was him. But today you just wanted him to be sitting beside you already. It was comforting. The routine, him, the certainty of it. 

He sat beside you with a quiet groan, stretching one leg out into the grass. For a while, neither of you spoke. The yard buzzed softly around you—distant chatter, the squeak of the back gate, wind dragging dead leaves across the ground. 

Closer now, Kit could see the exhaustion sitting under your skin. The faint stiffness in your posture. Briarcliff made everyone tense, still; this was different. He had hoped you just hadn’t slept well, but really, he knew better. 

“You been out here long?” he asked. 

You shrugged. “I think so.” 

Think. 

Not know. 

Kit noticed that too. 

He leaned back against the trunk, staring out toward the fence line. “Used to hate sittin’ still,” he admitted after a minute. “Back home, if I stayed in one place too long, my mama’d find somethin’ for me to fix.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the tugging at your lips. You glanced his way, those brown eyes looking back at you. 

“Anything with parts.” He huffed a quiet laugh, like he knew what you were thinking without you asking. “Tractors mostly. Radios sometimes if I got lucky enough to get my hands on one.” His gaze averted to the ground as his own index finger joined yours in the dirt. “Wasn’t always good at it.” 

A beat of silence. “But you liked it.” 

“Yeah.” His voice softened some. “Liked figuring out how things worked. Felt good when you could take somethin’ busted apart and put it back together.” 

The words settled quietly between you. Something about them made your chest ache. The normalcy. Imagining what his life was like before he got here made it ache. 

Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and kept going anyway. 

“Had a friend who used to get mad at me,” he continued. “Said I’d spend hours messing with junk nobody cared about.” 

Your fingers stilled as you looked up at him. “Did it bother you?” 

“Nah.” He moved his hand from the ground to pick a lose thread at his knee. “Guess I always figured if somethin’ was broken, that didn’t mean you gotta throw it away.” 

Your gaze dropped after that. 

To your hands. To the dirt. To the roots twisting beneath the tree. 

Kit watched your expression shift—subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t catch it. But he was learning your silences. Learning you. 

His voice grew quieter. 

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s somethin’ you liked before all this.” 

You were still for a long moment. 

Then, your fingers began drawing circles again. “I used to climb trees.” 

“Yeah...”  Kit’s face softened. “Yeah, I remember you tellin’ me that before.” 

“Oh,” You stopped again, looking up from your hand, though not at him. You searched your mind for the conversation and found only static.  

How many moments had vanished without you even realizing they mattered? How many conversations were you in that you couldn’t even think of? 

“What about somethin’ from the Freakshow?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

You looked at him for a beat, your eyes settling on his small, but encouraging smile. 

“I liked when Pepper would laugh.” You murmured, looking down at the partially draw shape that your hand still hovered over. 

Kit smiled a little at that. “I think you still like that.” 

“Yeah, but...” The corners of your lips turned up. “She snorted. Every time. Like... like a...” You trailed off, the old sound replaying in your head. Then, you mimicked it. 

The sound surprised him enough that he laughed. Not as controlled as usual. Not loud enough to be at you. That made you laugh, too.  

Kit noticed the tension leave your shoulders for the first time all day. 

The sound faded slowly between you. 

Not awkward. Not empty either. Just quiet again. 

But lighter now. 

Kit glanced over at you, still catching traces of that rare smile lingering at the corners of your mouth. It looked strange on you—not wrong. Just unfamiliar, like something that hadn’t been used in a long time. 

He liked it. 

Happy always sounded like something you hadn’t been in a long time. And now? Every once in a while he got proof that he was bringing some of that back. 

Across the yard, an orderly shouted for a few names to line up near the doors. 

The moment cracked apart immediately. 

Patients began shuffling across the grass, some muttering complaints under their breath while others moved automatically at the first command. Somewhere near the fence, a woman started arguing loudly with a nurse about staying outside another five minutes. 

You were already pulling your hands back from the dirt. 

Kit noticed how quickly you folded back into yourself once the shouting started. Your shoulders tightened again. Your gaze dropped. Like whatever brief softness had surfaced beneath the tree was something fragile enough to hide the second the world came rushing back in. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly. 

A pause. 

Then a small nod. 

You stood carefully, brushing loose dirt from your palms against the thin fabric of your gown. Your joints still looked stiff when you moved. Kit frowned faintly, but stood too. 

Neither of you said much as you started toward the building together. 

Dead leaves crunched beneath your shoes. The closer you got to the doors, the louder Briarcliff seemed to become again—the clang of metal, raised voices from somewhere deeper inside, the low mechanical hum that never fully stopped. 

You slowed once near the steps. 

Kit looked over at you instinctively, slowing to a stop. 

For a second, it almost seemed like you wanted to say something. 

But whatever it was stayed caught somewhere behind your teeth. 

Instead, he asked, “See you at dinner?” 

Your eyes flicked up to his. 

Then you gave a small nod. “Yeah.” 

Simple as that. 

An orderly pushed the door open, and the warmth of the building spilled out carrying the familiar smell of bleach and damp wool. 

You hesitated only a second before stepping inside. 

Kit lingered near the steps after the door shut behind you, staring at the spot where you disappeared. 

“Well.” 

Grace’s voice cut in from behind him. 

Kit looked over his shoulder sharply, almost guilty, though he couldn’t have said why. 

She was leaning against the brick wall near the side steps, arms crossed tight against the cold. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers, though she wasn’t really smoking it anymore. Just letting it burn. 

Grace tilted her head slightly toward the closed door. “You gonna keep starin’ at it,” she asked, “should I get you a chair?” 

Kit rolled his eyes faintly, looking away. “Shut up.” 

That only made the corner of her mouth twitch. 

Interesting. 

Not angry. 

Amused. 

Grace pushed off the wall slowly and stepped closer. “Didn’t know Briarcliff romance was part of your grand escape plan.” 

“Ain’t like that.” 

“Mmhm.” 

Kit shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tightening slightly. “You got somethin’ you actually wanna say?” 

Grace studied him for a second too long before answering. 

“You look for her first now.” 

That landed harder than he expected. 

His expression shifted just enough to confirm it. 

Grace noticed. 

Of course she did. 

“Forgot about Alma already?” she asked finally. Not cruel exactly. But not soft either. 

Kit’s face hardened immediately. 

Grace sighed through her nose, rubbing the cigarette out against the brick beside her. “Relax, I’m not accusing you of anything.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the yard. “I just think you’re getting attached.” 

“She needs somebody lookin’ out for her.” 

Grace gave him a long look. “That what this is?” 

Kit opened his mouth. 

Stopped. 

Because the truth was, he didn’t entirely know anymore. 

Grace saw that too. 

And suddenly some of the teasing faded from her expression, replaced by something more complicated. Not jealousy. Concern maybe. Frustration. 

“You keep doing this,” she muttered. 

“Doin’ what?” 

“Trying to save people.” She folded her arms again. “That eats people alive, Kit. And the second you start thinking you can carry everybody out with you…” She shook her head faintly. “That’s when it gets dangerous.” 

Kit looked back toward the doors. 

“She ain’t dangerous.” 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” 

The cold wind kicked up between them for a moment, dragging brittle leaves across the yard. 

Grace’s voice softened just slightly after that. 

“I’m not saying don’t care about her.” She glanced toward the building too. “God knows somebody should.” 

Then her eyes settled back on him. 

“I’m saying Briarcliff notices things.” 

That made him look at her again. 

But he didn’t respond. Couldn’t. And this was not the conversation he wanted to have. 

“When’d you get out here anyways?” Kit crossed his arms over his chest. “Normally have to wait another few minutes for you.” 

“Came from ‘round front,” Grace said like it was nothing. “And you’re changin’ the subject.” 

