NoPainNoWhump

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

Anne was almost to the final door when Mara caught her in the corridor.

“Just so you know,” she said, lowering her voice like the walls weren’t concrete and steel and built to carry every sound anyway, “Ellie had a pretty rough weekend.”

Anne stopped. “Oh no. What happened?”

Mara adjusted the tablet tucked against her chest. “She was self-harming pretty badly. We had to do a few interventions.” Her tone stayed clipped, professional. “She’s probably still coming down from some of the medication we gave her, so don’t be surprised if she’s off today.”

Anne’s grip tightened on the strap of her bag. “Off how?”

“You know.” Mara gave a small shrug. “Withdrawn. Agitated. Emotional. Maybe all three. And if she starts acting out, just leave. We’re not going to tolerate it.”

Anne nodded, though the words sat wrong in her stomach. “Okay.”

By the time the last lock disengaged, she had already braced herself for tension in the room, for pacing or shouting or the brittle stillness that sometimes meant Ellie was wound too tight to speak.

Instead, when Anne stepped inside, Ellie was asleep.

Or drugged enough that the difference hardly mattered.

She was on the cot, facedown this time, one cheek pressed into the pillow, the second blanket twisted around her legs. She wasn’t wearing the oversized sweatshirt from Friday. Instead there was a long-sleeved safety top on her, thick fabric stretching past her wrists and over her hands, the sleeves secured so she couldn’t use them. The neckline sat wrong, too high and stiff, and even from the door Anne could see the awkward way it held across her shoulders, fastened somewhere behind her back.

Anne stopped in her tracks.

For a moment she just stood there looking at her.

The room was quiet except for the vent and the faint rustle of Ellie’s breathing into the pillow. The tray near the slot had been removed already. The air smelled faintly antiseptic, sharper than usual.

Anne set her bag down more gently than she needed to and came toward the glass.

“Hey, Ellie,” she said softly, tapping once with her knuckles. “It’s me. Anne.”

Ellie moved, but only enough to burrow her face harder into the pillow and curl a little tighter on herself.

Anne’s eyes went to the side of her face where it wasn’t hidden. What she could see of her cheek looked angry and red.

“I brought a new book,” Anne said after a second. “We could start it, if you’re up to it. Or we can just talk.”

No response.

Ellie stayed folded into the bed, shoulders rising and falling in one slow, heavy rhythm.

Anne waited a little longer. “If you’re not feeling up to it, I can come back tomorrow.”

She stood there for another few moments, hoping for some shift, some glance, some sign Ellie had even heard her.

Nothing.

So Anne picked up her bag again, heart sinking, and turned toward the door.

“I’ll let you get some sleep, then,” she said quietly.

She had only made it two steps when the voice behind her came raw and immediate enough to stop her cold.

“Wait.”

Anne turned back at once.

Ellie had lifted her head from the pillow.

Her hair was a mess, face pale and blotchy with sleep and crying, and the scratches were worse than Anne had imagined. Angry lines crossed one cheek and ran near her jaw, some fresh, some already beginning to clot in thin dark marks. Her eyes were glassy and swollen, tears clinging there even now as she looked at Anne with something close to panic.

“Don’t go.”

The words were small. Frayed. Nothing like Friday’s desperate shout at the glass. Somehow that made them hit harder.

Anne crossed back to the chair immediately and sat down.

“All right,” she said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m here.”

Ellie lowered herself more upright against the wall, awkward in the restrictive top, head hanging low so her hair fell forward around her face.

Anne waited until the silence had stretched enough to settle, then asked, “How’re you doing?”

Ellie gave a humorless little breath through her nose. “You don’t have to beat around the bush.”

Anne blinked. “I wasn’t.”

Ellie did not look up.

“I just didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Anne said gently. “Or like I was judging you. I’m here to listen if you want to talk.”

For a moment Anne thought she might not answer. Then Ellie’s voice came low and rough.

“Can you read.”

“Of course.”

Anne took the new book from her bag and opened it without another word.

She read for a while in the same steady cadence she always used, giving the room something soft and even to hang onto. At first Ellie stayed propped stiffly against the wall with her gaze fixed down at the blanket. But little by little she shifted, inching down the bed until she was lying on her side with her face turned toward the glass, closer than before. By the time Anne was several chapters in, Ellie had scooted all the way to the edge of the cot nearest the barrier, cheek resting on the mattress, listening.

When Anne finally closed the book, the quiet that followed was different than usual. Heavier. More awake.

Ellie stared at the glass for a second and then said, “Why do you come to see me.”

Anne rested one hand on the cover. “Well. They thought you needed some company.”

Ellie’s eyes stayed on her. “Then why do you go on the weekend.”

The question was flat, but there was something sharp underneath it. Not accusation exactly. Something younger. Less defended.

Anne exhaled softly. “Because I go home and see my husband. And do the things I can’t normally do during the week because of my job.”

Ellie looked away.

“What am I supposed to do for that long.”

The words were quiet enough that Anne almost missed how stripped bare they were.

She hesitated. “Well… what did you do before?”

Ellie’s handless sleeve twitched against the mattress. She lifted one covered arm a little and dragged the fabric vaguely across her cheek in a bitter imitation.

Anne went still.

“I see,” she said.

Ellie’s mouth twisted.

Anne looked at the scratches again, really looked now, at the torn skin and the swollen lids and the way even under sedation there was still a frantic edge to her, like the distress had nowhere to go and was still ricocheting around inside her.

“I wish you wouldn’t scratch your pretty face,” Anne said quietly.

Ellie huffed, abrupt and embarrassed and angry all at once, and pushed herself up, sitting against the wall again. “I don’t know why I do it. I have to.”

Anne leaned back a little, giving the words room. “I think,” she said slowly, “and this is just a guess… you have so many thoughts going on in your head, and you don’t have anything else to do with them. No way to distract yourself. So it gives you a way to let some of it out.”

Ellie’s face crumpled before she could stop it.

Tears welled fast, spilling over almost immediately. She looked furious about it.

“And then they come in here,” she said, voice pitching higher, breaking on the words, “and hold me down and give me a shot and put me in this stupid shirt and cut my nails.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t know why they care. I have nothing else to do. And if I’m gonna just die in here, why does it matter if I hurt myself?” Her eyes flashed up to Anne’s face, wet and furious. “At least they didn’t care before this place when I did it.”

Anne didn’t rush to answer.

She just sat there looking at her, taking in the tears, the scratches, the shame already flickering in underneath the anger now that the words were out.

“It must be very hard,” Anne said at last, “and very frustrating, having to sit in here all alone all day.”

Ellie’s head snapped up.

“It is.”

The force of it rang through the room. Not loud enough to bring anyone running. Just honest.

Anne nodded once. “I know.”

Ellie laughed once under her breath, ugly and damp. “No you don’t.”

Anne accepted that too. “No,” she said softly. “Not really. Not the way you do.”

That seemed to take some of the fight out of Ellie more than arguing would have. She looked down again, breathing unevenly through the tail end of the tears.

“I’m sorry,” Anne said, “that I can only be here for a couple of hours each day.”

Ellie did not answer.

She had folded in on herself again, not shut down entirely, but quieter now, worn out by having said so much. Her shoulders sagged against the wall. One tear slid down across a scratch on her cheek and made her flinch.

Anne reached into her bag and took out the little speaker. “Would you like some music?”

There was a pause.

Then Ellie nodded.

Anne set it on the floor and turned it on low. A soft guitar came first, then a gentle voice, the kind that didn’t crowd the room. Ellie slid back down onto the mattress and turned her face toward the glass again, eyes half-closed, breathing gradually evening out as the songs moved one into the next.

Anne stayed longer than she probably should have.

When she finally lowered the volume, Ellie’s eyes opened immediately, though she looked heavy again, the medication still pulling at her.

“I have to go,” Anne said carefully. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Ellie didn’t speak this time. She only watched her with red-rimmed eyes from the edge of the cot.

Anne stood, slowly, giving her time. “I’ll bring the book again.”

A pause.

Then, very faintly, Ellie nodded.

Anne’s face softened. “All right.”

She gathered her things and moved to the door. Before she stepped out, she looked back once more.

Ellie was still there in the bed, trapped in the stiff safety top with tears dried on her cheeks and fresh scratches striping her skin, staring at Anne like she was trying to hold the shape of her in the room after she left.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, darling,” Anne said.

Then she let herself out.

The locks sealed behind her.

Inside the cell, the music had stopped, but the echo of it seemed to linger against the glass. Ellie lay still for a long time after Anne’s footsteps faded, face pressed near the edge of the mattress, eyes fixed on the empty chair.

Tag list: @sacredwrath @dyke-terra @hurt-people-hurt-people @fuckclimatechange @hikari-hat @butterflywhump @hvyss

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

The next afternoon, Anne stepped through the final security door and stopped short.

Ellie was dressed.

Not in the thin gray facility shirt and loose pants she usually wore, but in an oversized navy sweatshirt and matching sweatpants that had clearly come from storage somewhere, both a little too big for her. There was also a second blanket folded at the foot of the cot, thicker than the first, institutional but soft-looking in a way nothing else in the room had been.

Anne looked up automatically at the vent. The room still wasn’t warm, exactly, but it wasn’t biting the way it had been before.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Ellie was already awake, sitting on the cot with one knee drawn up, watching her come in.

There was something unsettling about how quickly Anne had gotten used to finding her asleep. The sight of her awake and waiting sent a small, complicated ache through her chest.

“Well,” Anne said as she set her bag down, “look at you.”

Ellie glanced down at the sweatshirt as if she’d forgotten she was wearing it.

Anne smiled, gentle and not too big. “That looks much more comfortable.”

No response.

But Ellie did not look away.

Anne sat, took out the book, and settled into the now-familiar rhythm of the afternoon. By this point Ellie no longer stayed tucked under the blanket for the first half of the visit, blinking blearily at the sound of Anne’s voice. She was awake when Anne arrived now, sometimes already sitting at the glass, sometimes waiting on the cot but alert, following every movement of Anne’s hands as she unpacked the book and water bottle and, on good days, the speaker.

Today Ellie stayed on the bed for a while, wrapped in one blanket with the other bunched behind her like a nest, listening with her chin propped on her knee. Halfway through the reading she came down to the floor, as she often did now, and sat in front of the barrier with her legs crossed and the sleeves of the sweatshirt pulled down over her hands.

Anne read until the clock crept farther than she wanted it to.

She closed the book with quiet reluctance. “All right.”

Ellie’s eyes lifted immediately.

Anne slipped a bookmark between the pages. “That’s enough of that for today.”

The girl sat very still.

Anne packed slowly, more slowly than usual now that the end of the visit had become something Ellie seemed to track from the first rustle of the bag. She tucked the book away, coiled the speaker cord, adjusted the strap over her shoulder.

Then she made the mistake.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” she said.

Ellie jerked.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not a full-body flinch, not violence, not even fear at first glance. Just a sharp, involuntary snap of attention, like something in her had gone taut so suddenly it hurt. Her head came up. Her eyes fixed on Anne’s face with a sudden intensity that made Anne’s own breath catch.

Anne stilled with the bag half-zipped.

“Oh,” she said softly, realizing too late. “Sorry. It’ll only be a few days.”

Ellie stared at her.

Anne stepped toward the door, not wanting to drag it out and make it worse, but before her hand even reached the lever—

Bang.

The sound cracked through the room so hard Anne jumped.

Ellie had slammed her palm against the glass.

“Hey.”

It was rough, sudden, startlingly loud in a voice gone thin from disuse, and for one disorienting second Anne felt a flash of real fear. Not of being hurt, exactly, with the barrier between them, but of the force in it. The desperation. The sheer sharpness of hearing Ellie raise her voice at all after weeks of scraps and silence.

Anne turned back at once.

Ellie was on her feet now, breathing hard, one hand still braced against the barrier where she’d hit it. Her face had changed completely. Not blank anymore. Not distant. There was something raw in it, something too quick and young and frightened to hide itself in time.

Anne took a few steps back toward the glass, heart still knocking unsteadily in her chest.

“Hey,” she said, much softer. “It’s all right.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened.

Anne could see the regret arriving already, that awful quick retreat after a burst of need, the moment someone realizes they’ve shown too much and cannot take it back. Ellie’s shoulders were pulling inward again even as she stood there.

“I’m sorry,” Anne said. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

No response.

“I wish,” Anne added, and there was helplessness in it now, honest and unvarnished, “I wish I could give you something to do over the weekend. I know that’s not fair.”

Ellie’s eyes flicked away.

Anne moved closer until she stood directly across from her on the other side of the glass. “But I will be back soon, okay?”

The girl’s mouth tightened harder, the expression turning brittle.

Anne lowered her voice even more. “Monday. I’ll come back Monday.”

For a moment Ellie just stood there, breathing too fast, staring somewhere near Anne’s shoulder instead of at her face. Then whatever had surged up in her seemed to collapse all at once.

She pushed away from the glass.

No word. No nod. Nothing.

She crossed the room quickly, climbed back onto the cot, and turned her back so abruptly it felt less like settling down and more like being dismissed. She dragged one of the blankets up over her shoulder, curling around herself until only the back of her head and the slope of her sweatshirt showed.

Anne stayed where she was for a second longer, looking at the rigid line of her spine.

The room felt colder again.

“All right,” Anne said quietly, because she did not want to leave on silence even if Ellie had chosen it. “I’ll see you Monday, Ellie.”

No answer.

Anne waited, but the girl did not move.

At last she picked up her bag and let herself out.

The heavy lock sealed behind her.

Inside the cell, Ellie stayed facing the wall until Anne’s footsteps had completely faded. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes.

She hadn’t meant to do that.

Hadn’t meant to hit the glass or raise her voice or let that sharp, ugly panic out where someone could see it. The second Anne said Monday something inside her had dropped so fast it left her dizzy. Too many days. Too many empty hours. Too many meals at the slot and footsteps in the hall and nothing to fill the space where Anne sat.

Just a few days, Anne had said.

Ellie pressed her face deeper into the blanket.

A few days in that room was forever.

But worse than that—worse than the weekend itself—was the shame burning hot under her skin now. Anne had looked frightened. Only for a second, but Ellie had seen it. Of course she had. She always saw it, the moment people remembered what she was capable of, what her file said, what she had done.

She pulled the blanket higher, until it muffled the sound of the vent and the corridor and everything else.

Tag list: @sacredwrath @dyke-terra @hurt-people-hurt-people @fuckclimatechange @hikari-hat @butterflywhump @hvyss

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

Anne had learned how to leave without making it feel abrupt.

That alone felt like a skill no one had thought to teach.

She timed her goodbyes carefully now, never springing them on Ellie all at once. She’d start by closing the book or lowering the music and let a few quiet minutes pass before she stood. Sometimes Ellie still went still in that watchful way near the end, shoulders tightening under the blanket, but she no longer looked stunned by Anne’s leaving. She looked as though she was measuring it. Bracing for it. Which, Anne supposed, was different.