Kit exhaled through his nose. 

Grace tilted her head slightly, studying him again. “You know I’m right.” 

“She’s had a rough couple days.” 

“So’s everybody in here.” 

“That ain’t the same.” 

Grace’s eyes narrowed just slightly at that. Then she looked back toward the building doors. 

“You keep doing this thing where you start collecting people.” 

Kit frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means first it was Pepper.” She ticked it off with her fingers. “Then her. Couple days ago you tried convincing me Shelley should come too.” 

Kit shrugged faintly. “Thought she’d be helpful.” 

Grace barked out a short laugh. “Helpful?” 

“She knows the building better than most people in here.” 

“Yeah, and she’s fucked every orderly in it.” 

“She ain’t wrong about everything.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

Kit’s jaw tightened again. 

Grace stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “You can’t bring everybody when we leave.” 

“I ain’t tryin’ to.” 

“Aren’t you?” 

The question sat between them. 

Kit looked back toward the doors again without meaning to. “What’s wrong with not wanting people left behind?” 

She looked away, toward the fence line. 

“What’s wrong,” she muttered, “is people panic.” 

Kit stayed quiet. 

“They get scared, hesitate, double back.” Her jaw tightened faintly. “They make stupid decisions and the more people around, the more likely that’ll happen.” 

He chewed the inside of his lip. 

“That happen to you before?” 

Grace scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s got a story like that.” 

“Where is she?” 

Jimmy’s voice cut through the midway sharp enough to turn heads. 

Behind him, people were beginning to notice the shouting. A few performers lingered near the tents, uncertain. The twins stood half-hidden near the curtain entrance whispering to each other. Elsa remained farther back beneath the tent lights, tense and watchful but unmoving. 

Dell slammed the car door shut harder than necessary. 

“For Christ’s sake, Jimmy, lower your voice.” 

“Where is she?” 

Dell exhaled heavily through his nose like the question itself exhausted him. “She’s in the car.” 

Jimmy froze. 

Then immediately shoved past him toward the backseat. 

The inside of the car was dim, lit only by weak yellow midway lights. You sat curled against the door, shoulders folded inward too tightly, one hand limp in your lap. 

Your eyes were open. 

But far away. 

Wrong. 

Jimmy’s stomach dropped. 

He reached for the handle immediately. 

Locked. 

The sharp rattle of it made his expression twist. He yanked harder, like force alone might undo it. “Open the damn door.” 

Behind him, Dell didn’t move. “She’s fine.” 

“The hell she is.” Jimmy hit the window once with the flat of his palm before crouching lower, trying to catch your eyes through the glass. “Hey.” 

His voice changed instantly. Softer now. Frightened. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

Your gaze shifted faintly toward him at the sound, delayed and unfocused. 

Behind him, footsteps approached quickly through the gravel. 

Paul. 

He stopped beside the open car door, his expression tightening the moment he saw you. 

“She’s dissociating,” he said sharply. 

Dell rolled his eyes. “She had another episode. That’s all.” 

Paul ignored him completely, keeping his attention on you instead. “How long’s she been like this?” 

“Long enough,” Dell muttered. 

Jimmy looked ready to tear him apart. 

“She doesn’t even know where she is right now.” 

“That’s exactly the problem,” Dell snapped back. “Customers are staring every damn night. Pepper gets upset, the audience gets nervous, and suddenly nobody remembers why they paid to come here in the first place.” 

Paul’s jaw hardened. 

“So your solution was what? Throw her in a car while she can barely respond?” 

Dell stepped forward defensively. “She needs real help.” 

“She needs somebody not taking advantage of an episode,” Paul shot back. 

That drew more attention. 

Murmurs spread quietly through the troupe now. Uneasy. Fractured. 

Inside the car, your fingers twitched weakly against your dress at the rising voices. 

Jimmy noticed immediately. He tried wrenching open the door again, as if he thought he could get in with just his hands. 

Dell scoffed. “You can’t help her, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy turned on him so fast the tension in the air snapped tight. 

“You don’t know a damn thing about her.” 

Dell folded his arms. “I know she’s getting worse.” 

The words hung ugly in the night air. 

Paul glanced toward Elsa briefly, like he expected her to step in. 

She didn’t. 

Nobody did. 

Because nobody knew how anymore. 

Everything had already been splintering for weeks—arguments, disappearing money, bad crowds, people turning on each other in quiet little ways that grew louder every day. 

This was just another crack. 

Only this time, you were trapped inside it. 

Jimmy pressed his hands against the window now, trying to catch your gaze again. 

“Sweetheart.” Softer. Careful. “Look at me.” 

For one terrible second, it almost worked. 

Recognition flickered faintly across your face. 

Then Dell slammed his hand against the roof of the car. 

The bang split the midway. 

You flinched violently, folding tighter into yourself. 

Gone. 

Jimmy snapped. 

He grabbed Dell by the front of his shirt, slamming him backward against the car. 

“You did that on purpose.” 

“Get off me.” 

“You knew she was slipping!” 

“She was already gone!” Dell barked back. “That’s the goddamn problem!” 

The observation room door groaned open. 

The sound hit first. 

Then the light. 

Harsh fluorescent white spilled across your vision as your body jerked hard enough to make your shoulder ache. For one disoriented second, you still expected to hear shouting. Gravel beneath tires. Jimmy’s voice. 

Instead there was only Briarcliff. 

Buzzing lights. 

Shuffling shoes. 

The smell of bleach. 

Your breathing came unevenly as you blinked against the room. Your cheeks felt cold. Damp. A stray tear falling onto your hand. 

An orderly stood in the doorway waiting impatiently. 

“You done?” he muttered. 

You looked down. 

Your body had folded strangely against itself sometime during observation—one arm twisted tight against your stomach, fingers stiff from being curled too long. Pain crackled through your joints as you slowly forced yourself upright. 

The orderly sighed loudly while you struggled. 

Once you stepped outside and turned the corner, you saw him. 

Dr. Thredson, clipboard in hand. 

He offered a small smile when your eyes found him. Not warm. Not cruel either. 

Interested. 

Like he’d just seen something worth remembering. 

“Rough afternoon?” he asked gently. 

The question made heat crawl beneath your skin. 

Because he said it so casually. 

Like he hadn’t seen everything. 

The orderly muttered something under his breath and continued down the hall before you could process it. 

You stayed near the doorway a moment longer, arms tight around yourself. 

The world still felt slightly tilted. 

Observation always left you strange afterward, but this time felt worse. Your skin buzzed. Your thoughts wouldn’t settle properly. Fragments of memory still clung like cobwebs behind your eyes. 

Jimmy yelling. 

The slam of a hand against metal. 

That awful feeling of disappearing while someone begged you not to. 

“You’re shaking.” 

Dr. Thredson’s voice pulled you back hard enough to make your stomach twist. 

You hadn’t realized he’d stepped closer. 

Not too close. 

But closer. 

“I’m fine,” you said automatically. 

A lie built from habit. 

His eyes flicked briefly toward your hands before returning to your face. “I didn’t say you weren’t.” 

That caught you off guard. 

Most people at Briarcliff decided things for you before you spoke. 

Crazy. 

Violent. 

Unwell. 

Gone. 

But he said it differently. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do. 

It unsettled you more than yelling would have. 

“You were in observation a long time today,” he said. 

You shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t remember most of it.” 

The admission slipped out before you could stop it. 

Immediately, regret curled in your stomach. 

But Thredson only nodded once, thoughtful rather than surprised. 

“That happens often?” 

Your jaw tightened. 

There it was. 

The real question. 

Not concern. 

Curiosity. 

You knew that look. 

Performers learned early when people were looking at them versus studying them. 

Still— 

He hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t cornered you. Hadn’t spoken to you like you were stupid. 

That alone made the conversation harder to leave. 

“I’m tired,” you murmured instead. 

Something unreadable flickered briefly across his face before smoothing away again. 

“Of course you are.” 

Gentle. 

Too gentle for Briarcliff. 

He stepped aside then, giving you room to pass down the hallway. 

You moved past him carefully, arms still tight around yourself. 

Then: 

“Miss Reverie.” 

You winced at the name. 

“I’ll be seeing you again soon,” Thredson said. 

His tone remained calm. Professional. Like discussing the weather. 

Still, something about it made your shoulders tense. 

You gave a small nod without looking back. 

The fluorescent lights above Family Video buzzed like trapped insects.

One of them flickered every few seconds, briefly washing the aisles in a stuttering pulse of dim yellow before snapping back to life again. It made everything feel unreal. Like the store existed somewhere outside of Hawkins entirely, tucked between late fees and dusty VHS tapes.

The front doors were locked.

Steve had gone home nearly an hour ago after complaining dramatically about “child labor” when Dustin asked him to help move something. Max and Dustin had left with him.

Supposedly.

Robin stood behind the counter with her arms folded tight across her chest.

“You pulled away again.”

You sighed instantly, exhaustion dragging through your bones. “Robin…”

“No, seriously,” she said, voice sharper than usual. “What was I supposed to do there? Pretend I wasn’t talking to my own partner because Henderson walked into the room?”

You glanced toward the dark front windows instinctively, as if someone might be standing outside listening.

“That’s not fair.”

Robin laughed once. Nervous. Bitter. Wrong.

“Not fair?” she echoed. “You think I like pretending you’re just my friend all the time?”

The words landed hard between the shelves.

Usually, Robin covered fear with jokes. Endless spiraling jokes. Words stacked on words until nobody noticed her shaking underneath them.

Not tonight.

Tonight her voice cracked around the edges.

You lowered yours immediately. “Keep it down.”

“There it is,” Robin muttered, throwing her hands into the air. “That. Every single time.”

“Because this is Hawkins, Robin.”

“And?”

“And people here talk!”

You hated how panicked you sounded.

Robin’s expression flickered.

Not anger anymore.

Hurt.

Deep, bruised hurt.

“We fought monsters together,” she said quietly. “Interdimensional nightmare monsters. But holding my hand in public is where you draw the line?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because the answer sat ugly and heavy in your throat.

Fear.

Fear of the wrong person seeing.

Fear of whispers.

Fear of your family finding out.

Fear of becoming one more thing Hawkins decided was wrong.

Robin looked away first, jaw tight.

“You know what sucks?” she said softly. “I’m actually starting to forget what it feels like to just…” She gestured helplessly between the two of you. “Be normal with you.”

Something in your chest twisted painfully.

“Robin…”

“No, because I get it, okay? I do.” Her voice shook now despite her obvious attempts to steady it. “I know why you’re scared. I’m scared too.”

That hurt even worse.

Because Robin admitting fear felt rare. Like seeing the wiring underneath a neon sign.

Before you could respond, a sneaker squeaked somewhere near the front entrance.

All the air left your lungs.

Robin froze.

Slowly, horribly slowly, both of you turned toward the sound.

Dustin stood near the new release rack holding a forgotten backpack in one hand.

Max stood beside him.

Neither of them looked like they knew what to do with their faces.

The silence that followed felt catastrophic.

Robin went pale instantly.

You felt your stomach drop so hard it was almost physical pain.

Dustin lifted both hands immediately. “Okay,” he blurted. “We were not spying. For the record. This was accidental espionage.”

Max elbowed him hard.

“Ow.”

Nobody spoke.

You could practically hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

Robin took a small step backward like instinct was already telling her to run.

“This…” you started, voice thin. “You can’t…”

You didn’t even know how to finish the sentence.

Look at us differently.

Tell anyone.

Ruin this.

Dustin’s expression shifted abruptly.

The panic on your face must have finally registered because his own faded into something more stunned than awkward.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You guys thought we’d tell people?”

Neither you nor Robin answered.

And that was answer enough.

Max’s face softened immediately.

Not pity.

Understanding.

“You’re scared,” she said quietly.

Robin gave a brittle laugh. “Congratulations, Mayfield. Gold star observational skills.”

“Robin,” you warned gently.

“No, it’s fine,” Robin said quickly, though she sounded seconds away from completely unraveling. “This is great actually. Fantastic. Super fun development. Love surprise audiences.”

Dustin frowned.

“Why would we care?”

You stared at him.

It almost made things worse somehow.

Not because he was being cruel.

Because he wasn’t.

Because for them, acceptance came easy in a way the world had never allowed for you or Robin.

“You don’t get it,” you said quietly.

Max did, though.

You could tell immediately.

Maybe because she knew what it felt like to be watched all the time in Hawkins. Judged. Boxed in. Forced into survival mode.

Her voice stayed careful when she spoke again.

“My mom talks about people sometimes,” she admitted. “People in town.” She glanced toward Robin briefly. “I know how they are.”

Robin looked down at the floor.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead again.

Dustin looked between the three of you, realization dawning slowly and painfully across his face.

“Oh,” he said.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then Dustin straightened abruptly, clutching his backpack strap tighter.

“Well,” he declared with surprising firmness, “they suck.”

Robin blinked.

“What?”

“Hawkins,” Dustin clarified. “The people. Not you guys.” He grimaced. “Obviously.”

A startled sound escaped Robin before she could stop it. Half laugh, half something dangerously close to crying.

Dustin kept going now that he’d started.

“I mean seriously, after everything we’ve seen? Monsters, government conspiracies, alternate dimensions, Vecna looking like a burnt hotdog person…” He waved a hand vaguely. “This barely even cracks the top ten weird things in my life.”

Max snorted quietly.

Robin pressed the heel of her palm hard against one eye.

You realized suddenly that her shoulders were shaking.

Not with fear anymore.

Relief.

Small. Fragile. But real.

Max stepped closer first.

“We’re not telling anyone,” she said simply.

Dustin nodded immediately. “Absolutely not.”

The sincerity in his voice hit like a tidal wave.

Because they meant it. No hesitation. No disgust. No judgment.

Just certainty.

Robin finally looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

Eyes bright and exhausted and painfully open.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then, carefully, like approaching a frightened animal, you reached for her hand.

Robin inhaled sharply the moment your fingers linked together.

No hiding. No pretending. No jerking away.

Just warmth.

Dustin immediately looked anywhere else.

“Wow,” he announced loudly to the ceiling. “The ceiling sure is… extremely ceiling today.”

Max rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible.

But she smiled a little too.

The world smelled like burned metal and wet earth.

Nancy was still shouting something from deeper in the tunnel system, her flashlight beam jerking wildly across the walls, but you barely heard her over the rushing in your ears.

Robin had disappeared.

One second she’d been there beside Steve, arguing breathlessly about left or right, and the next the ground beneath her had split open with a horrible shriek. Vines snapped around her ankle and yanked.

“ROBIN!”

Her scream cut off sharply.

You moved before you even thought about it.

Steve caught your arm. “Hey, hey, wait!”

“She’s down there!”

“No kidding!” he snapped, already trying to pull a vine loose from the wall. “We’re getting her back!”

The seconds stretched into centuries.

Dustin and Erica were shouting over each other. Nancy hacked at the vines with her knife. Somewhere nearby, the Upside Down groaned like a living thing waking up.

Then suddenly:

“Okay! Okay, Jesus Christ, I’m coming up!”

Robin’s voice.

Alive.

A muddy hand burst through the opening first, followed by Robin herself, scraped bloody and gasping as Steve and Nancy hauled her the rest of the way out.

The second you saw her, something inside you cracked wide open.