Mara had asked her to stop by her office for a check-in before the afternoon session.

The office was warm to the point of stuffiness, full of filing cabinets and binders and a potted plant drooping in the corner as if it had given up on the place months ago. Anne sat across from Mara with a paper cup of coffee she had not wanted but accepted anyway.

Mara glanced down at the notes on her tablet. “So. How are things going?”

Anne tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I haven’t had any problems.”

“That’s good.”

“She’s been more engaged recently, I feel.”

Mara looked up. “Engaged how?”

Anne considered. “Closer. More alert when I arrive. She’ll sit up earlier now. Sometimes she comes to the glass before I’ve even gotten settled.”

Mara gave a small nod like she was logging a useful metric.

“But,” Anne added, “we’ve still not talked.”

That made Mara smile in a way Anne couldn’t quite read. “That’s funny.”

Anne looked up. “Why?”

“Because she’s asked about you.”

Anne blinked. “She has?”

“Yes.” Mara leaned back in her chair. “She can talk. She’ll tell you exactly what she thinks of you when she’s having a moment, believe me. But yes. In fact, she seems quite fond of you.”

The word landed oddly in Anne’s chest. Fond.

It felt too easy, too neat for something as thin and careful as what existed between her and the girl in that room. Still, she found herself smiling before she meant to.

“Oh,” she said. “Well. That’s good.”

Mara watched her over the rim of her cup.

“I was worried I upset her the other day,” Anne admitted. “I brought a different book than usual and she barely looked at me for half the visit.”

Mara gave a short laugh. “Oh, you’ll know when she’s upset.”

Anne thought of Ellie’s still face, the way she sometimes went so blank it seemed to erase her entirely. She wasn’t sure anyone here knew as much about her being upset as they thought they did.

“Well,” she said after a moment, setting down the untouched coffee, “I’d like perhaps to be more engaged with her.”

Mara raised a brow. “Meaning?”

Anne hesitated, already knowing she wouldn’t like the answer. “Even just something simple. Crayons, maybe. Colored pencils. Paper. A puzzle. I know she’s high-risk, but she is also sixteen, and I’m worried the only stimulation she’s getting is with me. I’m not sure that’s healthy for a young girl.”

Mara’s expression flattened at once, not unkind exactly, but firm in a way that suggested they had stepped from conversation back into policy.

“That’s not an option right now.”

Anne folded her hands in her lap. “Not even supervised?”

“Listen.” Mara set her cup down with a quiet click. “We have protocols for a reason. She cannot be trusted with certain things for safety.”

Anne held her gaze. “Has she had any recent violent incidents?”

Mara’s mouth tightened slightly. “That’s not the point.”

It was, Anne thought, exactly the point.

But Mara continued before she could say so.

“If, in the future, she can prove she can be trusted with those kinds of materials, we’ll see about introducing them. Until then, safety comes first.”

There it was again.

Always first. Always before everything else. Before comfort, before dignity, before boredom, before whatever slow, gnawing damage came from leaving a child in a room so empty she had begun to treat the arrival of a paperback novel like weather changing.

Anne looked down at her hands. Her knuckles had gone pale where they pressed together.

“I understand,” she said, because there was nothing else to say that would actually change anything in this office.

Mara relaxed back into something warmer at once, as though the unpleasant bit had passed. “Of course if there’s anything else, please let me know.”

Anne rose, smoothing a hand over the front of her skirt. “Thank you for your time.”

She was nearly at the door when she stopped.

“Well,” she said, turning back, “actually. There is one thing.”

Mara looked up.

“It’s very, very cold in that room.”

Mara blinked. “Cold?”

“Yes.” Anne gave a small, helpless laugh, though there was no humor in it. “I’m there for not that long and my hands are freezing by the time I leave. I can’t imagine being in there more than a few minutes, let alone all day.”

For the first time in the conversation, Mara looked slightly uncomfortable.

Anne pressed on. “She’s always wrapped in that blanket. Always. And if she’s in bed half the day, I don’t think it’s only exhaustion.”

Mara tapped one finger once against the desk. “The rooms are climate controlled.”

Anne said nothing.

Mara exhaled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It was not a promise. Anne knew that.

Still, she nodded. “Thank you.”

She left the office with that sentence lingering behind her, thin and uncertain.

By the time she made it back down through the secured doors and checkpoints, she had mostly resigned herself to the likelihood that nothing would change. A note might be made. A maintenance request logged. A complaint filed under nonurgent environmental concerns and quietly forgotten beneath more pressing matters.

The final door buzzed open.

Anne stepped into the observation room and stopped.

Ellie was already there.

Not on the cot this time, not half-asleep, not tucked away in the far corner under the blanket. She was sitting on the floor by the glass, knees drawn up, chin resting lightly on them, her blanket around her shoulders like always. She must have heard the outer locks cycling because her head lifted the second Anne came in.

There was no smile, of course.

Just that steady, unreadable gaze.

But she had been waiting.

Anne’s whole face softened before she could help it. “Hello, darling.”

Ellie’s eyes flicked briefly to the bag in Anne’s hand, then back to her face.

Anne crossed to her chair and sat. “I’m sorry I’m a little late. I got ambushed by paperwork.”

Ellie watched her as if this might mean something.

Anne set the bag down and rubbed her hands together before unbuttoning her coat. The room was cold enough that the chill struck her immediately through the fabric at her elbows and knees. Worse today, maybe. Or perhaps she had just stopped trying to dismiss it.

She glanced up toward the vent.

Ellie followed her gaze.

“It’s freezing in here,” Anne muttered.

Something shifted in Ellie’s expression. Not surprise exactly. Recognition.

Anne looked back at her and saw, all at once, how tightly the blanket had been pulled around her. How red her knuckles were where they peeked from the fold. How the tip of her nose had gone faintly pink in the cold.

A small line formed between Anne’s brows. “Have you been cold all this time?”

Ellie did not answer.

But after a second, she gave the smallest shrug.

Anne let out a slow breath through her nose and opened her bag. “Well,” she said, gentler now, “I brought the next book.”

Ellie shifted a little closer to the glass.

Anne noticed. Of course she did.

She took out the paperback, but before opening it she looked through the barrier at the girl huddled on the floor, all long limbs and caution and blanket, and the unfairness of it hit her fresh all over again. Sixteen years old and waiting in an empty room for one person to come read aloud because there was nothing else to mark the day by.

She opened the book.

And while she read, Anne found herself already thinking ahead, not to chapter breaks or approved playlists or the careful routines she’d built over the past week, but to thermostats, maintenance requests, spare blankets, who signed off on what, and how far exactly she could push before someone decided she was becoming inconvenient.

On the other side of the glass, Ellie listened with her eyes half-lidded, one hand hidden beneath the fold of the blanket, the other resting near the barrier.

Tag list: @dyke-terra @hurt-people-hurt-people @fuckclimatechange @hikari-hat @butterflywhump

Ellie was on the floor instead of the cot.

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

She’d taken the blanket with her again, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders and knees until only her bare feet and one hand showed. She sat in the corner near the glass, not quite pressed against it, but close enough to watch the hallway when shadows moved past. The cell was as cold as ever. The vent hummed steadily overhead. Anne’s visit had ended hours ago, but the room still felt faintly altered, as if the music had left some trace of itself in the air.

The dinner slot clanged.

A tray appeared first, then the outer door opened and Mara stepped into the observation room with her badge clipped neatly at her waist and her usual brisk smile already in place.

“Hey, girlfriend,” she said, like this was any ordinary check-in, like Ellie was a moody teenager in her bedroom instead of locked behind reinforced glass. “How we doing tonight?”

Ellie did not move.

Mara glanced at the blanket-bundled shape on the floor. “You feeling like you’re gonna eat today?”

The tray sat by the slot untouched. Meat loaf. Mashed potatoes. Overcooked green beans glistening dully under fluorescent light. A plastic cup of juice. Ellie looked at none of it.

Mara waited half a second, then kept going in that same cheerfully practiced tone. “No? All right. What do we think of Anne, though? She seems sweet, right?”

Ellie’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere near Mara’s shoes.

“Mm-hm. Silent treatment.” Mara shifted the clipboard tucked under her arm and nudged the tray a little closer with the toe of her sensible flat. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, and I need you to eat something, okay? Just a little. Don’t make medical get dramatic on me.”

She turned toward the door.

Then stopped.

Behind her, so quiet it almost got swallowed by the vent, came a voice that sounded rough from disuse.

“How long is Anne staying?”

Mara turned back sharply.

Ellie had not changed position. Still wrapped up in the blanket on the floor, chin tucked down, eyes on nothing. If Mara hadn’t heard her herself she might have thought she’d imagined it.

For a second her expression did something close to surprise.

Then she recovered.

“Um,” she said, drawing the word out as though the question were mildly amusing instead of startling, “well, she’s employed here, so I guess until we don’t need her anymore.”

Ellie said nothing.

Mara tilted her head. “Why?”

No answer.

The girl might never have spoken at all. She sat there as still as before, the question hanging in the air between them like a thread abruptly cut. Mara waited another beat, but Ellie’s face had gone closed again, blank and unreadable.

Eventually Mara gave a little shrug.

“Right. Well.” She tapped the glass lightly with one fingernail. “Try the potatoes at least. See you tomorrow.”

Then she left, the locks sealing behind her in their usual sequence.

The silence afterward felt bigger than it had before.

Ellie stayed where she was for a long time, listening to the corridor settle. Footsteps came and went. A door buzzed somewhere down the hall. Someone shouted once, distantly, then was quieted. The tray sat by the slot, untouched except for the condensation gathering on the juice cup.

Until we don’t need her anymore.

The words sat ugly in Ellie’s head.

She had not meant to ask.

It had just slipped out. The question had been sitting in her chest all afternoon, growing heavier the longer Anne’s empty chair stayed empty. She hadn’t planned to say it. She didn’t ask things. Didn’t ask when people were coming back, didn’t ask if they meant what they said, didn’t ask how long good things lasted. Labs taught you better than that. This place had taught her better than that too.

People left. Or they changed. Or they stopped being kind the second kindness no longer served a purpose.

She knew that.

Still.

Ellie got up only when the room had gone dimmer and colder still. The blanket slipped from one shoulder as she crossed to the tray and crouched beside it. She lifted the plastic lid and stared down at the food without appetite.

Until we don’t need her anymore.

Need her for what?

To make Ellie easier. Quieter. More compliant. More manageable. Just another intervention to try until they decided it hadn’t worked, or it had worked enough, or the resources could be used somewhere else.

The thought made something hard twist in her stomach.

She picked up the fork and forced herself to take a bite because Mara would check, because medical would come if she didn’t, because being watched by medical was worse. The potatoes were lukewarm and gluey. She swallowed them anyway. A second bite of beans. Half a mouthful of meat loaf that turned to paste in her mouth and made her want to gag.

Then she pushed the tray away.

Two bites. Maybe three.

Not enough to matter.

She drew the blanket back around herself and returned to the floor by the glass, folding down slowly until she was sitting where Anne had seen her that afternoon, in the line of sight of the chair on the other side. Her knees came up to her chest. She pressed her mouth against the edge of the blanket and stared at the empty room.

Tag list: @dyke-terra @hurt-people-hurt-people @fuckclimatechange @hikari

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

This afternoon, the last chapter ended under that same cold humming vent.

Anne read the final lines softly, then let the words settle. Her fingers stayed on the page for a moment before she closed the book with a quiet papery thump.

“There,” she said, smiling a little at the cover in her lap. “That’s the end.”

On the other side of the glass, Ellie moved.

Anne’s eyes lifted immediately.

The girl had been lying on her cot under the thin blanket as usual, but now she pushed herself upright in one slow motion, blinking as though surfacing from somewhere deep. It was the most Anne had seen her move during one of these visits. Usually she stayed half-curled on the bed, listening without seeming to listen. Now she sat with her knees bent, hair falling into her face, looking at Anne with a focus that was almost unnerving in its directness.

“Oh,” Anne said, caught a little off guard. “Um.”

Ellie looked at the book.

Anne glanced down at it too, then back up. “Did you like this one?”

No answer.

But Ellie kept watching her.

“I do have the second one,” Anne added. “I just didn’t bring it with me today.”

That seemed to hold something. Not quite disappointment, but a pause that felt different from the others. Ellie’s gaze dropped briefly, then she stood.

Anne went very still.

There was no sudden tension in the girl’s body, no warning sharpness, none of the coiled energy Anne had been told to watch for. She just crossed the room barefoot and quiet, took the blanket from the bed with both hands, and wrapped it around herself like a shawl. Then she lowered herself to the floor directly in front of the glass.

Not close enough to touch, of course. There was still the barrier, the several feet of empty space, all the rules of the place humming invisibly between them.

But she came as close as she could.

Anne felt something in her chest pull tight.

Ellie sat cross-legged on the floor with the blanket gathered around her shoulders, her back against the side of the cot, face tipped up just enough to keep Anne in view. Her expression was the same strange blankness it often was, but Anne was starting to learn that Ellie’s stillness was not emptiness. It was caution. It was listening. It was all the things she did instead of speaking.

Anne rested her hands on the closed book. “Well,” she said gently, “I’m glad you came closer.”

Ellie’s eyes flickered, but that was all.

Anne thought for a second. “I have a little speaker with me, if you’d rather listen to something for a bit.”

A pause.

Then, faintly, Ellie nodded.

Anne blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

She tried not to sound too startled by the fact of it. She set the book aside carefully and reached into her bag, making each movement slow and visible. The small speaker had already been cleared by staff, along with a short approved playlist she’d made the night before after standing in her kitchen debating songs far longer than was probably reasonable. Nothing too loud, nothing too heavy, nothing obviously childish. Just gentle guitar, soft drums, voices that sounded young without sounding polished to death.

She set the speaker on the floor beside her chair and turned the volume low.

The first song drifted into the room, all warm strings and a mellow voice, thin through the little device but still enough to soften the edges of the space.

Ellie didn’t react right away.

She just sat there wrapped in the blanket, watching Anne for a moment longer as if making sure this new thing was real, then slowly turned her head toward the sound.

The music filled the cold room in a way words never quite had. It slipped into the sterile spaces, settled against the glass, pushed back at the hum of the vent. Anne leaned back a little in her chair and let it play without trying to fill every second.

After the second song, Ellie shifted.

Not away. Just enough to tuck her cold feet beneath the blanket.

Anne pretended not to notice. She had already learned that some moments only stayed if you didn’t grab at them.

So they listened.

A soft, wistful song about summer and growing up too fast.

Another with a steady rhythm and a chorus that sounded like driving with the windows down.

One that made Anne think of rainy afternoons and overfull bookstores.