You dropped to your knees beside her so fast you almost slipped.

“Oh my God,” you breathed.

Robin blinked at you, startled. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Your hands were everywhere before you could stop them. Checking her face. Her shoulders. Her arms. Like if you let go for one second she’d disappear again.

There was blood smeared near her temple.

Your stomach twisted violently.

“You could’ve died,” you whispered, voice breaking.

Robin looked stunned. Not because of the danger. Because of you.

And then, in front of everybody, you grabbed her face and kissed her.

Hard.

Relieved. Shaking. Furious. Alive.

For one full second nobody moved.

Then:

“Wait.”

Steve’s voice.

You pulled away instantly, horror crashing over you almost as fast as the relief had.

Robin looked equally panicked.

Dustin’s mouth dropped open so far it looked medically concerning.

Erica pointed dramatically between the two of you. “I KNEW IT.”

“You knew?” Steve exclaimed. “How did you know?!”

“She literally looks at Robin like she hung the moon.”

“You didn’t tell me my best friend had a secret girlfriend?”

Robin sat up slowly, still pale. “Can we maybe focus on the interdimensional death cave first?”

“No, absolutely not,” Steve said immediately. “This is huge.”

Nancy, somehow the calmest person there, crouched beside Robin with the world’s tiniest smile. “How long?”

Robin glanced at you.

Your face still felt hot enough to melt steel.

“…Seven months,” she admitted quietly.

Steve looked genuinely wounded. “Seven months?!”

“We were gonna tell everybody eventually,” you muttered.

“Eventually?” Dustin cried. “You guys were worse at hiding this than Lucas and Max.”

Robin groaned and covered her face with both hands. “That is objectively false,” She mumbled into her hands.

“You stare at each other like divorced poets in foreign films,” Erica replied.

Despite everything, despite the terror still clawing at your ribs, you laughed shakily.

Robin peeked at you through her fingers.

You reached over carefully this time, brushing dirt from her cheek.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you said softly.

Her expression melted immediately.

“Sorry.”

And just like that, Steve threw both arms into the air dramatically.

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic. We’re doing romance in Satan’s spaghetti cave now.”

Phones ringing. Front doors opening and slamming. Voices carrying down hallways at three in the morning. Campaign volunteers rotting into cult members rotting into shadows that sat at the kitchen table and spoke in circles until sunrise. Everyone wanted something from him. Guidance. Approval. Salvation.

And stupidly, embarrassingly, so did you.

At first, it had felt intoxicating to be near him. Kai had a way of speaking that made every sentence sound like the beginning of a revolution. Like he could carve meaning out of empty air and shove it straight into your lungs. Being loved by him, or whatever warped version of love he was capable of, had felt important. Necessary.

Now it just felt exhausting.

Because Kai only loved people when they reflected something back at him.

Devotion. Loyalty. Need.

The second you became complicated, the second you needed something in return, his attention wandered elsewhere. To the campaign. To meetings. To late-night speeches muttered at the dining room table to people too tired or too brainwashed to argue back.

Lately, he barely looked at you at all.

The worst part was that you couldn’t even decide whether he was doing it on purpose.

Maybe this was intentional. Maybe Kai liked watching people unravel around him. Or maybe he simply didn’t notice when they did.

Neither option felt better.

The TV buzzed softly from the living room, throwing pale static-light across the walls. Some late-night news anchor talking about polling numbers in a voice that sounded syrupy and distorted through exhaustion.

You sat curled at the kitchen counter in one of Kai’s old shirts, picking absentmindedly at chipped nail polish. The digital clock on the microwave blinked 2:13 AM in violent green.

You hadn’t slept properly in days.

Every time you closed your eyes, your brain kept moving anyway. Thoughts circling like flies trapped beneath a glass. You’d started hearing things occasionally too. Not voices exactly. More like sounds stretching strangely. The hum of appliances becoming unbearable. Water dripping too loudly. Kai’s voice replaying in your head long after he’d stopped speaking.

Sacrifice requires discomfort.

People only become something meaningful through pain.

Fear is transformation.

You swallowed hard.

The front door opened.

Laughter drifted in first. Male voices. Shoes against hardwood. Then Kai finally appeared in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from running his hands through it all night. There was lipstick-red irritation smeared beneath his eyes from exhaustion, but he still carried himself like he’d just stepped onto a stage.

He stopped when he saw you still awake.

Not concerned.

Annoyed.

“Jesus,” he muttered, tossing his keys onto the counter. “You’re still up?”

Something inside you twisted unpleasantly at that.

Not are you okay?

Not why are you awake?

Just mild irritation. Like you were another light accidentally left on in the house.

Behind him, someone laughed at something downstairs. The sound scraped across your skull.

Kai opened the fridge, barely glancing your way. “You’ve gotta stop doing this weird insomniac shit. You look like a corpse.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did. Maybe that was worse.

The refrigerator light spilled pale gold across his face as he grabbed a beer, already halfway somewhere else mentally. Already moving past you before the conversation had even begun.

Your chest felt tight suddenly. Hot.

“Kai.”

“Hm?”

Finally, he looked over.

And there it was again. That horrible distracted expression. Like you were interrupting something more important just by existing near him.

Your fingers curled tighter against the countertop.

“I feel like I’m disappearing here.”

Kai snorted softly, not even cruel about it. Just dismissive.

“Everybody feels dramatic at two in the morning.” He took a sip from the bottle. “Go to bed.”

The fridge door shut with a dull thump.

Then Kai was gone again.

His footsteps disappeared down the hallway alongside the low murmur of conversation from downstairs, another meeting bleeding into another night. Someone laughed loudly. Kai answered them a second later, easy and charismatic already, his voice smoothing itself into something warm for everybody else.

For everybody else.

You stared at the empty doorway long after he’d disappeared from it.

The kitchen suddenly felt too bright.

Too loud.

The refrigerator hummed in the silence. The ancient fluorescent bulb over the stove buzzed faintly, flickering every few seconds hard enough to make your eyes ache. Even the clock on the microwave seemed louder now, each tiny electronic click scraping against the inside of your skull.

2:17 AM

2:17 AM

2:17 AM

You dragged both hands down your face harshly.

“Go to bed.”

The mocking simplicity of it made something ugly twist in your stomach.

Like exhaustion was the problem.

Not him.

Not this house.

Not the endless parade of people swallowing pieces of him while you sat upstairs rotting quietly into the furniture.

Your knee bounced rapidly beneath the counter.

You needed something to drown the noise out.

The TV muttered from the living room. The refrigerator hummed. Pipes creaked somewhere in the walls. Downstairs, Kai’s voice rose and fell rhythmically, every word blending together into meaningless static until you couldn’t tell whether he was giving a speech or laughing or arguing anymore.

You stood abruptly.

The movement made your vision blur for half a second.

Cabinet door.

Cup.

Sink.

Water splashing too cold against your fingers.

You gripped the edge of the counter harder.

Breathe.

God, even your own breathing sounded wrong.

Sharp.

Wet.

You laughed once under your breath at that. A tiny accidental sound.

Then again.

Not because anything was funny. More because suddenly you couldn’t stop hearing yourself. Every movement felt exaggerated somehow. Like your body had become something separate from you, performing badly in front of an invisible audience.

You pressed your palms against your eyes until stars burst behind them.

Kai’s voice echoed through your head again.

People only become something meaningful through pain.

The words repeated.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Your gaze drifted downward absently as you opened another drawer.

Utensils shifted softly inside.

Metal glinting under the fluorescent light.

You pushed things around without really looking. Wooden spoon. Scissors. Batteries. Takeout menus stained with grease.

Then your fingers brushed cold plastic.

The electric carving knife.

You stared at it for a moment.

White handle. Long serrated blades locked together at the center. Innocent-looking in the strange way kitchen appliances always were. Harmless until they weren’t.

Your hand closed around it slowly.

Somewhere downstairs, applause erupted suddenly around Kai’s voice.

Your throat tightened.

The knife whirred violently to life in your hand.

BZZZZZZZ

You flinched hard at the noise, then laughed again despite yourself.

The vibration traveled all the way up your arm.

Too loud.

Too loud.

But you didn’t turn it off.

Instead you pressed the back of your wrist against your mouth, laughing shakily into your skin while the blade buzzed beside your ear like a living thing.

And downstairs, Kai kept talking.

Talking.

Talking.

Like you were already gone.

He noticed it as a gap before he noticed it as a sound.

Kai was mid-sentence when it happened, his voice still carrying the shape of persuasion, of certainty, of something designed to hold a room together.

But something tugged loose anyway.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… wrong.

The kitchen above him had gone quiet in a way it shouldn’t have.

No footsteps. No cabinet movement. No restless, half-present pacing that he’d grown used to ignoring the way one ignores a refrigerator hum.

Even the house itself seemed to hesitate.

Kai stopped speaking.

A few faces turned toward him expectantly, waiting for the thread to pick back up, waiting for him to become what he always was for them again.

He didn’t.

His attention drifted upward instead, slow at first. Irritated more than concerned.

Then sharper.

Because there it was.

A sound that didn’t belong in the rhythm of the house.

A high, mechanical whir.

BZZZZZZZ

Kai’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Someone in the room laughed at something that wasn’t funny. Another voice tried to fill the silence he’d left behind.

He didn’t respond.

He was already moving.

Upstairs.

Each step measured, controlled. Not urgency. Not panic. Kai didn’t do panic. Just correction. Like a system returning to balance after a disturbance.

The hallway light flickered as he passed beneath it.

Of course it did.

The house always behaved like it was thinking when things went wrong.

The sound grew louder as he approached the kitchen.

The buzzing.

Constant now.

Unmistakable.

Kai stopped just outside the doorway.

For a moment, he didn’t enter.

He simply observed.

Because what he saw didn’t immediately resolve into something useful.

You were there.

In the kitchen light that was too harsh, too exposed. Curled slightly into yourself like the posture of someone trying to fold inward and disappear. One hand near your face, the other gripping something he couldn’t quite identify at first because your body was moving in small, unsteady rhythms that didn’t match intention.

And then he saw the knife.

Running.

Bzzzzzzing violently in your hand like a trapped insect.

For the first time in a long time, Kai didn’t have a ready interpretation.

Not manipulation.

Not defiance.

Not attention-seeking.

Just… dissonance.

His voice came out quieter than it usually did.

Not softer.

Careful.

“What are you doing?”

It wasn’t a question that expected an answer.

It was a question that expected correction.

You didn’t respond immediately.

That, more than anything, shifted something in him.

Because you always answered.

Even when you resisted. Even when you argued.

If it was him? You responded.

Now you were laughing.

Low. Unstable. Like hair catching static.

The knife whirred again as your grip adjusted slightly.

Kai stepped fully into the kitchen.

The sound of the room changed immediately behind him. Like the house itself recalibrated around his presence.

He didn’t take his eyes off you.

“Turn it off.”

Still no compliance.

That was new.

Unacceptable, even.

He took another step closer.

The buzzing filled the space between you like something alive.

And then Kai saw your face properly.

Not performative distress.

Not emotional escalation.

Something looser than that. Less structured. Like you weren’t fully anchored to the moment he was standing inside of anymore.

And for the first time, his irritation faltered into something he didn’t like naming.

Uncertainty.

“…Hey.”

A pause.

Smaller now.

Less controlled.

“What are you doing?”

And the worst part, the part Kai didn’t have language for yet, was this:

It didn’t feel like you were doing anything at all.

It felt like something had already happened, and he was late to it.

The first thing you registered was the buzzing.

Not sound.

But pressure.

It filled your arm like carbonation under skin, shaking the edges of your thoughts loose until they stopped sitting neatly in a row.

BZZZZZZZ

Too bright. Too sharp. Too alive.

You blinked hard.

The kitchen was still there, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to anything real anymore. The walls looked slightly too far away. The light too white. The air too thin, like it had been stretched.

Your hand was still closed around the knife.

You didn’t remember deciding to hold it like that.

Or maybe you did.

Time felt… unreliable.

Footsteps.

Somewhere.

Above you? Beside you? Inside the house?

Then a shift in the room.

Not sound. Not sight.

Presence.

Like gravity had changed its mind.

Your head turned slowly.

Kai was in the doorway.

That should have meant something.

It didn’t fully arrive.

He was speaking. You could see his mouth move. The shape of words forming and breaking apart before they reached meaning.

“What are you doing?”

You laughed again.

It slipped out without permission, light and wrong, like it belonged to someone else watching you from slightly above your body.

Doing.

The word felt funny.

You weren’t doing anything.

You were just… here.

The knife buzzed louder when your grip tightened by accident, and the sound made your shoulders jerk.

Your gaze dropped to it again.

Oh.

Still on.

You lifted it slightly, watching the vibration blur the air around it.

Fascinating.

Like a small storm you were holding in your hand.

Kai said something else.

His voice sounded different now. Closer. Sharper at the edges. Like he was trying to pull you back into alignment with him.

“Turn it off.”

Turn it off.

Right.

That would probably help.

Your thumb searched for the switch.

It didn’t land correctly at first.

The world kept slipping sideways every time you tried to focus on a single point. The refrigerator hummed too loudly. The clock clicked too aggressively. Your heartbeat felt like it was happening in a different room.

You tried again.

Still buzzing.

Still wrong.

A small sound escaped you, halfway between a laugh and something else.

“I think it’s stuck,” you said, though you weren’t sure you had meant to speak at all.

Kai moved closer.

That you understood more clearly.

Movement meant danger. Or control. Or something.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was also part of the kitchen now. Another object with unclear function.

His face looked tense.

Focused.

Almost… alarmed?

That felt incorrect.

Kai didn’t get alarmed.

That was not in the system.

The knife vibrated harder in your hand and you flinched at it, bringing it instinctively closer to your chest as if it had startled you personally.

Your breath hitched.

“Oh,” you whispered, soft and strange, realization arriving late like a train that had missed its stop and kept going anyway.

“You’re here.”

And suddenly, that mattered more than the knife.

More than the buzzing.

More than the kitchen.

Because if Kai was here, then something in you had finally succeeded in getting his attention.

Lunch passed like a blur. You sat in the cafeteria, tray in front of you, hands idle. Kit wasn’t there.

Without him, the noise felt sharper. Brighter. The fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder, the scrape of plastic trays against metal more grating. You chewed without tasting. Swallowed without thinking. It was like moving through fog.

No one spoke to you. That was normal.

But it still made everything quieter.

Afterward, an orderly guided you a that hall stretched long and sterile. The common room was half-full—some patients paced, others mumbled or stared through the barred windows like they were waiting for a season that would never come.

And then you saw him—them, really.

Kit. Sitting with Pepper on the floor near the back wall.

You stopped in the doorway, just for a second. Pepper was grinning. Full and bright. It lit her up like the sun had finally come in. Her fingers moved animatedly as she spoke, and Kit indulged her, nodding his head, laughing.

Your chest ached in a way you couldn’t name.

Your eyes flicked to the far end of the room—your chair. The one that always waited for you. Always empty.

And maybe it would be okay if it stayed that way.

You stepped forward, slow but steady, and crossed the room. Pepper looked up and waved at you like she’d been waiting. Kit turned too. He didn’t say anything—just shifted slightly, giving you space between them.

You sat down without a word.