Ellie never spoke. But once, during a song with a brighter melody, her eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds, and Anne could not tell whether she was tired or simply letting herself sit in it.

Either way, it felt like trust.

The time passed too quickly.

Eventually Anne had to lean forward and lower the volume, then turn the speaker off entirely. The room seemed sharper the second the music stopped.

“Well,” she said softly, already regretting it, “I should head out.”

Ellie’s eyes opened fully again.

Anne packed her things with careful slowness, slipping the speaker back into her bag, tucking the finished book beneath it. She stood, smoothing her skirt with one hand.

On the other side of the glass, Ellie rose too.

It was so immediate Anne almost looked behind herself, as if someone else must have moved and Ellie had merely reacted. But no. The girl was standing now with the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, facing Anne head-on.

The gesture was small enough that no one else in the building would likely have thought anything of it.

Anne did.

Because by now she understood that Ellie measured herself carefully. What she gave, she gave in scraps. A glance. A nod. Sitting near the glass instead of the bed. Standing when Anne stood, as though some part of her had decided leaving should not happen while she remained curled on the floor like something being abandoned.

Anne’s expression softened.

“Um,” she said, suddenly not wanting to say goodbye in the brisk, thoughtless way adults so often did around children who had learned not to expect them back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ellie did not nod this time, but she stayed where she was.

Anne adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “And I can bring the second book.”

A beat.

Then Ellie’s fingers tightened, just slightly, in the edge of the blanket.

It was not much.

It was enough.

Anne smiled, small and real. “All right. Tomorrow, then.”

Tag list: @dyke-terra @hurt-people-hurt-people @fuckclimatechange @hikari

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

Anne had been told to expect resistance.

Not silence like this.

The escort only walked her as far as the outer door this time. After a quick badge check and a reminder about the emergency call button on the wall, he left her alone in the observation room with the glass and the girl beyond it.

Ellie was asleep on the cot.

Or at least she looked asleep at first glance, curled tightly under the thin institutional blanket with her face turned toward the wall. There was a breakfast tray sitting untouched near the slot by the door, the plastic lid still sealed over congealed eggs and toast gone stiff with cold. A carton of milk sweated onto the floor beside it.

Anne stood for a moment just inside the room, clutching the strap of her canvas bag a little too tightly.

The cell somehow looked even barer when there wasn’t someone awake in it. Just the cot, the tray, the sink, the girl. The air-conditioning hummed overhead with a sharp, constant chill that made the back of Anne’s neck prickle.

She set her bag carefully on one of the bolted chairs.

Then, because she had no idea what the right volume for this was, she lifted her knuckles and tapped lightly on the glass.

“Ellie?”

Nothing.

The girl didn’t even twitch.

Anne glanced automatically at the untouched tray, then back at the cot. It was well past noon. Mara had mentioned that Ellie slept through long stretches if no one disturbed her. At the time it had sounded like a management inconvenience. Standing here now, Anne found herself wondering how much of it was sleep and how much was simply opting out.

She knocked again, a little firmer this time.

Ellie moved.

Not much. Just a tense little shift under the blanket, then a hand dragging sluggishly up over her face. She rolled onto her back, blinking into the dim light with a heavy, disoriented frown, and then turned her head toward the glass.

For a second she looked utterly lost.

Her hair was sticking up in flattened, uneven pieces from sleep, and there was a pillow crease scored faintly across one cheek. She stared at Anne like she was having trouble placing her, or perhaps deciding whether she was real.

Anne gave a small, awkward wave.

“Hi. I’m Anne. I came a couple days ago to, um… meet you.”

Ellie pushed one hand through her hair, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm. She sat up only enough to prop herself against the wall, blanket pooled around her waist. Her face held no real expression, but there was confusion in it. Not alarm. Just the hazy uncertainty of someone yanked back into the world before they were ready.

Anne took that as better than fear.

“I thought maybe,” she said, trying to keep her voice gentle and ordinary, “if you wanted, we could talk a little. Or listen to some music. Or read. I brought a few things.”

She lifted the bag a little in demonstration.

Ellie’s gaze dropped to it, then back to Anne, and without a word she lowered herself again and curled under the blanket.

But she didn’t turn away.

That, Anne noticed immediately. The first time Ellie had folded in on herself like a closed door. This time she remained facing the glass, knees tucked up, chin half-hidden in the blanket, watching Anne through the curtain of sleep-heavy hair.

The room was freezing.

Anne had been here less than five minutes and already her fingers felt cold. She rubbed at them, then shrugged out of her sweater and put it back on more firmly, tugging the sleeves down over her hands.

“My,” she said softly, glancing toward the ceiling vent, “it sure is cold in here.”

No response.

She looked back at Ellie. “Are you very cold?”

Nothing.

The girl’s expression didn’t change, but Anne saw her pull the blanket a little higher over her shoulder.

There might be reasons, Anne thought, for why she stayed in bed so much that had nothing to do with laziness or defiance or oversleeping. There were a thousand reasons a person might hide under the covers in a room like this. Cold was only one of them.

“Well,” Anne said, settling into the chair nearest the glass, “I suppose I can tell you a little about myself, if that’s all right.”

Ellie did not answer.

Anne smiled faintly to herself. “I live in a yellow house about twenty minutes from here, though it looks more cream in winter. I have a garden that I’m not terribly good at, but I keep trying anyway. Last spring I planted tomatoes and lost nearly all of them to squirrels, which felt a bit personal if I’m honest.”

Ellie’s eyes stayed on her.

“I like tea much more than coffee, which I gather is controversial in some circles. I read a lot. Mostly stories. I once taught a group of eight-year-olds for a whole year and one of them informed me very seriously that my handwriting looked like ‘a worried bird,’ which I’ve never quite recovered from.”

Still no reply.

Anne let the silence sit without hurrying to fill it, then nodded toward the tray by the slot.

“Would you like any breakfast?”

No answer.

“What are they having you for today?”

Nothing.

Anne followed her own question with a thoughtful little hum, as if they had been having a conversation all along. “It doesn’t look especially inspiring. I can’t say I blame you.”

That earned her the tiniest shift in Ellie’s eyes. Not amusement exactly, but attention.

Encouraged, Anne opened her bag and pulled out a book. Hardback wouldn’t have been allowed, so she’d copied down the approved edition from the list they gave her and brought a soft, already-worn paperback with a creased spine and a watercolor cover.

“Well,” she said, holding it up a little, “I brought this. I thought we might read some, if that’s okay.”

Ellie stared at the book.

Anne waited.

When no refusal came, she opened to the first page.

“All right then,” she murmured. “I’ll start.”

She read quietly, not performing it, not overdoing the voices or dramatics, just letting the words move steadily through the cold room. Every few pages she glanced up. At first Ellie seemed barely present, eyes half-lidded, body slack with sleep. But as time passed, there were small signs.

Her eyes tracked when Anne turned the page.

When a sentence amused Anne enough to make her smile, Ellie’s brow would knit as though trying to understand why.

Once, during a section describing a summer meadow buzzing with bees and warm wind through tall grass, Ellie’s gaze drifted past Anne and fixed somewhere distant, her expression gone strangely blank. Anne recognized that look too. Not boredom. Memory, perhaps. Or the ache of trying to picture a world that no longer felt reachable.

So Anne kept reading.

She paused once to sip from the water bottle she’d brought and found Ellie watching her mouth with the sharp, involuntary alertness of hunger. The glance vanished as soon as Anne noticed it, but the untouched tray by the door seemed suddenly louder in the room.

After a while Anne set the book in her lap and said, very casually, “You don’t have to talk to me, you know. I don’t mind doing the talking for a while.”

Ellie did not answer.

“I expect people say you should participate.”

Nothing.

“Well, I don’t think you should have to do anything with me except what you can manage.”

The girl’s face remained blank, but Anne had the distinct feeling she was being listened to now in earnest.

So she told her about the little bakery near her street that always burned the first batch of scones on Thursdays. About the blue mug she’d had for fifteen years and stubbornly refused to throw away despite the chipped handle. About the time she got caught in the rain without an umbrella and had to drive home wrapped in a supermarket tablecloth because it was the only dry thing in the car.

None of it mattered.

That was precisely the point.

No questions about symptoms. No careful probing. No talk of progress or compliance or behavior plans. Just small, ordinary scraps of life, offered without demand.

The light in the cell shifted gradually as afternoon stretched on. At some point Ellie sat up a little, blanket still around her shoulders, leaning back against the wall. She said nothing. She did not come closer to the glass. But she no longer looked half-asleep.

Anne noticed, too, that the girl had inched the food tray toward the cot with her foot.

She had not opened it.

Still.

When Anne reached the end of the third chapter, she closed the book around one finger and looked up.

“Well,” she said, with genuine reluctance, “I should probably be going.”

Ellie’s eyes lifted to her at once.

Anne stood slowly, careful not to make the movement feel abrupt. “I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s all right. I can bring this again. Or a different book, if you decide you hate this one.”

Nothing.

Anne smiled a little. “I won’t be offended.”

She gathered her things, slipping the book back into her bag. For a moment she hesitated, sweater sleeves still pulled down over her hands against the cold.

“I’m glad to have met you properly, Ellie,” she said.

The girl watched her without blinking.

Anne moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the lever. She didn’t turn it right away. There was a peculiar feeling in her chest, tender and painful both, like leaving a skittish animal who had finally stopped hiding long enough to look at you.

“Bye for now,” she said quietly.

Then she let herself out.

The latch sealed behind her with a heavy click.

Inside the cell, Ellie remained motionless for several seconds, listening to Anne’s footsteps recede down the corridor.

The silence settled back over the room.

The hum of the vent.

The dim light.

The untouched tray.

Slowly, very slowly, Ellie pushed herself upright.

The blanket slid from her shoulders into her lap. Her hair fell around her face as she stared at the empty observation room on the other side of the glass, at the chair Anne had been sitting in, at the faint smudge of a handprint left near the edge where Anne had rested her palm without even seeming to realize it.

No one ever stayed that long.

No one ever came in with stories about gardens and burned scones and chipped blue mugs. No one ever talked to her like she was a person waiting in a room instead of a threat contained in one.

Ellie’s gaze dropped to the food tray.

After a moment, she crawled off the cot, knees and bare feet silent against the floor, and crouched by the tray. She peeled back the lid. The eggs were cold. The toast was hard. The milk had gone nearly warm.

She sat there anyway, cross-legged on the floor in the freezing room, eating with slow, absent bites while staring through the glass at the place Anne had been.

Tag list:

@dyke-terra

(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.

Beside her, the staff escort kept an easy pace, one hand resting near the badge clipped to her belt.

“You understand,” the woman was saying, practiced and pleasant, “that our higher-needs residents require an environment built around containment first. Rehabilitation, education, enrichment, those are all goals, of course, but safety has to come before anything else.”

Anne nodded, though the words sat heavily in her chest. Higher-needs residents. Environment built around containment first. There had been a dozen phrases like that already, soft and polished and meant to make something brutal sound sensible.

They passed another unit where a man in gray pacing circles paused just long enough to watch them through the door window. Farther down, someone was singing to themselves in a low, tuneless murmur. Somewhere else metal struck metal, once, hard enough to ring through the corridor.

“This wing houses our most acute cases,” the woman said. “The ones with the highest security rankings.”

Anne glanced at the card clipped to the woman’s jacket. Mara Bell, Clinical Operations Coordinator.

“You said on the phone there was one girl you particularly needed help with.”

Mara gave a small sigh, the first crack in her rehearsed tone. “Yes. Ellie.”

The name was startlingly ordinary.

“She arrived approximately a year ago following extraction from an unauthorized research site.” Mara swiped them through another checkpoint. “She was fifteen at intake. Human experimentation history, prolonged confinement, severe institutional trauma, extreme reactive aggression. Multiple fatalities associated with the lab prior to recovery and several critical incidents during rescue.”

Anne turned to look at her. “Fatalities associated how?”

“We were never given a full report.”

“That seems important.”

“It was classified.”

The door buzzed open. A guard on the other side looked Anne over, then Mara, then stepped back.

Mara continued without missing a beat. “What matters for our purposes is that she presented with profound instability. She weaponized anything she was given. Clothing ties, meal trays, bedding seams, fragments of damaged fixtures. She attacked staff repeatedly, attempted self-harm whenever the opportunity arose, and could not safely be handled one-on-one.”

Anne’s shoes clicked more quietly now. The floor here was rubberized.

“So you isolated her.”

Mara did not answer immediately. “We contained her.”

Anne let that pass, though only barely. “And now?”

“Now she’s… quieter.”

The word lingered in the air between them.

Not better. Not recovering. Not safer. Quieter.

They reached the end of the hall. There was no observation window in this door, only a wide black panel set beside it, waiting for a code. Mara entered one, then pressed her palm to the scanner. The locks disengaged in stages.

“This is one of our red-level containment suites,” she said. “Independent ventilation, sealed furnishings, impact-resistant viewing wall, emergency gas access, suppression system in the ceiling. No unsecured objects enter the room. No staff member crosses the threshold alone under any circumstance.”

Anne stared at her. “How old is she now?”

“Sixteen.”

Mara opened the door.

The room beyond was not a room so much as a box built by people who had decided that if they removed enough from a life, danger might go with it.

A long pane of reinforced glass split the space in two. On their side was a narrow observation area with two bolted chairs and a wall console. On the other side sat the containment cell itself: a low cot fixed to the floor, a stainless steel toilet and sink unit in the far corner, a recessed light overhead dimmed to something like dusk. No shelves. No books. No blanket beyond the thin one tangled beneath the girl’s body. No pictures. No color at all.

The girl was curled on her side on the cot, knees tucked close, dark hair spilling over half her face. She looked smaller than Anne had expected. Not because she was actually small, but because there was something diminished about the way she slept, every part of her folded inward as though even unconsciousness had to be defensive.

Anne took a slow step toward the glass.

“That’s Ellie,” Mara said.

Anne did not answer. She was looking at the girl’s arms. Even from here she could make out the healing marks crossing the skin in pale lines and darker scabs, old ones layered under newer ones. Some looked blunt, some jagged. There were bruises yellowing near one wrist. Her bare feet were mottled with fading marks too.

“How often is she in here?”

Mara seemed almost surprised by the question. “Permanently, at present.”

Anne turned. “Permanently?”

“She cannot be moved safely through shared areas.”

“Not even to an activity room? A classroom?”

“No.”

Anne looked back through the glass.

The cot was so narrow that one careless turn in sleep would have sent a normal child rolling off it. The walls were bare enough to make her own skin crawl. She tried to imagine waking in that room every morning, counting the same corners, tracing the same cracks in the sealant, measuring time by food trays and medication rounds and the footsteps outside. She couldn’t. Her mind balked.

“What does she do all day?”