It was small. Quiet. But that was all it needed to be.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, soaking in the rare stillness. Pepper’s presence was a buffer, her rambling words painting nonsensical pictures as she spoke to Kit. And he—he just nodded along. Soft-eyed. Patient.

You watched him, more than you meant to.

The slope of his shoulders. The little crease in his brow when he concentrated on what Pepper was saying. The way he smiled—not politely, but like he meant it. Like being here with her wasn’t a burden. Like he cares about her the same way you care about her.

But he also looked… exhausted. Worn out by this place. His split lip looked much better than yesterday, but the bruise on his cheek was still a bright purply blue.

“You weren’t at lunch,” you said, finally, your voice somehow quieter than normal.

Kit blinked, like he hadn’t realized you’d speak. Then his lips pressed into a half-smile, a bit tired. “Arden pulled me.”

The words were clipped. Non-specific.

You didn’t ask what for. You knew better than that.

But your fingers fidgeted in your lap, and when his arm brushed yours as he leaned forward to hand Pepper a puzzle piece, you didn’t move away. Only looked down at it.

You just breathed. Stayed present.

A shadow moved across the floor, slow and deliberate.

You looked up just as Grace dropped into a crouch beside Kit. She didn’t say hello to you. Didn’t look at Pepper. Her eyes were on him—sharp and a little too knowing.

“You hiding back here, Walker?” she asked, her voice low and lilting.

Kit didn’t bristle, exactly, but something shifted. The easy slope of his shoulders drew tight for half a second before he relaxed again. “Just talking.”

Grace hummed. She reached out and stole a puzzle piece from the scattered pile near Pepper’s knee, turning it in her fingers without looking at it.

“I can see that,” she said, glancing at you finally.

Her eyes flicked over you quickly. Not rude—just quick. Assessing. She didn’t smile.

You didn’t either.

Grace stayed crouched for a beat longer before settling fully on the floor beside Kit, close enough that her knee brushed his. He didn’t move away.

“So, this is the infamous Twirly,” there was a slight edge to the nickname when she said it. “I was starting to think you were a ghost.”

You didn’t answer. Pepper did.

“Not a ghost, she’s real,” Pepper said cheerfully, clapping her hands once like it sealed the statement.

Grace snorted. “I can see that.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t friendly either. Just dry. Curious.

You looked at her for a long second. The sharp angles of her face. The way she kept one arm draped across her knee like she was lounging in her own living room, not a locked-down ward. Like she wasn’t scared of anything in here.

Maybe she wasn’t.

Grace leaned back on her palms, letting her head tip against the wall. “I’ve heard stories. You bend. You vanish. You don’t talk.”

You shrugged. “I talk,” you said quietly. “Sometimes.”

Grace smiled then, just a little. Not quite warm. But not cold, either. “Good to know.”

She shifted slightly, eyes still on you, though her head was tilted back. “You know, people like us don’t exactly thrive in places like this.”

You didn’t respond.

“Places like this… they grind people down.” Her voice dropped, softer now. “You learn quick who you can count on.”

Kit shot her a look. It was small but pointed.

Grace caught it, and her mouth quirked. “Relax, Walker. I’m just makin’ conversation.”

Pepper was still humming beside you, head bent over her puzzle. The quiet clink of cardboard against the tile filled the space Grace left behind.

After a beat, she pushed up to her feet in one smooth motion. Brushed off her hands.

“Well. Just wanted to see if you were still breathing,” she said to Kit.

Her gaze flicked to you, unreadable. “Guess I’ll see you around… Ghost.”

Then she turned and walked off, her feet silent against the floor.

The three of you continued to just sit there. Pepper and Kit speaking about whatever topic came to her mind. You didn’t add much to the conversation, but you watched. You listened.

A voice called Kit’s name from the doorway, and he pushed himself up with a sigh. He gave Pepper a small wave, and when his eyes flicked to you, he hesitated—just long enough to let something unspoken hang between you. Then he nodded once and followed the orderly out.

You watched him go.

The room didn’t feel as safe without him. Not unsafe, exactly. Just… quieter in the wrong ways.

Pepper made up for the silence, talking about squirrels and what shade of blue the sky was. You tried to focus on her voice. On the sounds of the room. But your mind kept tugging elsewhere.

It wasn’t long before your name was called too.

One of the nurses gestured to you with a clipboard in hand. You stood slowly, brushing your palms on your skirt as if that might make you steadier.

Then you followed the hallway toward the sun.

It wasn’t an orderly who came for you.

“Outside time,” Sister Mary Eunice sang as she stepped lightly into the common room, clipboard clutched to her chest like a schoolgirl with secrets. “Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t want to miss your bit of sunshine.”

You blinked, a little surprised to see her instead of the usual gruff escort. But you stood.

She waited until you joined her, then turned on her heel with a rustle of starch and skirts, humming faintly as you both made your way down the hall.

“You’re looking better lately,” she said brightly. “More color in your face. That’s good. It means the water’s working.”

You didn’t answer. You just walked.

Sister Mary Eunice glanced at you sideways, her smile never faltering. “Dr. Thredson says you were very brave this morning.”

Your feet faltered for half a step. Just a flutter. But she noticed. Of course she noticed.

Her smile dipped briefly at the corners. “It’s okay to be afraid, you know. Even saints tremble, sometimes.”

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to that. So, you just kept walking.

“You remind me of a little bird,” Sister Mary Eunice said suddenly, her tone softening as she slowed her steps to match yours. “The kind that hides in the eaves, quiet as anything. People forget it’s there until it sings.”

You glanced at her.

She smiled again, all sunshine and innocence. “I always liked birds. I used to leave out bits of bread on the windowsill for them. Even the crumbs from communion wafers, when no one was looking.” She giggled lightly, like she’d shared a secret.

“I suppose that was a bit naughty,” she added, though her voice didn’t carry any real guilt—just nostalgia.

You didn’t speak. But you didn’t look away, either.

Sister Mary Eunice gave a small shrug. “Some people don’t see things the way they are. But I do. I think… I think you’ve got more in you than most people can see.” She stopped at the door, resting one hand on the handle. “Don’t be afraid to sing, little bird.”

Then she opened the door and gestured for you to step outside into the gray light.

The door shut gently behind you.

The courtyard stretched out in quiet grays and dull greens, worn grass and cracked stone under a sky the color of dishwater. A handful of patients milled around—some pacing, some muttering, some simply staring at the sky like it might change something.

You stood still for a moment.

Don’t be afraid to sing, little bird.

The words sat oddly in your chest. Too soft to hold onto, too warm for this place. But something in them lingered, fluttering like dust through the rafters of your mind.

You let your eyes wander across the yard.

And then you saw him.

Kit. Sitting cross-legged near the far wall, fiddling with something in his hands—a bit of string, maybe. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but the set of his shoulders was calm. Grounded.

And just like that—something inside you shifted.

A lightness. Brief. Bright. Strange.

Not comfort. Not safety. Not exactly.

But... happy?

Excited?

No. No, that wasn’t right.

Your pulse had picked up. Your breath caught, just barely. A strange heat curled in your chest, soft and blooming and foreign.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

You didn’t even know what to call it.

You stood there a moment longer, watching him.

That flicker in your chest refused to settle. Too sharp. Too soft. Too much.

So you looked away.

Let it fade.

And walked instead to your usual spot—beneath the crooked tree near the edge of the courtyard. It cast a weak, uneven shadow across the ground, like it was trying to remember how to be something whole.

You could relate to that.

Sinking down against the bark, you pulled your knees up and wrapped an arm around them. Your fingers found the dirt, as they always did. The weight of routine settled over your shoulders like a familiar coat. This was where you always went. This was what you always did.

Quiet.

Alone.

Safe.

You stared at the circles that you slowly drew into the dirt.

One minute passed. Then another.

And then—

“You always sit over here?”

You looked up.

Kit stood a few feet away, thumb tucked into his pocket, that lopsided smile already tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t even see you come out. When did y’get here?”

You blinked at him. “A few minutes ago.”

He nodded. Stepped closer.

“You know... you could’ve sat with me,” he said casually, dropping into a crouch beside you. “If you wanted.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just looked down again. Let your fingers drag through the dry dirt, slow and quiet. A little groove in the earth.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you said finally, barely louder than the wind. “You looked… like you were fine.”

Kit was quiet for a second. Then he sat down fully, legs crossed, like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just let the silence stretch for a moment—long enough that you started to wonder if you’d said the wrong thing. If maybe you really had been a bother just by thinking it.

But then—

“Well,” Kit said, easy and even, “I was fine.”

You glanced up at him. He was watching the tree branches sway overhead.

“But now I’m even better.” he added.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Swiftly, you looked back down at your finger now frozen in the dirt.

Kit leaned back on his palms; you could feel his eyes on you. Seeing you, maybe studying you a bit. Not analyzing, just seeing how you react.

Then, he added, “You act like we’re not friends.”

The words weren’t accusing. Just honest.

Like they were as simple and solid as anything else in the world.

Your breath caught.

Friends.

It didn’t echo like the other labels did—those muttered things the nurses called you when they thought you weren’t listening. It didn’t make your skin crawl. It didn’t feel wrong.

It felt… far away.

Your fingers resumed their motions in the dirt. The circle was uneven now, but you didn’t fix it. You just kept drawing. Like maybe you’d find an answer buried there.

“Friends…” You said under your breath.

You tried to remember the last time you had a friend.

Not someone who smiled politely.

Not someone who needed you to be something for them.

Someone who saw you.

The freak show. But you couldn’t place when that was.

“Yeah,” Kit said with a chuckle. “Y’know, like you an’ Pepper.”

You shook your head. “Pepper isn’t… Pepper is more than a friend.”

He tilted his head, his smile softening. “Little sister?”

You hesitate. You’re not sure what that’s like, but it sounds better. Right. You nod.

Kit leaned back a little further on his hands, gaze still tilted up toward the tree branches. “Y’ever climb trees?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, glanced at him. He was still looking up, like the thought had wandered in and just sat down beside him.

“I think so,” you said after a moment. “Maybe… when I was little.”

“Yeah?” He smiled faintly. “Bet you were good at it. All bendy like that.”

You looked back down at the dirt, but this time it wasn’t to retreat. A small breath slipped out of you. Almost a laugh.

“Wasn’t allowed to climb much,” you murmured. “Too dangerous. Too… unladylike.”

He huffed softly through his nose, clearly amused. “Sounds like a load of crap.”

You smiled, just a little. It felt odd on your face.

Kit shifted closer—not touching, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Well, whenever we get outta here,” he said, quiet and sure, “I’ll find you a good climbing tree. Real tall one. Strong branches.”

You turned your head to look at him.

He wasn’t teasing. Just watching the way you watched him. And he smiled again, gentle and boyish and real.

“Could sit up there all afternoon,” he said. “Bet it’d feel like flying.”

And for a moment, it did.

You watched him for a second longer, your hands still in the dirt, fingers half-traced in the uneven circle you'd been drawing.

"Flying," you echoed, almost to yourself. You imagined it. The weightlessness. The wind tugging at your clothes, the earth a distant blur beneath your feet. It didn’t feel like a memory. Not quite. But it felt like longing.

“I used to dream about that,” you admitted.

Kit turned to you a little, listening.

“Climbing so high I’d forget where the ground was. Not falling. Just…” You searched for the word. “Floating.”

Kit nodded, like he understood. “Not being stuck anymore.”

You glanced sideways at him. The corner of his mouth was tilted up, but his eyes weren’t smiling. Not quite. You thought about how many people in here talked about escape like it was a fantasy.

Kit didn’t. He talked about it like it was a plan. Like he meant to live through it.

“Do you really think we can get out?” you asked, not looking at him. You were afraid to.

There was a pause. But not the kind that meant avoidance. Kit wasn’t searching for the easy answer—he was choosing the honest one.

“Yeah,” he said finally, soft but certain. “I do.” He shifted, drawing a line in the dirt beside your unfinished circle. “Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But I don’t think this is forever.”

You swallowed. The breeze stirred your hair. “A week feels like forever in here,” you said.

Kit glanced at you again, this time more directly. “Not when you’ve got someone to talk to.”

Your fingers stopped moving. The wind carried the faintest sound of laughter from across the yard. But the space between you and Kit was just for the two of you. He felt safe. In a way that you hadn’t felt in a very long time.

The two of you stayed like that, sitting side-by-side, drawing shapes and lines in the dirt. Neither broke the calm silence that settled between you. Not until an orderly called Kit’s name.

He stood, brushing dirt from his pants. He offered a little half-smile. “See you later?”

You nodded. He didn’t push for words.

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the gray corridors.

Your name was called a moment later.

You stood slowly, brushing your hands against your skirt, trying not to think about how the dirt still clung to your skin. How warmth still clung to you, too—soft and fleeting, like the sun behind the clouds.

Sister Mary Eunice waited at the edge of the courtyard, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She offered you a smile as you approached—gentle, not forced.

“Did you enjoy the fresh air?” she asked as you fell into step beside her.

You nodded once. It was easier than trying to explain the ache in your chest that wasn’t bad, just strange. Easier than finding words for how the sunlight felt against your skin, or how words sounded in Kit’s mouth.

Sister Mary Eunice didn’t press. She never did. She was kind like that. Patient. A bit different you supposed.

The hallway was cooler than outside, and quiet in a way that made your shoes sound too loud. She kept her voice low, as if the silence were something sacred.

“I know Observation isn’t everyone’s favorite,” she said, glancing at you. “But it’s not meant to be a punishment. Just time. A little space to rest.”

Rest.

You weren’t sure if that’s what it ever was for you.

Still, you gave her another nod.

She reached out just before you turned the corner, a light touch to your shoulder. “Let the nurses know if you need anything, alright?”

You looked up at her. There was real kindness in her eyes, even if something beneath it felt unreadable.

Then she turned, her soft footsteps fading down the hall, and you stepped inside.

Observation. Cold, quiet, waiting.

The door shut behind you with a gentle click.

You sat where you always did, on the cot with your legs crossed.

The singular light in the room buzzed and flickered. Once. Twice.

Then there was shouting.

You didn’t remember what sparked it—only that the tent walls felt thinner than usual, that the air had teeth. Someone had broken something. Someone had died. The freak show was crumbling, and Dell… Dell was certain you were the crack in the foundation.

He came into your trailer like a storm: big, stomping, angry in that way that tried to sound like reason. "Get your things. You're done here," he said.

You didn’t understand at first. You asked why. You weren’t screaming, weren’t crying—just quiet, your voice slipping out in barely-there threads.

He didn’t answer.

Just grabbed your arm.

You remembered how rough his grip was. How your wrist bent the wrong way. How your legs wouldn’t work right, like they’d forgotten they belonged to you. He was dragging you, and you were floating just above the ground, weightless, like a balloon tied to a string he didn’t know how to hold.

“We’re takin’ you someplace that can fix you,” Dell said, like he thought it was kindness. Like shipping you off to a place with cold floors and locked doors could fix anything.

You were halfway across the lot when you stopped hearing him. His voice dulled, fading under the roar of blood in your ears. The world blurred at the edges, colors bleeding together like water over ink.

Everything grew quiet.

Not peaceful—just blank.

You were folding inward, shrinking down to something pocket-sized. A paper doll. A trick of light.