Mara folded her hands. “She sleeps quite a bit. Sometimes she paces. Sometimes she sits near the barrier. Sometimes she refuses meals. She has periods where she’ll engage verbally, but not consistently.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Anne murmured before she could stop herself.

Mara either didn’t hear or chose not to react. “We’ve become increasingly concerned over the last month. Food refusal is escalating. She still drinks enough to avoid a medical intervention, but not by much. We think she may benefit from structured contact. Limited, of course. Supervised. Quiet. Someone who can offer conversation, educational support, maybe gradual routine-building.”

Anne’s throat felt tight. “And you don’t have anyone doing that now?”

“We have a great many residents and finite staffing.”

It was a bureaucratic answer, but the girl behind the glass made it obscene.

Mara stepped closer and rapped her knuckles against the viewing panel.

The sound was sharp in the small space.

“Hey, Ellie. Ellie, wake up for a second.”

Anne winced. “You don’t have to—”

“She’ll sleep all day if you let her.” Mara knocked again, louder this time. “Elle-belle. Open your eyes.”

The girl moved at once.

Not lazily. Not like someone woken from good sleep. She flinched upright with the reflexive confusion of an animal startled in a trap, shoulders drawn high, breath catching before she’d even fully surfaced. Hair clung across her cheek. Her eyes darted first to the sound, then to the door behind them, then to the ceiling corners where the vents sat. Only after that did they land on Anne.

They were gray, Anne thought distantly. Or blue. Something washed-out and watchful, the color hard to name beneath the fluorescent light.

“Hey, girl,” Mara said in the bright tone one might use for a reluctant preschooler. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet. This is Anne. She might start working with you a bit. How does that sound?”

Ellie stared.

There was a second—only a second—where Anne thought she saw the girl trying to understand, trying to fit the new face into some internal map of risk. Her expression did not sharpen into anger like Anne had been warned it might. It didn’t even really change. Something in it just seemed to dim.

Then Ellie lowered herself back onto the cot and curled away from them, pulling her knees up until her spine made a hard line under the thin gray shirt.

Mara exhaled through her nose. “Don’t take it personally. She’s like that a lot.”

Anne kept looking at the small hooked shape of her body. There was a raw patch high on the back of Ellie’s hand, half hidden where she tucked it against her chest. Teeth marks, maybe. Or friction against the wall.

“You said she has episodes of aggression,” Anne said quietly. “When was the last one?”

Mara glanced at the tablet in her hand. “Directed outward? It’s been a while. A few weeks, maybe more.”

“And inward?”

Mara’s pause was brief, but Anne heard it. “More frequent.”

“How frequent?”

“It varies.”

Anne turned her head.

Mara adjusted. “Several incidents this month.”

Incidents. As if the blood had filled out its own paperwork.

Anne stepped closer to the glass until she could see the rise and fall of Ellie’s breathing. Too fast to be asleep again. She was awake. Just turned away.

“What does she get to have in here?”

“You can see the current setup.”

“No books?”

“They can be torn.”

“Paper?”

“Swallowed, shredded, used as tinder.”

“Pencils?”

Mara gave her a look.

Anne pressed her lips together. “Music?”

“No device can enter that suite unsecured.”

“A radio outside the barrier, then.”

“We’ve trialed audio input before. She became dysregulated.”

The words were mild. Anne had already learned dysregulated could mean anything from crying to biting through her own lip.

She looked at the girl again. Sixteen. Youngest in the whole facility, Mara had said earlier. A child tucked into the far corner of the most fortified wing in the building because no one had found a way to make her safe that did not also erase nearly everything else.

“Does she ever ask to come out?”

Mara’s expression shifted, something unreadable passing over it. “Not anymore.”

Anne swallowed.

On the other side of the glass, Ellie’s shoulders rose once in a shallow breath. Her hand tightened briefly in the blanket and then went still.

Mara was already retreating toward the door. “If you’re interested, I can take you back to my office and go over the position details. Hours, restrictions, hazard compensation, required training. It’s a specialized role.”

Anne did not move.

For a long moment she stood in that cold little room, staring through the barrier at the girl who would not look back.

There was a particular kind of silence in places like this, she thought. Not the peaceful sort. The kind that gathered because nobody expected to be answered.

Finally she said, “Does she ever have anyone just sit with her?”

Mara had her hand on the door lever. “When operationally feasible.”

“That means no.”

“It means not often.”

Anne nodded once. Her face felt very calm, which usually meant she was angry.

On the cot, Ellie shifted again, only slightly, but enough for Anne to catch a glimpse of her profile through the curtain of hair. Hollow cheek. Cracked lower lip. Lashes resting against skin too pale to belong under these lights. She looked exhausted in a way that went beyond sleep, the kind of tired that settled in the bones.

As Anne watched, Ellie’s eyes opened a sliver.

Not enough to turn. Just enough to see the reflection in the glass.

Anne didn’t smile. Smiles from strangers, in places like this, were too often lies.

She only lifted one hand, slow and open, and rested it gently against her own side of the barrier.

Ellie’s gaze fixed on it.

A beat passed.

Then, with the smallest movement, so slight Anne might have missed it if she had blinked, Ellie uncurling just enough to look at her properly.

Her face was blank. Guarded. Almost frightening in its emptiness. But there was something underneath it, something thin and frayed and buried so deep it barely reached the surface at all.

Not hope. Not yet.

Just attention.

Mara opened the door. “Miss Bell?”

Anne did not take her eyes off the girl. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’d appreciate that.”

But even as she turned to leave, she knew the decision had already been made.

(TWs): medical abuse, institutional abuse, neglect, psychological trauma, maltreatment of mental health patients, emotional distress, mild body horror, ableism

Thomas gripped the steering wheel, his fingers drumming anxiously against the leather before he finally shut off the engine. He sat there for a moment, staring at the house. It looked exactly the same as the day he helped move Ella in—a neatly trimmed lawn, a well-swept porch, that same warm porch light glowing against the evening sky.

It was supposed to be a fresh start. A home.

It had been a month since she aged out of the facility. A month since her parents had agreed to take her in. A month of unanswered calls.

Thomas exhaled slowly, then climbed out of the truck. His boots scuffed against the pavement as he made his way up the front steps. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He knocked firmly.

A few moments passed before the door cracked open.

Ella’s father stood there, stiff and unreadable, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe.

Thomas forced a polite smile. “Hey, I just wanted to check in, see how Ella’s settling in.”

The man hesitated. Then, without a word, he stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind him.

That was the first bad sign.

Thomas’s pulse ticked up, but he kept his voice even. “I called a few times. Didn’t hear back.”

Ella’s father sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that. It’s just been… a lot.”

Thomas waited.

“She’s a difficult girl,” the man continued. “We thought she just needed stability, a family… but it was harder than we expected. The outbursts, the way she’d just—” He shook his head. “We did everything we could.”

A cold weight settled in Thomas’s stomach.

“She’s not here, is she?”

The man’s gaze flickered downward for half a second before he sighed again, deeper this time. “Look, we tried, we really did. But she—she wasn’t getting better. It was always something. The screaming at night, the way she’d just… shut down for days.” He shook his head. “We have other kids to think about. We couldn’t keep living like that.”

Thomas’s fingers twitched.

“So where is she?”

Ella’s father shifted uncomfortably. “We found… a place. Somewhere that could handle her better than we could.”

Thomas went still.

“A place?” His voice came out quieter now.

The man hesitated, then shrugged like it was nothing. “It was for the best. She needed help we just couldn’t give.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut.

Thomas inhaled sharply, his grip tightening at his sides. His fingers curled into fists.

“You got rid of her.”

Ella’s father frowned. “That’s not—”

“You got rid of her.” The calm Thomas had been holding onto finally cracked, his voice sharp, cutting. “She trusted you. And you—” He exhaled sharply, stepping back, trying to keep himself from doing something reckless. His hands trembled. He clenched them tighter.

Blowing up wouldn’t help Ella.

But he wasn’t letting this go.

Thomas lifted his chin, his stare hard and unflinching.

“Tell me where she is.”

Thomas pulled into the parking lot, his grip tightening around the wheel as he stared up at the building. It was a fortress of concrete and reinforced steel, a high-security psych ward built to contain, not to heal. No windows. No signs of life. Just a cold, unyielding structure where people were locked away and forgotten.

He had seen places like this before.

He knew what they were.

This was where they sent the ones who didn’t get better. The ones deemed too unstable, too difficult, too much. And he knew, all too well, what happened to kids like Ella once they aged out of the system.

If no one came for them, they ended up in places like this.

There were barely any resources for kids who still struggled once they became legal adults. The system didn’t care if they weren’t ready. If they couldn’t function on their own. If they were still trying to make sense of the damage left behind.

They were labeled a problem. And problems got locked away.

His jaw clenched as he killed the engine and stepped out of the truck, the air thick with the lingering chill of early evening. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, spilling harsh fluorescent light onto the pavement. Inside, the air was sharp with the sterile sting of antiseptic, the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes and never quite faded.

The nurse at the front desk barely looked up.

Thomas approached, his steps measured. “I’m looking for Ella,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I’m a friend of hers.”

The nurse gave him a quick once-over before turning to the computer. The keys clacked in an unhurried rhythm, the screen casting a faint glow across her expressionless face.

Thomas forced himself to wait, jaw tight.

After a few seconds, she finally gestured down the hall. “Room 312.”

That was it. No questions. No concern. Just another patient in the system.

Thomas nodded once and headed down the corridor.

The hallway stretched long and sterile, lined with heavy doors and security cameras that blinked overhead, tracking every movement. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting everything in a washed-out, artificial glow. The air smelled of bleach and something else—something stagnant, like a place where people weren’t meant to live, only exist.

He reached Room 312 and knocked, the sound echoing against the hollow quiet.

“Ella?”

Nothing.

His stomach twisted. He knocked again, harder. “Ella, it’s me.”

Still no answer.

His fingers curled around the handle, and without another thought, he pushed the door open.

The room was oppressively bare.

White walls. A thin mattress on a metal frame. No blankets, no personal belongings, nothing to suggest that someone actually lived here. Just another body in another room, existing in silence.

And there, lying motionless on top of the bed, was Ella.

Thomas froze.

She was thinner than he remembered. The scrubs she wore hung loosely off her frail frame, and her arms lay limp at her sides. His eyes flicked to the restraints hanging from the bed—open, but still there, waiting to be used.

A slow, cold fury settled into his chest.

He stepped forward. “Ella?” His voice was quieter this time.

No response.

He crouched beside the bed, reaching out to gently shake her shoulder. “Ella, wake up.”

For a moment, nothing. Then—finally—her eyelids fluttered, her body stirring just enough to show she was still in there. Slowly, her eyes cracked open, unfocused and heavy. A dazed fog clouded her gaze.

Then they landed on him.

Recognition flickered.

“…Thomas?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and strained, like it hurt to speak.

Tears welled in her eyes, her lip trembling as the reality of the moment settled in. Then, all at once, she broke.

A soft, fractured sob escaped her, and before Thomas could react, she was reaching for him, her hands shaking as she grasped at the front of his jacket like she was afraid he might disappear.

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled her against him, holding her as tightly as he dared without hurting her.

“Please,” she choked out, her words slurred and weak. “Please.”

Thomas’s stomach twisted. She was drugged. He could feel it in the way her body sagged against him, exhaustion pulling at her even as she tried to stay awake.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice steady even as his chest tightened. He ran a hand gently over her back, feeling how much thinner she was than before. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Ella’s sobs shuddered through her frail frame, but she barely had the strength to hold on. Slowly, the fight drained out of her, her breaths growing slow and unsteady. Within moments, she was asleep again, her body still pressed against him, as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Thomas sat there, holding her, his jaw set.

Thomas gently laid Ella back onto the bed, his hands lingering for a moment as he adjusted the thin blanket over her. She didn’t stir.

Leaning in, he whispered, “I’ll be back.”

Nothing.

His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to step away. He had work to do.

As he walked out into the hallway, his strides were quick, purposeful. He headed straight for the nurse’s station. The same nurse from earlier barely looked up when he stopped in front of her.

“Why is she so sedated?” His voice was sharp, but controlled.

The nurse hesitated, clearly not wanting to deal with him. “I don’t have that information, sir.”

“That’s funny, ‘cause she could barely lift her head just now,” Thomas shot back. “So you’re gonna tell me exactly what the hell she’s been given.”

The nurse stiffened. “Sir, I can’t disclose—”

“Is there a problem here?”

A smooth, controlled voice cut in, and Thomas turned to see a doctor approaching. He looked like the type who had stopped seeing his patients as people a long time ago.

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” Thomas said, crossing his arms. “Ella’s so drugged up she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. What’s going on?”

The doctor exhaled, already sounding exasperated. “She’s been refusing her medication. And meals.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “No, that doesn’t sound like her. Not unless something happened.”

The doctor gave a practiced shrug. “When a patient refuses medication, we have protocols in place.”

Thomas stared at him. “You mean you slipped it in her food.”

Silence.

The way the doctor’s gaze flicked away for half a second was answer enough.

Thomas scoffed. “She figured it out, didn’t she? And instead of, I don’t know, talking to her, you doubled down?”

“She became aggressive,” the doctor said, his tone clipped. “We had no choice but to sedate her for her safety and ours.”

Thomas shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. “Right. ‘No choice.’ Not like she’s been through enough, huh?” He leveled a sharp look at the doctor. “You ever actually talk to her? Or is this place just about making things easier for you?”

The doctor didn’t respond.

Thomas let out a breath, stepping back. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, pulling out his phone.

The doctor’s expression finally shifted, just slightly. He didn’t like that.

Good.

Thomas raised the phone to his ear.

“I need to make a call.”

Thomas moved carefully, slipping an arm under Ella’s legs and the other around her back as he lifted her from the bed. She barely reacted, just a soft sigh against his chest as he carried her through the halls.

No alarms. No resistance.

Because this time, they had to let her go.

He had made the call. Pulled the right strings. Signed the paperwork. Ella was in his custody now.

She was his responsibility.

The night air was cool as he stepped outside, heading straight for his truck. He opened the passenger door and eased her onto the seat, buckling her in before shutting the door and moving around to the driver’s side.

As he pulled onto the road, the facility faded into the distance behind them.

For a while, Ella didn’t stir. The hum of the tires, the steady rhythm of the road—it was almost peaceful. Then, after a few miles, she shifted slightly.

A soft noise. A flutter of lashes.

Her head turned weakly toward him. “…What?”

Thomas glanced at her. “Shhh,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

Her brows knitted faintly. “…Where are we going?”

His grip on the wheel tightened, but his voice stayed soft.

“Home.”

Tag list:

@fuckcapitalismasshole

@gardenonmercury

Mornings had become routine. Wake up before the overhead lights clicked on, lay in bed for a while listening to the quiet hum of the facility, get up, brush her teeth, pull on clothes, tie her hair back.

She wasn’t sure when it started feeling normal, but it did.

Now, she sat on the edge of her bed, lacing up her shoes, her movements slow and methodical. 

The door clicked open, and she barely glanced up as Anna stepped inside, her presence familiar. But there was someone else with her.

“Morning, my girl,” Anna said, her usual warmth in her voice. “How we feeling?”

Ella finished tying her shoe, letting the laces hang loose. “Fine.”

Anna came over and set a small paper cup of pills on the nightstand. “Alright, meds first.”

Ella reached for them, but before she could, the new woman stepped forward, holding out her hand. “Hi, Ella. I’m Rebecca. I’ll be covering for Anna while she’s on maternity leave.”

Ella’s stomach twisted slightly. She hadn’t forgotten Anna was leaving, but hearing it out loud made it feel more real.

She didn’t take Rebecca’s hand. Instead, she turned to Anna. “How long is she gonna be here?”

Anna gave her a look. “Ella.”

“What?” She picked up the pill cup, swallowing them dry before setting it back down.

Anna exhaled, but her voice stayed gentle. “I’ll still be around for a little while, but Rebecca’s going to start shadowing me.”

Ella just nodded, her fingers tapping lightly against her knee.

Anna patted her shoulder. “You two are spending the day together.”

Ella didn’t react at first; she just blinked slowly before adjusting the tongue of her shoe.

Anna crouched slightly, catching her eye. “Hey. I know change is hard, but you and her are gonna have a lot of fun.”

Ella finally looked at Rebecca, really looked at her, taking in the eager smile, the careful posture. She looked like someone who was trying too hard.

Anna stood with a soft sigh. “I’ll check in later.”

Ella just nodded again, her expression unreadable as the door shut behind her, leaving her alone with Rebecca.

The door opens earlier than usual, and Ella barely glances up from where she sits on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up to her chest. She expects Anna’s usual chirpy greeting, but the voice that speaks isn’t hers.

“Morning, Ella.”

Ella’s head snaps up. Rebecca stands in the doorway, holding the usual cup of pills, a soft smile on her face.

Ella’s stomach twists. “Where’s Anna?”

Rebecca hesitates, just long enough for Ella to feel it. “She went into labor last night.”

Ella’s breath catches in her throat. “No, she didn’t. She said she’d be here for a few more weeks.” Her voice is sharp, almost accusing.

Rebecca takes a careful step inside. “I know, but babies don’t always wait for schedules. She had to leave early, but everything’s fine. She and the baby are both doing well.”

Ella stares at her, unblinking. “She didn’t say goodbye.”

Rebecca softens. “I know that’s hard, but—”

“No.” The word is quick, final.

Rebecca moves to set the cup down on the nightstand. “Ella, I know change is hard, but—”

“I don’t care,” Ella snaps, standing up abruptly. “She said she’d be here.”

Rebecca sighs, keeping her voice calm. “I know. But she’s not.”

Ella’s hands clench into fists. “She lied.”

“She didn’t lie,” Rebecca corrects gently. “Things just—”

“Shut up.”

Rebecca takes a breath, steady but firm. “I know you’re upset, but it’ll be ok. It’s not forever.”

Ella doesn’t care. Her chest is tight, her throat burning. This was just like before. People left. They always left.

Rebecca reaches out, maybe to comfort her, maybe just to guide her toward the bed, but Ella doesn’t think—she just reacts.

Her hand flies up, shoving Rebecca hard. She stumbles back, catching herself against the wall, eyes wide with shock.

Ella’s breathing is ragged, her pulse pounding in her ears. Rebecca touches her face where Ella’s knuckles had grazed her cheek, the skin already reddening.

The silence is unbearable.

Rebecca quickly slips out the door.

The second Thomas steps into the room, Ella is already on her feet, relief and frustration mixing into something volatile.

But one look at his face, and she knows.

No.

“Sit down,” he says, voice flat.

Her chest tightens. She doesn’t move.

“Now.”

She drops back onto the bed. Her whole body hums with barely restrained energy, fists clenched at her sides.

Thomas exhales, crossing his arms. “You know better.”

Ella stares straight ahead, her jaw locked so tight it aches.

“No TV. No outside. For the rest of the week.”

Her fingers dig into the sheets. “Fuck you.”

Thomas doesn’t react. “Rebecca will be back tomorrow, and you’re going to treat her with respect.”

Her vision narrows.

“If I hear that you’ve been giving her trouble, I’ll make it a month.”

Something inside her snaps.

“No,” she snarls.

Thomas lifts an eyebrow, waiting.

Ella surges to her feet. “No. You can’t do this.”

“I just did.”

She doesn’t think—she lunges.

Her fist swings, wild and furious, but Thomas is quicker. He catches her wrist mid-air, grip solid as steel.

She thrashes, twisting, trying to break free. “Let me go!”

“Two weeks,” Thomas says evenly.

She screams. It’s raw, furious, shaking the walls.

“NO! THAT’S NOT FAIR!”

“You want to keep going?” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “Fine. Three weeks.”

Ella kicks at him, wild and desperate, but he barely shifts. His grip tightens just enough to hold her steady.

“Stop,” he orders.

She fights harder.

“Ella.”

Her whole body trembles with rage, with exhaustion, with something dangerously close to despair.

Thomas sighs, finally releasing her wrist. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then he walks out, leaving her standing there, shaking.

The door shuts.

Silence.

Ella lets out a wordless, guttural scream grabs the closest thing—a book—and hurls it at the door.

It crashes against the wood and falls to the floor.

Her chest heaves, her throat burns, and yet the rage doesn’t fade.

She is never going to forgive him for this

Rebecca stands behind Ella, fingers combing gently through her hair. “One braid or two?” she asks, her tone light.

Ella barely has time to process the question before there’s a knock at the door.

Rebecca looks up, then smiles. “Look who it is.”

Ella turns just as Anna steps inside, her face bright but cautious. “Hey, girlie.”

Ella stares.

“I’m just visiting for a few hours,” Anna continues, stepping further in. “Thought I’d come check on you.”

“I’ll give you two a minute,” Rebecca offers.

“Thanks” she says, taking a seat on the bed beside Ella.

Ella stiffens.

Anna watches her for a moment. “Hey,” she says gently. “How are you?”

Silence.

“I’ve missed you.”

Nothing.

Anna reaches out, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Ella’s ear.

Ella shoves her hand away.

Anna blinks, taken aback. “Ella—”

“Go away.”

Anna’s face falls. “What’s wrong?”

Ella’s fingers dig into her thighs.

“I missed you,” Anna says again, softer this time.

“Go away.”

Anna studies her carefully. “Are you okay?”

Ella’s throat tightens, heartbeat roaring in her ears.

And then, without thinking, she screams—raw, shaking, enough to make her own ears ring.

“GO AWAY!”

Anna flinches.

The room falls silent, thick with tension.

Anna exhales, nodding slowly. “Alright,” she says, standing. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

She waits for an answer, but Ella doesn’t give one.

Anna hesitates, then turns and walks out.

Rebecca stepped into the room, glancing around at the slightly messy bed, the scattered books on the desk, and the lump of a person curled up beneath the bed frame. With a sigh, she crouched down, resting her arms on her knees.

"Hey," she said.

A sniffle came from under the bed.

Rebecca tilted her head. "I think I know what's going on," she said gently. "You were upset that she left without warning, and now you realize you overreacted. And you’re worried she won’t come back. Am I close?"

Silence. Then, another quiet sniffle.

Rebecca smiled a little. "I don’t think Anna’s the type to hold a grudge. I think a good place to start would be saying, 'I’m sorry.'"

The door creaked open again, and Anna stepped inside. She didn’t say anything at first, just walked over and sat down on the bed. Ella kept her eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to look. The silence stretched until Anna finally spoke.

“Hey.”

Ella’s breath hitched. A moment later, tears welled up, spilling over as she pushed herself up and curled into Anna’s lap, clinging tightly.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “Please don’t leave me.”

Anna wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.”

“You left,” Ella whispered, voice breaking.

“I know,” Anna murmured. “I’m sorry.” She pressed a kiss to the top of Ella’s head. “You’re still my girl.”

Ella sobbed harder as Anna gently played with her hair, smoothing it out with slow, comforting strokes. They sat there for a while, Ella’s shaky breaths gradually evening out.

After a few minutes, Anna shifted slightly. “I’m still on maternity leave,” she said softly, “but I’ll come by, okay?”

Ella nodded against her.

“Hold on—I’ll be right back.”

Ella sat up, wiping her face as Anna stood and slipped out of the room. When she returned, she carried a small bundle in her arms. She sat back down on the bed, cradling it carefully.

Ella stared, completely still. She had never seen a baby before.

Anna smiled. “Can you say hi? This is Violet.”

Ella swallowed. Her hands twitched against her lap.

“Do you wanna hold her?”

Ella hesitated before nodding. Anna guided her hands, making sure she was supporting the tiny body just right. Ella held Violet as carefully as possible, barely breathing. The baby squirmed a little, making a soft noise. Ella shifted slightly, unsure.

Anna chuckled. “You’re doing great. Just relax.”

Ella let out a shaky breath, her grip adjusting ever so slightly. Violet’s tiny fingers curled against her shirt, and for the first time, Ella felt something unfamiliar—something warm.

She glanced up at Anna, eyes wide. “She’s so small,” she whispered.

Anna smiled. “Yeah, she is.”

Anna’s smile softened as she reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind Ella’s ear. “Say hi to your sister.”

Tag list:

@fuckcapitalismasshole

@gardenonmercury

(TW): Medical procedures, post-surgical confusion, panic, past trauma, restraint, escape attempts.

The room is too bright, too crowded, too much. The beeping of monitors echoes in her ears, every sound sharper than it should be. Gloved hands move around her, pressing cold electrodes against her skin, clipping a pulse oximeter to her finger. The weight of too many people around her makes her chest tight, her breath too shallow.

Ella’s fingers twist into the bedsheets, gripping them like a lifeline. She keeps her eyes locked on the ceiling, her jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Thomas stands beside her, arms crossed, watching. He’s been watching all morning, tracking every movement. His voice is steady, calm. “They’re going to put you to sleep first. You won’t feel anything.”

She swallows, her throat dry.

“The surgery is through your nose,” he continues, his tone almost too casual, like he’s just going through the steps again. “When you wake up, you probably won’t even notice it happened.”

She doesn’t respond. The air in her lungs feels too thick, too heavy to breathe.

A nurse unlocks the bed, and it shifts beneath her as they start rolling her forward. The motion jolts her out of her silence, and something deep in her gut turns ice cold.

No.

No. No. No.

Her breath comes too fast, her body reacting before her mind catches up. She pushes herself up, her hands gripping the rails. “No,” she whispers, barely audible over the sound of rolling wheels. “No, no, no, stop.”

Thomas takes a step closer. “Ella—”

She yanks at the pulse oximeter, ripping it from her finger. The wire snaps back, and her hands fly to the electrodes stuck to her chest. Get them off. Get them off—

Two nurses grab her wrists before she can pull them away.

“No!” The scream rips out of her throat, raw and desperate. She thrashes, trying to rip free, her body jerking violently against their grip.

“Ella, you’re okay,” Thomas says, his voice careful, firm.

“You’re lying!” she chokes out, shaking her head frantically. “Let me go! Please, please—”

The bed keeps moving, the walls blurring past her. Hands press her down, securing her back against the mattress.

“Just breathe,” Thomas tries again, but she can’t. The panic is clawing at her chest, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs.

The doors swing open, and the cold, sterile air of the operating room floods her senses. Everything is white and sharp—too many people, too many gloved hands moving too fast. The second they try to lift her onto the table, she fights harder.

“Don’t make me do this!” Her voice cracks, raw from screaming. She kicks out, twisting her body, her muscles straining against the grip of the nurses.

“Ella—”

“Don’t!” Her voice is high and frantic, her body thrashing as more hands try to hold her down. “I don’t want this! I don’t want this!”

She barely hears the doctor. “Hold her still.”

A nurse leans over her, pressing firm hands against her shoulders. “We need to move her.”

“No!” She kicks out, her body arching off the bed. “Please, please don’t—”

“Ella.”

The voice cuts through the noise. She gasps, her head snapping to the side.

Thomas is still there. Still watching.

“I’m right here,” he says, his voice softer now. “It’s okay.”

Her breath shudders.

She’s breathing too fast. Her body is shaking, her muscles burning from the effort of fighting, but Thomas doesn’t look away.

“Ella, I need you to breathe,” he says.

A nurse appears beside her, holding something in her hands.

The mask.

The second she sees it, she starts fighting again.

“No!” Ella sobs, twisting her head away. “I don’t want to be—I don’t want to—”

The nurse presses it down over her face.

The rubber smell floods her nose. She gasps against it, her lungs too tight to take in air.

“This will just help you relax,” the nurse says, but her voice is distant, warped.

Thomas steps closer, his face swimming in and out of focus.

“Thomas,” Ella chokes out, the words muffled against the mask. Her chest is rising too fast, her body trembling beneath the restraints holding her down. “Please, don’t let them—”

“Shh.” His voice is right above her, steady, constant. “You’re gonna be Ok.”

She barely feels the doctor at her IV, barely registers the cold sting of medication being pushed through.

Her limbs go heavy first. Then her eyelids.

The fight drains out of her, her fingers twitching weakly against the sheets.

She blinks once, twice—

The last thing she sees is Thomas.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her arms ache from fighting, but they don’t stop. Hands force her wrists down, the leather straps tightening, biting into her skin. She kicks out, her body twisting violently against the restraints, but it doesn’t matter.

Kyle moves first, his expression blank, detached. He shoves a rag into her mouth, muffling the raw, panicked screams tearing from her throat. Her breath hitches, choking on the bitter, stale taste of fabric as she thrashes harder, the edges of her vision going red.

The overhead lights snap on, flooding the room with a sterile, blinding glow. She flinches, her body jerking against the cold metal table beneath her, her breath coming in ragged, frantic bursts. The glare makes it impossible to see anything but shifting shadows around her, figures moving with practiced ease, their voices a low hum of detached efficiency.

The doctor steps closer, gloved hands reaching for the collar of her gown. With a quick, practiced motion, he cuts it away, peeling the fabric back to expose her skin. The cold air against her bare body makes her stomach twist, shame and fear intertwining in a sickening knot.

She jerks away as much as the straps allow, her cries muffled by the rag in her mouth. Her heartbeat slams against her ribs, her body trembling as the doctor presses the tip of a marker to her skin, dragging slow, deliberate lines across her flesh.

“Hold her still,” he says calmly, not even looking up.

Kyle and another orderly adjust their grips, pressing her shoulders down, their weight pinning her completely.