And then—

The hum of fluorescent lights.

The cool chill of metal against your back.

You blinked. Your body felt heavier. The room smelled like bleach and floor wax.

Observation.

You were back.

The memory faded like fog at your fingertips—already half gone, though the feeling lingered. That hollow, open-eyed sleep.

You stayed still.

Just breathing.

Until the door clicked open. It wasn’t Sister Mary Eunice this time, just some orderly you didn’t recognize. Bigger than most, with a jaw that didn’t move much when he spoke.

“Dinner,” he said flatly.

You got up. The floor felt colder than usual under your feet.

He didn’t grab your arm. Didn’t even look at you as he led the way down the corridor. But you still kept your distance—three careful steps behind, hands tucked to your sides like you were afraid they might try something without your say-so.

The cafeteria was buzzing with the usual noise: trays scraping, chairs skidding, someone muttering a prayer too loudly at the corner table.

And then your eyes found him.

Kit was already seated—same spot as always. Same crooked smile when he spotted you. He lifted two fingers in a lazy wave, like he’d been waiting, like seeing you arrive meant something.

You didn’t wave back, but your feet moved without thinking.

The orderly shoved a tray of food into your hands.

Gray potatoes. Something that used to be meat. A cup of something lukewarm and vaguely orange.

But that wasn’t your concern.

You made your way toward the table. Kit straightened a little when you got close, nudging your usual seat with his foot like he was making room just for you.

“Hey,” he said as you sat.

You didn’t respond, but you glanced at him, before looking back down at your tray.

Kit leaned down, enough that his face with a quirked brow was now in your vision. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just kept staring at your tray, but your focus was on his face in your peripheral. You felt the corner of your lips tug up, not much, but enough to make Kit’s smile widen.

“Yeah,” you finally spoke as you looked over at him. “I think so.”

Kit sat up now, his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he looked at you.

He didn’t say anything right away, just kept watching you with that patient, lopsided smile of his. Like he was making sure the answer stuck—like he was memorizing the sound of your voice or the look of your almost nonexistent smile.

“Good,” He said with a small nod.

You didn’t say much after that, and neither did he. The sounds of the cafeteria blurred into a dull hum around you—scraping trays, murmured prayers, footsteps echoing off tile.

You just ate your dinner, Kit by your side eating his.

And when the final medication round came and went, when the lights began to dim and the ward settled into its usual nighttime hush, you lay down on your cot with the ghost of his smile still in your mind. For once, sleep didn’t feel like a punishment.

Morning came the same way it always did—abrupt, fluorescent, and far too early. The lights buzzed on overhead before your eyes had even fluttered open. Footsteps followed soon after, echoing down the corridor with sharp barks of instruction: “Up. Let’s go. On your feet.”

You moved on autopilot. Sheets pulled tight, cot made. Hands out. Mouth open. Pill swallowed. The same bitter aftertaste clinging to your throat, was thankfully washed away by the mint of your toothpaste.

By the time you were brought to breakfast most of the patients were already sat eating. Your eyes did their usual glance across room, confirming Pepper’s presence and then to your table. Or more accurately, to Kit.

And just like that the morning didn’t seem so cold.

His eyes met yours and he smiled, soft and genuine, like he’d been waiting to see you.

You didn’t smile back. Not really. But something in your chest shifted—quiet, unfamiliar. Less like a spark, more like warmth soaking into your bones after a long winter.

The orderly behind you grunted, prompting you forward. You stepped into line and accepted your tray without looking. You didn’t need to. You already knew what would be waiting for you: gray eggs, soggy toast, and a very bruised banana.

Kit nudged your usual spot with the side of his shoe, just like he had at dinner the night before. It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just a habit, maybe. A small, steady thing that said you belong here.

“Morning,” he said.

You sat down. Took a bite of toast that tasted more like paper than anything edible. You swallowed it anyway.

His head tilted slightly. “Sleep okay?”

You shrugged. “Better than usual.”

His face softened. “That’s good.”

“Did you?” Your voice was soft, like you were afraid to ask.

He nodded, looking at you for a second longer before turning his attention to his tray. “Same here.”

You didn’t say anything. Just kept eating, one bite at a time, the silence between you settling into something comfortable. Something that didn’t demand to be filled.

And for a little while—just the space between breakfast and the next order barked through the hallway—it felt like the world had slowed down. Like time had folded in on itself, giving you both a minute to just be.

Occupational therapy came after breakfast. Today you were stuck with dough duty.

The room was warmer than the rest of the ward, the air thick with flour and faint traces of yeast. The silence was broken only by the dull thud of hands kneading dough, bowls scraping across the counter, the occasional barked instruction from a staff member who wasn’t watching closely anyway.

There wasn’t a ton of patients, but a small few set up around the kitchen. You and Kit were placed at the same station. You weren’t sure if it was coincidence or something he’d made happen—but either way, you didn’t question it.

He rolled the dough in smooth, steady motions, arms dusted in flour. Occasionally he glanced over, just to make sure you were still there, still grounded. You worked more slowly, fingers moving with practiced precision even if you weren’t fully present. Your hands knew the rhythm, even if your mind wandered.

Your hands moved without thinking, palms pressing and folding, folding and pressing. The dough was warm and pliant beneath your fingers, but the warmth didn’t reach your face. It was somewhere else you’d gone—somewhere quieter, older. Maybe not even real.

Until something tapped your arm. Twice. Gentle. Just enough to call you back.

“Hey,” Kit’s voice was soft, threaded with concern but laced in teasing warmth. “You with me, sleepwalker?”

You blinked.

The kitchen came back all at once: the clatter of trays, the smell of yeast, the weight of the present. Kit’s hand was still hovering near your arm, fingers dusted with flour, eyes searching your face.

You stared at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Where did you hear that?”

“Huh?” His brows lifted, drawing together just enough to make a little crinkle in between them. “No where, just… thought it fit.”

The two of you were quiet for a couple minutes, your hands sitting motionless on the dough.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean ‘ta offend you.”

You looked up at him, before looking back down at the pile of dough in front of you.

“You didn’t,” You murmured, hands beginning to roll and press into the dough again.  “Just haven’t been called that in a long time.”

Kit didn’t answer right away. Just kept kneading, slower now, like he was giving you room.

“You don’t gotta tell me,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not unless you want to.”

You watched your fingers sink into the dough. The movement was automatic, like muscle memory.

“Jimmy used to call me it,” you said finally. “We worked at a… a freak show.”

Kit glanced at you again, more softly this time, like he was trying to see through the dust and years layered over that single word.

“Freak show,” he echoed, not like he was mocking it—just testing the words in his mouth. “Like the kind in a circus?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, kinda. Elsa’s Cabinet of Curiosities. A traveling one. Years ago, now.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just kept working the dough, a little clumsier than before, like he was less focused on it.

You looked down again, the image already blurring in your mind. Canvas, costumes, and applause that rang in your ears.

“I was flexible,” you said. “Real flexible. Could twist like ribbon. Made people nervous. Or excited. Or both.” You let out a faint breath—too humorless to be called a laugh. “People liked it.”

Kit was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You had a stage name?”

You hesitated, the name catching in your throat like a stone. But you forced it out anyway. “Lady Reverie.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It wasn’t.”

Another quiet beat passed between you.

Kit didn’t push further. He didn’t have to. He just gave you that same look—soft and steady, a tether. The silence between you wasn’t empty. It held space. Like he was letting you decide how much of the past you wanted to let through.

Eventually, he spoke, more gentle than before. “You miss it?” 

“I miss… parts,” you admitted. “Belonging… and the people. Before it all went wrong.”

Kit nodded like he understood. Like maybe he’d lost things too.

“Thanks for tellin’ me,” he said, not as a courtesy—but like it mattered.