She thrashes harder, her nails curling against the steel of the table, her chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow gasps. The marker’s tip scrapes against her ribs, and she lets out another muffled scream, her body shaking violently beneath their hands.

The doctor barely reacts, finishing his markings with mechanical precision. He straightens, exchanging a glance with the others before adjusting his gloves.

“Alright, everyone,” he says smoothly, stepping toward the tray of instruments. “Let’s get started.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The steady beeping of a heart monitor pulls her from the thick fog of sleep. Something presses against her face, cool plastic strapped tight over her nose and mouth. The sharp scent of antiseptic clings to the air.

Ella blinks slowly, her vision swimming, but the sterile white walls make her stomach twist. The beeping speeds up. She shifts, and a dull pain throbs through her skull. Her arm moves sluggishly, fingers brushing over the thin tubing taped to her skin. An IV.

Her breath catches.

No. No, no, no.

Her hand flies to the needle, yanking it free. A sharp sting, followed by the slow warmth of blood trailing down her arm. She rips at the wires stuck to her chest, each pull making the monitor screech louder. It doesn’t matter. She grips the bed rail, her bare feet touching the cold tile. The dizziness is immediate, but she forces herself up, swaying, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her.

She has to get out.

The hallway is too bright, too open. Voices drift from the nurses’ station, but they don’t see her yet. She takes a step, then another, breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Gripping onto a chair for balance, her weight causing it to scrape slightly against the floor, the noise grabbing their attention.

“Hey! wait—”

Her head snaps toward the voice. A nurse is already moving, another picking up the phone.

She bolts.

Her legs feel disconnected, every step too slow, too heavy. The tile beneath her shifts, her vision tilting dangerously, but she doesn’t stop. The voices behind her grow sharper, closer.

Then her foot catches.

She crashes onto the floor, the impact rattling through her bones. A sharp whimper escapes as she tries to push herself up, but her limbs won’t cooperate.

“Easy, honey,” one of the nurses says gently. “Let’s get you back to bed, alright? You just had surgery.”

“Get away from me!” Her voice is hoarse, raw, her hands scraping against the tile as she drags herself backward.

A hand reaches for her.

“No! Don’t touch me!” The panic surges again, her heartbeat a frantic drum in her ears.

“Give her space.”

The voice is calm, familiar.

Thomas.

He crouches a few feet away, hands resting on his knees, watching her carefully. There’s no frustration, no impatience. Just him. Just waiting.

“You’re not there,” he says, his voice even. “Remember where you are.”

Her chest rises and falls in ragged gasps. Her fingers curl, nails digging into her palms.

“You had surgery,” he continues. “Do you remember?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, her body still trembling. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to remember any of it.

But she does.

A broken sob escapes. “Yeah.”

Thomas nods. “Okay. Let’s get back to bed, alright? You need to rest.”

“No.” She shakes her head, voice barely above a whisper. “You let them hurt me.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens slightly. “I know,” he says, quiet and steady.

Her throat burns. “You said you wouldn’t.”

A long pause. He exhales, slow and deliberate. “I know,” he says again, his voice rough. “But I didn’t want to lose you. They said if you didn’t have the surgery, you were going to die.”

Another tear slips down her cheek.

“I couldn’t lose you,” Thomas says, softer now.

She’s too tired to fight. The weight of everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the aching pull of sleep—settles heavy in her limbs.

"Can we go back to bed?" His tone is careful, measured, like he’s afraid she’ll bolt again.

Ella hesitates, but then she nods.

Thomas moves closer, his hands steady as he gathers her up. She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t have the energy to.

Her head presses against his chest as he lifts her, the steady sound of his heartbeat grounding her as the world tilts again.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. 

The cards in Ella’s hands shift between her fingers, the edges worn from repeated use. She doesn’t look up when Thomas walks in, but she hears him—his footsteps, the rustle of his jacket as he leans against the doorframe.

“Hey,” he says. “How’re you feeling?”

She shrugs, barely acknowledging him, and tosses a card onto the pile. Anna, sitting across from her, watches the interaction carefully but doesn’t comment.

Since she’s been in the hospital, Ella has tried to run away three times. She can’t be left alone.

Thomas steps closer, his gaze flicking to her face before shifting to Anna. “How’s she been?”

“Stubborn,” Anna says, not unkindly. “But you knew that already.”

Ella pretends not to hear them, flipping through her cards lazily. Her fingers twitch toward the IV line. It’s been bugging her since she woke up.

She grips the edge of the tape.

Anna’s voice snaps, sharp and immediate. “Hey. No.”

Ella jerks her hand back, rolling her eyes as she tosses another card down. Thomas moves beside her, arms crossing over his chest.

“You know better,” he says, his voice even.

She clenches her jaw, eyes locked on the cards like they hold the secrets of the universe. She’s still mad at him. He knows it.

“I know,” Thomas says after a beat, “but I bring a peace offering.”

He pulls a small bag of potato chips from his pocket and holds it out to her.

Ella doesn’t move for a long moment. Then she sighs, rolls her eyes dramatically, and turns away.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want ’em?”

Without looking, she snatches the bag from his hand and rips it open. The crunch of the first chip is aggressive, almost spiteful.

“There she is,” Thomas mutters, ruffling her hair.

Ella swats at his hand halfheartedly but keeps eating.

“You’ll be getting out of here soon,” Thomas says, watching her carefully. “Couple more days.”

She doesn’t react, just keeps chewing, staring down at the cards in her lap.

Thomas exhales, leaning back against the counter. “I talked to the doctor,” he says after a moment. “They needed to wait a few days for it to heal, but they got all of it.”

Ella finally stops picking at the cards.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

She doesn’t look at him, but something in her shoulders loosens just slightly.

Anna places down her next move. “You’re still losing, though.”

Ella exhales sharply through her nose and refocuses on the game.

Thomas shakes his head. “I’ll give you some space,” he says, stepping back. “But try not to give Anna too hard of a time.”

Ella doesn’t answer. But when he turns to leave, she doesn’t glare at him either.

It’s enough.

Pt.16

Tag list:

@fuckcapitalismasshole

@gardenonmercury

(TW): Terminal illness, Emotional distress, Mention of death

The classroom hums with quiet focus, the soft scratch of pencils against paper filling the air. Ella sits at her desk, her pencil rolling idly between her fingers. Her gaze is distant, unfocused, locked on some invisible point beyond the room.

“Ella?” The teacher’s voice cuts through the quiet, gentle but firm. She steps closer, her brows knitting as she notices Ella’s blank, vacant expression. “Hey, Ella? Can you hear me?”

Ella doesn’t respond.

The teacher moves without hesitation. This isn’t the first time. Kneeling beside Ella, she places a steady hand on her shoulder, her movements calm but deliberate. “Alright, let’s get you down,” she murmurs softly, guiding Ella out of her chair and lowering her to the floor with practiced care. She ensures Ella is on her side, carefully clearing the space around her as her focus sharpens.

Then it happens. Ella’s body jerks violently, her limbs trembling in rapid, uncontrollable spasms. Her head tilts back slightly, and the convulsions ripple through her small frame. The teacher doesn’t flinch—she’s seen this before—but her chest tightens all the same.

“Alright, everyone, back to your rooms,” the teacher says firmly, her voice steady even as her eyes remain locked on Ella. She gestures toward one of the boys by the door, her tone sharp and direct. “You—go get the doctor. Now.”

The boy doesn’t hesitate, bolting out of the room, while the other students shuffle toward the exit, glancing nervously over their shoulders as they go. The teacher stays rooted by Ella’s side, her hands hovering protectively as she keeps her focus on the girl convulsing before her, silently counting the seconds in her head.

Thomas leans against the glass, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, gaze fixed on Ella lying motionless inside the MRI room. The harsh fluorescent light makes her look even smaller, her fragile frame barely taking up space on the massive table. The quiet hum of the machine feels like a physical weight pressing on his chest, a sound he’s come to hate. It means more tests, more answers he doesn’t want to hear, and more pain for her.

He notices the faint red marks on her wrists, a lingering reminder of how hard she’d fought against the sedation earlier. This wasn’t her choice but the seizures were getting worse. She’d had three yesterday alone, one of them lasting over two minutes. And then there was the grand mal seizure two days ago—ten minutes of violent convulsions, ten minutes that left her barely able to open her eyes afterward. Getting her into this room for the scan had been its own battle, one that made his stomach turn to even think about. The restraints, her panic, the fight in her that refused to let up—it all brought up memories he didn’t want to revisit.

“It’s interesting to think about whether her telekinesis has a role to play.” Keller’s voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him back into the present. The doctor stands beside him, arms crossed as he studies the monitor with an air of detached curiosity. “This kind of brain activity—it’s remarkable. Her telekinesis seems directly linked to the neurological strain we’re seeing. It’s... fascinating, really.”

Thomas doesn’t bother to look at Keller. His eyes stay on Ella through the glass. “Fascinating,” he repeats flatly, his voice edged with bitterness. “She’s seizing multiple times a day. She barely has the strength to stay upright most of the time. But yeah, sure. Fascinating.”

Keller doesn’t rise to the bait, his focus remaining on the screen as the scan begins to process. “Her abilities are a factor,” he says, his tone clinical, almost distant. “The energy required for her telekinesis might be causing damage that we can’t see. We know for sure it has some effect simply because of the nose bleeds. And since the seizures only started once she started using her powers again, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s connected. ”

Thomas finally tears his gaze away from Ella to glare at Keller. “She’s not a science project,” he snaps. “I don’t care about your theories or your fascination. What’s wrong with her?”

Keller’s composure doesn’t falter. Instead, he gestures toward the screen as the scan finishes rendering. “Here it is,” he says, leaning forward. “Take a look.”

Thomas steps closer, his jaw tightening as his eyes scan the image. It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing, to decipher the shapes on the monitor. Keller points to a small, irregular mass deep within her brain.

“What’s that?” Thomas asks, though the dread pooling in his stomach already tells him he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“A tumor,” Keller says simply.

The air seems to leave the room. Thomas’s chest tightens, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “A tumor?” he repeats, his voice low and strained. “That wasn’t in any of her files. None of the lab’s documents mentioned anything about a tumor.”

“It could be new. Something fast growing and aggressive, or they simply didn’t care enough to treat it,” Keller says with a dismissive shrug.

Thomas’s eyes narrow, and he feels a surge of anger rise in his chest. He forces himself to breathe through it, turning back to the monitor. “What does this mean for her?” he asks, his voice taut.

Keller’s tone remains clinical, detached, as though he’s discussing a case study rather than a terrified teenage girl. “It means she needs surgery,” he says. “The tumor is pressing against critical areas of her brain—motor function, neural pathways. It’s almost certainly the cause of her seizures. If we don’t remove it, the seizures will continue to worsen. And eventually—” He doesn’t finish, but the weight of his words lingers.

Thomas feels a lump rise in his throat, and he forces it back down. He looks past the doctor, back to Ella. She fought them every step of the way to get to this point. He’d hated every second of it—forcing her onto the table, holding her down while she thrashed and screamed, all the trauma of her past rushing to the surface. And now this.

“She barely let us get her on the table for this scan,” Thomas mutters, more to himself than Keller. “You think she’s going to agree to brain surgery?”

Keller folds his arms, his expression unreadable. “She might not have a choice. If we wait too long, the damage could be irreversible. You know as well as I do what could happen if we hold off.”

Thomas steps quietly into the hospital room, the sterile scent immediately hitting his nose. The beeping of monitors fills the air, steady but ominous. A teenage boy lies in the bed, wires trailing from his frail frame to the machines keeping track of his vitals. His once-broad shoulders now seem too narrow, his skin pale and sallow against the stark white sheets.

A nurse stands by the bed, jotting something on a clipboard. She looks up as Thomas enters, offering a tight smile. 

“How’s he doing?” brushing a bit of hair off of his forehead.

"He slept through the night," the nurse says softly, her eyes flicking to the boy’s frail form on the bed. "But... he hasn’t eaten much. No appetite. And his energy level is almost gone." She pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The doctor doesn’t think he has much time left."

Ash’s superhuman strength had once seemed like a miracle, a gift that set him apart. But that strength came at an unimaginable cost. The constant demands on his body caused excessive cardiac enzyme production, which led to the dangerous enlargement of his heart. Over time, his heart’s walls thickened, straining under the burden of his abilities. By the time they realized what was happening, the damage was far beyond repair.

Thomas nods, his jaw tightening as he glances at the restraints hanging loosely from the sides of the bed. They hadn’t been needed for weeks now. The boy didn’t have the strength for outbursts anymore.

"Thanks," Thomas murmurs, his voice low. The nurse nods and slips out of the room, leaving him alone with the boy.

Thomas moves to the chair by the bed and sits, his hands resting on his knees. For a while, he just watches the boy sleep, his chest rising and falling shallowly. His lips move slightly as if murmuring in a dream.

Time passes in the quiet hum of the room. Thomas closes his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of the machines lull him. But a faint voice stirs him.

"Thomas?"

His eyes snap open, and he’s on his feet in an instant, moving to the bedside. The boy’s eyes are open now, glassy but focused on him.

"Hey, bud," Thomas says gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. "How’re you feeling?"

The boy’s voice is weak, barely more than a rasp. "Bad."

Thomas forces a small smile, leaning closer. "I heard you slept good last night. That’s something, right?"

"When can I get out of here?" the boy asks, his voice trembling.

"Soon," Thomas lies smoothly, ruffling the boy’s hair gently before patting his shoulder. "Real soon."

The boy’s lips tremble, his brow furrowing. "I hate being here," he mutters, his voice cracking. "I know they’re lying. They just want to hurt me."

"Hey, hey," Thomas says quickly, his hand moving to the boy’s shoulder to steady him as his breathing starts to quicken. "Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here. I wouldn’t let them, alright?"

The boy shakes his head weakly, tears pooling in his eyes. "My body... It feels wrong. They’re lying, Thomas. I know it."

Thomas leans closer, his voice steady but soft. "You’re not wrong. Your heart isn’t doing so great. That’s why you’re here, so we can help you get better. I wouldn’t let them lie to you, okay?"

The boy’s tears spill over, and his hands twitch weakly at his sides. "I don’t feel good," he whispers, his voice breaking.

Thomas exhales deeply, his hand moving to the boy’s hair, stroking it gently in an attempt to calm him. "I know, bud. I know," he murmurs. "But you’re going to be okay. Just take it easy, alright?"

The boy sobs quietly, his face turning into the pillow. Thomas stays by his side, his hand never leaving the boy’s hair.

"I’m here," Thomas says quietly. "I’ve got you."

And so he stays, keeping watch as the boy’s breathing evens out, his cries fading into soft sniffles. Thomas’s jaw tightens as he looks at the frail figure in the bed, a weight pressing heavily on his chest.

The room is dim, the soft glow of the movie playing on the small TV casting shadows against the walls. Thomas sits on the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from Ash’s pale face with a damp cloth. His breathing is shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a reminder of how fragile the boy has become.

Thomas leans back, his own breath coming slow and steady, forcing himself to keep calm. "You’re ok, bud," he murmurs, though Ash doesn’t respond. His eyes are barely open, his body limp against the pillows.

The movie plays on, a distraction more for Thomas than Ash. He’s been here for hours, sitting vigil, knowing it’s only a matter of time. But still, he stays.

Suddenly, the faint sound of Ash’s breathing slows even more—ragged, uneven, then... nothing.

Thomas freezes, the damp cloth slipping from his hand. "Ash?" His voice is sharp, panic lacing the edges. He leans forward, shaking the boy’s shoulder gently. "Hey. Hey, bud, come on. Wake up."

No response.

Thomas’s heart drops, and his voice rises. "Ash! Hey!" He jostles the boy harder, his movements frantic now. Ash’s head lolls to the side, his chest still.

"Shit," Thomas breathes, his pulse hammering in his ears. He scrambles off the bed, yelling at the top of his lungs. "I need help! Someone! Help!"

The door bursts open, doctors and nurses flooding into the room. One of them immediately moves to Ash’s side, checking for a pulse, while others prepare equipment.

"Code blue!" someone shouts, and the air is electric with urgency.

Thomas is pushed back by a nurse, her hands firm on his chest. "You need to step out," she says, her tone professional but unyielding.

"No! No, I can’t—" Thomas’s voice cracks as he fights against her. "Ash! Ash, come on, man, wake up! Please!"

The nurses hold him back, and he’s forced into the hallway as the door slams shut in his face. Through the small window, he can see them starting CPR, a doctor climbing onto the bed to begin chest compressions.

Thomas presses his forehead against the glass, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turn white. "Ash!" he yells, his voice breaking. "Come on, kid! Don’t do this!"

Inside the room, the frantic motion of the medical team is a blur. The doctor’s hands press rhythmically into Ash’s chest, the machine alarms screeching in the background.

Thomas’s breathing is ragged, his throat raw from shouting. His chest feels like it’s caving in, every second stretching into an eternity.

Then, a nurse pulls the blinds down over the window, cutting him off from the scene inside. Thomas stumbles back, the weight of it hitting him like a freight train.

He leans against the wall, his legs threatening to give out. "Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Please, not him."

But the hallway is silent, save for the faint, muffled chaos on the other side of the door.

Thomas’s eyes snap to the glass as Ella’s screams pierce the quiet of the observation room. She thrashes violently on the MRI table, her restrained wrists pulling against the straps, the entire machine jolting with her movements.

"Let me the fuck out!" she shrieks, her voice raw and trembling. "I fucking hate you! I HATE YOU!"

Her words cut through him like a knife, but he doesn’t flinch, his jaw tightening instead. Her face is red and streaked with tears, her body straining in sheer desperation. The sharp sounds of her pounding fists and muffled cries fill the sterile space. Thomas moves closer to the glass, his eyes fixed on her.

"Thomas?" Dr. Carter says, his voice calm but firm.

"She’s having the surgery," Thomas says abruptly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His gaze doesn’t waver from Ella, who is still screaming.

Pt.15

Tag list:

@fuckcapitalismasshole

(TW):Discussions of past trauma and punishment, Fear of isolation, Mentions of physical violence (hitting), Infantilizing treatment by authority figures

Thomas leans against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the floor as he listens to the faint sounds coming from inside. The water shut off a few minutes ago, but she still hasn’t come out.

“You doing okay in there?” he calls, his voice steady but soft enough not to spook her.

There’s a pause, then the door creaks open just a sliver. Thomas straightens, keeping his posture relaxed. When she finally steps out, she’s holding her sneakers in her hands, her fingers wrapped tightly around the laces.

She’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt—normal clothes. For the first time since she’s been here, she doesn’t look like a patient. She looks... almost like a kid except for the faint marks around her neck that peak over her shirt collar.

Thomas tilts his head, nodding toward the sneakers. “What?”

She doesn’t respond, just stares at him and holds the shoes out further.

“You need help?” he asks, his tone neutral, like he’s confirming the weather.

She nods, barely, her shoulders stiff.

“Alright,” he says simply. “Sit down.”

She moves to the bed, perching on the edge, her movements stiff and uncertain. Thomas crouches down, taking the shoes from her hands and loosening the laces.

As he works, his hands moving methodically over the laces, his mind drifts. She looks like any other teenager right now—hair braided, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. At first glance, you’d never guess what she’s been through. But the moment she handed him her shoes, the illusion cracked. She’s a teenager who doesn’t know how to tie her own shoes. Her outward appearance doesn’t match the truth beneath it, the years of stolen milestones and missing pieces. 

“Big day today,” he says, keeping his tone casual. “You’ll get to see your room, meet the teacher, scope the place out. Classes start tomorrow, but today’s just about settling in.”

He glances up at her, but she doesn’t say anything. Her hands rest in her lap, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt.

He starts on the second shoe, his voice calm but curious. “You could barely sit still yesterday—practically bouncing off the walls. Now you’re all quiet. What’s going on?” He glances up briefly, watching for any flicker of emotion on her face, but she doesn’t look at him. She stays silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Thomas doesn’t press. He knows something’s on her mind—he can see it in the way she’s curled in on herself, her usual guarded tension amplified. He ties the last knot, making sure the laces are snug but not too tight.

“Alright,” he says, standing up and brushing his hands on his jeans. “You’re good to go.”

She stands slowly, her movements deliberate. He watches her for a moment, waiting to see if she’ll say anything, but she doesn’t.

“You ready?” he asks, his tone steady, like he’s giving her the space to back out if she needs to.

She nods once, her gaze darting to the door, then back to the floor.

“Okay,” Thomas says, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Thomas scanned his badge, the door to the corridor unlocking with a faint beep. He pushed it open, stepping aside for Ella to follow.

The ward was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt out of place in a space meant for kids. Identical doors lined the corridor, the monotony broken only by colorful stickers and hand-drawn pictures taped to some of them. Crayon-drawn rainbows, shaky stars, and glittery hearts gave the sterile space a softer edge.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder at Ella, her posture stiff and defensive as she shuffled behind him. She wasn’t looking at the doors or the art. Her eyes stayed on the floor, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweatshirt.

“Everyone’s in class right now,” Thomas explained, his voice casual but calm. He kept his pace steady, not wanting to make her feel rushed.

Ella didn’t respond, but he hadn’t expected her to. She hadn’t said a word all morning.

When they reached the end of the corridor, he turned the handle and opened the door to her new room. “Here we are,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

The room was small but not clinical. A twin bed with neatly tucked sheets, a small desk with a chair, and a set of drawers. The window let in a soft stream of sunlight, casting warm patches on the plain walls. There was even a small shelf with a few books stacked neatly.

Ella stepped inside hesitantly, her eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at her. Her fingers brushed over the desk, then the window frame. She paused at the bed, her hand hovering over the pillow before pulling back like it might burn her.

“This is it,” Thomas said, leaning against the doorframe.

Ella didn’t say anything, just kept wandering the small space.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s check out the rest of the unit.”

She followed him out, her steps slow and deliberate. He showed her the game room, pointing out the beanbags, board games, and a small shelf of movies. The kitchen area had snacks neatly arranged on the counter, and the communal room had soft couches and a TV mounted on the wall.

As they turned a corner, Thomas’s jaw clenched the moment he spotted Dr. Nelson waiting near the recreation room. She caught sight of them almost immediately, her clipboard tucked under one arm and her face lighting up with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Ella!” Nelson chirped, her voice bright and saccharine. She strode toward them like she was greeting an old friend. “Oh, you must be Ella. It’s so wonderful to finally meet you! We’re going to have so much fun together.”

Thomas already felt a headache forming. Here we go, he thought, glancing at Ella. She hadn’t said a word, but her discomfort was written all over her face. Her arms tightened around herself, her jaw visibly clenched.

“Hey, Dr. Nelson,” Thomas greeted flatly, his tone polite but detached. “Ella’s had a long morning. I was just about to take her back to her room to settle in.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Nelson said with a dismissive wave, her attention fully on Ella. “She’s probably just a little shy. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? No need to be shy here. We’re all friends!”

Ella’s posture grew even tenser, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“Ella, honey,” Nelson cooed, crouching slightly to get closer to Ella’s level. “Do you want to go to the art corner? Or maybe the game room? We have coloring books, crayons, and so many fun activities. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Ella’s fingers twitched slightly, but she didn’t respond. She kept her gaze down, her breathing shallow but quickening.

Thomas cleared his throat, stepping in slightly. “Dr. Nelson, I think she’s just tired. I’ll—”

“No, it’s okay,” Nelson interrupted, holding up a hand to silence him. “Ella should use her words. She needs to tell me if she wants something.” She turned back to Ella, her tone syrupy sweet. “Come on, honey, you can do it. Just tell me what you’d like. Would you like a snack? Maybe some juice? You can tell me, sweetheart.”

Ella’s fists clenched at her sides, her breathing now audible. Thomas’s sharp eye caught the slight tremor in her shoulders, the way she subtly shifted her weight as though preparing to bolt.

“Dr. Nelson—” Thomas began again, his tone tighter.

“It’s fine, Thomas,” she said with a cheerful laugh, brushing him off again. “Ella just needs a little encouragement. Don’t you, sweetie? You’re going to make so many friends here, and we’re going to have so much fun. But you have to tell me what you want, okay? Use your words.”

The last phrase seemed to push Ella over the edge.

“Stop,” Thomas warned sharply, but it was too late.

Nelson reached out, lightly touching Ella’s shoulder. “It’s okay, honey. You’re safe here—”

Ella snapped.

Her fist shot out with a speed that even Thomas didn’t anticipate, striking Nelson hard on the arm. The clipboard fell to the floor with a clatter as Nelson stumbled back, her face twisting in shock and indignation.

“Don’t fucking touch me” Ella growled out.

“You hit me!” Nelson cried, her voice shrill. “That’s not how we act with our friends, Ella! That’s not nice!”

Thomas stepped forward immediately, positioning himself between Ella and Nelson. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he said, his voice cold and cutting.

Nelson blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Thats right we dont use mean words-”

“I wasn’t talking to her,” Thomas interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “I was talking to you.”

Nelson’s mouth opened as though to argue, but she seemed to think better of it, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Behind him, Ella was already backing away, her breathing ragged, her expression panicked. Before Thomas could stop her, she turned and bolted down the hallway.

“Ella!” Thomas called after her, his heart pounding as he started after her. “Ella, stop!”

But she was already gone, disappearing around the corner.

Thomas pauses outside her door, resting his hand on the frame before knocking softly. “Ella?” he calls, his voice low and careful, trying not to startle her. There’s no response, just the faint sound of muffled sobbing. His chest tightens as he knocks again, gently. “I’m coming in, okay?”

He opens the door slowly, stepping inside. The room feels heavier than it should, the air thick and suffocating. For a moment, he doesn’t see her. Then he hears it—the soft, uneven sobs, close to the floor. He crouches, leaning down just enough to see her tucked under the bed, curled tightly into the farthest corner.

“Ella,” he says softly, his tone steady and calm. “Hey. It’s me. You’re okay.”

Her sobs don’t stop, and she doesn’t respond. Instead, she pulls herself further into the corner, her body trembling.

Thomas takes a seat on the floor a few feet away, leaning back against the wall with a soft sigh. His tone is calm but steady. “I’m not mad, and you’re not in trouble,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ella’s voice cracks through the room, raw and trembling. “I don’t want to go back,” she whispers, her hands clutching the edge of the bedframe tightly. “Please don’t send me back. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll do better. Please.”

Thomas’s heart twists painfully as the words spill out of her, frantic and full of fear. He lets out a slow breath, lowering himself fully to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of her. “Ella,” he says softly, trying to catch her tear-filled gaze. “Hey. No one’s sending you back, okay?”

“You don’t know that!” she bursts out, her voice breaking into a sob. “I hit her, and now they’ll say I’m dangerous. That I can’t stay. They’ll lock me up again. I know they will.”

Thomas sits quietly for a moment, letting her words sink in. Slowly, the pieces start to come together, and his brow furrows in realization. “Is that what’s been eating at you today?” he asks gently. “You’ve been thinking that if you mess up, they’ll punish you?”

She doesn’t respond, but her trembling shoulders and the way she ducks her head are answer enough.

“Ella, listen to me,” he says, his tone firm but not harsh. “No one is locking you up. Not for today, not for anything. That part of your life? It’s over. You’re here now, and this is where you’re staying.”

Her breathing hitches as she shakes her head, her voice barely audible. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what they’ll do.”

“I know because I won’t let that happen,” Thomas says, his voice unwavering. 

Thomas sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve warned you about her,” he says, his voice tinged with frustration. “Dr. Nelson… she pisses me off too. The way she talks down to everyone like they’re toddlers? It’s not right. And you’re not a child, Ella. You’re a teenager, and you deserve to be treated like one.”

Ella’s sobs slow, though the tears still streak her face. She peers at him through watery eyes, uncertainty etched into her every feature.

Her sobbing quiets slightly, her breathing still uneven. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, but Thomas doesn’t push. He stays where he is, waiting, letting her take the time she needs.

Finally, there’s movement. Slowly, hesitantly, she uncurls herself and crawls out from under the bed. Her face is streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and red. She doesn’t look at him as she moves closer, her movements shaky and cautious.

When she’s within reach, Thomas doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. She presses her face into his chest, her body trembling as she clutches at his shirt.

He holds her tightly, one hand stroking her hair, the other resting on her back. His touch is steady and grounding, his voice low and soothing. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.”

Her sobs quiet further, her breathing evening out in small, shaky bursts. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of his steady reassurances and the soft rustle of her quiet crying.

Her voice finally comes, small and fragile. “That boy,” she whispers. “The one you told me about... did he really get out?”

Thomas stills for a fraction of a second, but he keeps his voice even. “Yeah,” he says softly, stroking her hair again. “He got out.”

Her fingers tighten in his shirt, her voice trembling. “He was like me?”

“A lot like you,” Thomas replies gently. “He struggled too. But he made it. And so will you.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just presses closer, her body trembling slightly as he continues to hold her. His hand moves gently between her hair and her back, his touch deliberate and soothing.

After a long pause, Thomas pulls back just enough to meet her tear-streaked eyes. “But listen,” he says, his voice firm but kind. “You can’t hit people, Ella. I know Nelson is a bitch, and I get why you did it. But not everyone here is as forgiving as me. You’ve got to work on that, okay?”

She nods slowly, her face crumpling again. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

“I know,” he says, pulling her close again, his hand smoothing over her hair. “I know. You’re trying.”

She curls deeper into him, her breathing steadying further as the weight of the moment begins to lift.

Tag list:

@fuckcapitalismasshole

@gardenonmercury

(TW): parental rejection, emotional distress, breakdown, discussion of trauma, injections

“So, here’s the deal,” Thomas begins, his tone casual but with an edge of seriousness. “When they get here, they’re going to want to ask you a bunch of questions about yourself. You don’t have to answer, but they’d like to get to know you a little.”

Anna tugs on my hair as she ties the braid, pulling a bit too tight.

“Sorry,” she murmurs quickly when I grab at my scalp. Her hands loosen, and I feel the tension release slightly.

“Second thing,” Thomas continues, leaning against the wall with a faint smirk. “The medical director didn’t think the stunt you pulled last week was super funny. So, there will be security in the room with us.”

His smirk widens as he adds, “Personally, I thought it was a solid 7 out of 10 for effort, though maybe a 3 for execution.”

A thin smirk pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” he says, rolling his eyes theatrically but smiling all the same. “Laugh it up, but you almost gave poor Dr. Pittman a heart attack.”

“Good,” I mutter, barely loud enough to be heard, but Thomas catches it.

He arches an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Good? Ella, you nearly gave the medical director a coronary.”

“Maybe he deserved it,” I mumble, glancing at Anna. Her lips twitch like she’s fighting off a smile.

Thomas places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow, ruthless. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Too late,” I fire back, my tone dry, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

Anna finally laughs softly, shaking her head as she finishes tying off the braid. “I think she’s ready for today, Thomas.”

He grins, gesturing toward me. “See? That’s the spirit. Just, uh... maybe no surprise sprints this time, alright?”

“Not funny,” Anna says, though she’s smiling as she smooths down the braid she’s finished. “You’re all set,” she says softly, placing her hands lightly on my shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

I shrug, my hands twisting the hem of my shirt. The thought of what’s coming sits heavy in my chest, making the air feel thicker.

Thomas steps closer, crouching slightly so we’re eye to eye. His expression softens, his usual teasing tone replaced with something gentler. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I know this is a lot. You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready. But if you can... just try. Not for them. Not for me. For you.”

I glance at him, his words poking at something I’ve kept locked away. I don’t say anything, but my nod is enough for now.

“Good,” he says, straightening up and flashing me a lopsided grin. Let’s do this.”

Anna sits next to me in the small, unfamiliar room, her leg bouncing slightly as she fiddles with her phone. Across the room, Broad and Burley stand near the door. Not their real names, of course—just what I’ve decided to call them. Burley, the stocky one, leans against the wall, looking like he’s counting the seconds until this is over. Broad, tall and twitchy, shifts his weight back and forth, his eyes darting toward me every few moments like I might combust.

The door creaks open, and I flinch. Thomas steps in first, his expression softer than usual. “Alright,” he says, glancing back. “They’re here.”

A middle-aged couple hesitates in the doorway. The woman’s face is open, almost painfully so, as her eyes land on me. The man’s posture is stiffer, his jaw tight. They take a step inside and stop, their gazes sweeping over me like they’re trying to solve a puzzle. I grip the edge of my chair, my palms already damp.

After a long moment, the woman steps forward cautiously, her hands clasped. “Hi, Ella,” she says, her voice tremulous. “It’s... really nice to meet you.”

I don’t move, my fingers tightening on the chair’s edge. She takes another step closer, and her arm lifts slightly, like she’s thinking about hugging me. My body reacts before I can think—I shrink back, pressing into the chair.

“Whoa,” Broad says, taking a step forward, while Burley shifts a little too slowly to make it seem urgent.

The woman freezes, her hand falling back to her side. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Thomas steps in, his voice calm. “It’s okay. Let’s take a seat and just talk.”

The couple hesitates but finally sits down across from me. The man clears his throat, his hands clasped tightly together. “So, uh,” he starts, his voice awkward. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I mutter, staring at the floor.

“Good, good,” he says, nodding as if he doesn’t believe me. “They said you’ve been... adjusting. That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat.

The woman leans forward slightly, her hands clasped on her lap. “Do you, um, like it here?” she asks gently. “The people seem... nice.”

I shrug, my eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. “It’s okay.”

Her expression falters, and she glances at the man, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Do you... have any hobbies?” she tries again, her voice overly bright. “Anything you like to do?”

I shake my head, the motion small. “Not really.”

The air grows heavy with the weight of their unasked questions. I can feel their eyes on me, the expectation radiating off them like heat. My chest tightens, the room suddenly feeling too small.

“Ella’s been doing really well,” Thomas interjects, his voice steady but light. “She’s made a lot of progress, especially considering... everything.”

The man nods stiffly, but his gaze keeps darting back to me, like he’s trying to find something that isn’t there. “You look...so grown up,” he says awkwardly. “It’s been a long time.”

I glance up at him briefly, my expression blank, before looking away again.

The woman leans forward, her lip quivering slightly. “We missed you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

My stomach churns, but I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.

The silence stretches until the man clears his throat again. “Do you mind if we step out for a moment?” he asks, looking at Thomas.

Thomas nods and stands. “Of course. Take your time.” He glances at Anna, who quickly gets to her feet. “We’ll step out for a minute.”

Anna shoots me a quick, reassuring smile before following Thomas into the hall. My eyes drop to my lap as I clutch my knees, my fingers digging in. 

The door clicks shut, and the silence swallows me whole. I knew I had parents- everyone does - but the concept never really felt real. It felt like a lifeline when Thomas mentioned them and said I could live with them one day. A way out.

That’s all I want. To get out of here. To feel like I belong somewhere that isn’t these walls, these routines, these guards. Meeting them is my ticket, my chance to finally escape this place.

The way they looked at me made me want to disappear. Their eyes scanned over me, not with warmth or recognition, but with that same clinical detachment the scientists had—searching for flaws, for defects. It wasn’t the gaze of parents seeing their child; it was the gaze of people trying to figure out if I was worth the trouble.

I press my palms into my thighs, the pressure grounding me just enough to keep from shaking apart. They have to want me. They have to. 

The hallway is too quiet, but their voices seep through the door, muffled but clear enough to hear. I don’t have to strain to catch the words—they drift in

“What’s wrong with her?” the mother’s voice pierces the muffled quiet, trembling but sharp.

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Thomas responds immediately, his tone firm and protective.

The words make my chest tighten. I focus in on their words, my heart pounding.

“She’s so thin... and those marks on her neck, her wrists. What are they from?” the mother presses, her voice laced with disbelief.

Thomas exhales audibly, the sound heavy. “The marks are from restraints. But not here,” he adds quickly. “They’re from the lab. They used her as a test subject, experimented on her. Those scars... they’re the aftermath of that.”

I bite my lip hard, the metallic taste of blood grounding me. My fingers dig into my thighs, trying to keep myself steady as my head spins.

“God,” the mother whispers, her voice breaking. “She doesn’t look... okay. She looks almost sick. Like she could just... break.”

“Well, she’s not,” Thomas says, his voice sharp with conviction. “She’s been through things no one should ever have to endure. It’s going to take time.”

My stomach churns. Strong. Is that what he thinks? I don’t feel strong—I feel like I’m barely holding myself together.

The father’s voice cuts through. “I mean, I’ve heard things about those places, but I didn’t think it was... this bad.”

“It was worse,” Thomas says, his tone grim. “They didn’t just give her powers; they treated her like an experiment. Like something to be studied, not someone to be cared for.”

“And the guards?” the mother asks, her voice cautious. “Why does she need security in the room with her?”

There’s a pause before Thomas answers, his voice quieter but steady. “Because she has a history of aggression and elopement, especially when she feels threatened. It’s not about who she is—it’s about what she’s had to survive. She reacts because she’s scared, not because she wants to hurt anyone.”

My cheeks burn, humiliation mixing with anger. I hate being talked about, as if I’m not even here. Like I’m just... dangerous.

“But she could hurt someone, right?” the father asks, skepticism dripping from his voice.

“She could,” Thomas admits, his voice calm but firm. “But she doesn’t want to. She’s learning to control it. She’s trying. She’s a good kid, but yeah, she’s still figuring it out.”

The mother’s voice trembles again. “She barely spoke in there. She just sat there, staring at the floor. How are we supposed to work with that?”

Thomas sighs, the weight of it heavy even through the door. “She doesn’t know how to connect yet. She’s been in survival mode her whole life. But she’s not unreachable. She just needs patience. People who don’t give up on her.”

The father’s voice drops, hard and final. “We have other kids at home. If she’s this... unpredictable, I don’t know how we’re supposed to make that work. It’s not fair to them—or to her.”

There’s a long silence, the kind that makes my ears buzz. Finally, Thomas speaks, his tone measured but distant. “This isn’t a decision you have to make right now. Today was about meeting her, getting to know her a little. Take your time.”

The mother’s response is barely audible. “We’ll think about it.”

The words hang in the air, and I can’t breathe. My fists clench tighter as the door creaks open, and they step back into the room. My parents. My stomach turns at the word.

They’re smiling now, or trying to. It’s that fake kind of smile people use when they don’t know what else to do.

“Hey, Ella,” the woman—my mother—says softly. Her voice trembles, and it makes me want to scream. “It was really nice to meet you.”

I stare at my knees, my body frozen. Nice to meet me? Like I’m some stranger they bumped into at the store?

The man clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, his voice gruff. His eyes avoid mine entirely.

The woman—my mother—forces a smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ella,” she says gently, “we just wanted to come back and say goodbye for now.”

I sit frozen, my hands gripping the sides of my chair. My voice comes out hoarse. “You’re leaving?”

The man—my father—clears his throat, glancing at her before answering. “It’s a long drive back,” he says, his tone awkward. “We need to start heading out.”

My stomach twists violently, and my chest feels tight. I don’t respond, the words caught in my throat.

The mother steps closer, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “It was good to see you.”

Nice. That’s what this was to them? A visit, a formality. My palms press hard into my thighs as my head spins.

Thomas steps forward, his calm presence filling the space between us. “Ella’s made a lot of progress here,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with something softer. “It’s not easy, but she’s working through it. I know this is a lot to process for everyone.”

The mother nods quickly, her lips pressing into a thin line as her gaze darts away from me. The father’s face is harder to read, his jaw tight as he glances toward the door.

“We just... need some time to talk things over,” the mother says finally, avoiding my eyes.

I bite my lip, trying to hold back the surge of emotions bubbling inside me. They’re leaving. They’re not taking me.

They turn to leave, and my mind goes blank. My body moves before I can think. I shoot to my feet, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Wait,” I blurt out, my voice cracking. “Please, I—I can do better. Just... don’t go.”

My mother hesitates her hand on the door handle. She turns back, her face crumpling, but she doesn’t step toward me.

“Ella,” Thomas says softly, moving closer. “It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not!” My voice rises, frantic and desperate. “It’s not okay! I’ll never get out of here!”

I see the door still ajar, and before anyone can react, I bolt.

“Ella!” Thomas’s voice rings out behind me, but I don’t stop. My bare feet slap against the cold floor, the air burning in my lungs as I run down the corridor. Out, out, out. If they won’t take me, I’ll find my own way.

The walls blur past me, and I barely register the glowing red exit sign at the end of the hall until I’m yanking at the handle. Locked. Of course, it’s locked.

“No, no, no, no!” I scream, slamming my fists against the metal. The pain shoots up my arms, but it only makes me hit harder. Blood smears onto the surface as my knuckles split open, but I don’t care. “Let me out!” I shriek, the sound ripping from my throat like an animal caught in a trap. “Please, let me out!”

Footsteps. Shouting. They’re getting closer.

I whirl around, my back pressed against the door. Broad and Burley come into view first, their hulking frames blocking the hall. Behind them, Thomas is jogging, his face tight with worry.

“Ella! Stop!” Broad shouts, his voice booming.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” I scream, my voice cracking. My hands shake as I press them against the door, as if I can push it open through sheer force of will.

“Ella, calm down!” Burley takes a step closer, and I drop into a defensive crouch, my body trembling with adrenaline.

“Get away!” I shriek, baring my teeth like some cornered animal. My chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

Thomas steps in front of the guards, holding out his hands, his expression calm but tense. “Ella, it’s me. It’s just me,” he says softly, his voice steady in the chaos.

I backpedal against the wall, my nails scraping the surface. “No! You’re lying! You always lie!” My voice breaks into a scream, raw and guttural. “You said I’d get better, but I’m not! I’m not!” My chest heaves, and my vision blurs with tears.

Thomas takes a deep breath, his tone unwavering. “I know you’re scared. I know this feels impossible. But you’re safe, Ella.”

“Shut up!” I shriek, grabbing my hair and yanking until pain burns across my scalp. “Shut up! You don’t get it! I can’t do this anymore! I can’t stay in that cell—I can’t stay like this!”

Thomas glances sharply at the guards. “Back off,” he commands, his voice edged with steel.

“Thomas, we should—” Broad starts, but Thomas silences him with a glare.

“I said back off!” His voice cuts through the air, and the guards step back reluctantly, their hands still hovering near their tasers.

I slide to the floor, my knees giving out as my sobs wrack my body. The sterile hallway feels suffocating, the world pressing down on me. ”I can’t,” I whisper, barely audible through my cries. “I’m broken, and I can’t fix it.”

Thomas crouches, keeping his distance but making himself smaller, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re not broken,” he says, his tone soft yet firm. “You’re hurt. That’s not the same thing.”

I shake my head violently, curling into myself. “You don’t understand,” I rasp. “I’ll never get out of here. I’ll never be normal.”

Thomas’s voice softens further. “Ella, you’re not trapped forever. This isn’t forever. You’ve been through things no one should, and yeah, it’s hard as hell, but it doesn’t mean you’re stuck like this.”

I look at him through my fingers, tears streaking my face. “I heard them,” I choke out. “They don’t want me. They don’t even see me. I’m just… I can’ be fixed. And I can’t—”

“They don’t know you,” Thomas cuts in, his voice stronger. “They don’t know how strong you are. But I do. You’ve survived things that would break most people. You’re still here. That’s not nothing, Ella. That’s everything.”

I shake harder, my body trembling with the weight of it all. “Stop,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I feel… wrong.”

Thomas edges closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “Can I come closer?” he asks softly, like he’s talking to a skittish animal.

I don’t respond, the fight draining out of me, leaving only exhaustion. Finally, I give a small, shaky nod.

Thomas crouches a few feet away, his voice calm but edged with worry. “Ella,” he says gently, “can you calm down on your own, or do you need help?”

My breath hitches, and I glance at him, my vision swimming with tears. The room is spinning, my own thoughts clawing at the inside of my skull.

“I don’t…” I start, my voice cracking as I clutch my knees to my chest. I try to steady myself, but the tremors won’t stop. My hands shake violently, and my stomach churns. “I can’t—”

He leans forward slightly, his tone soft but firm. “It’s okay, but if you need help, it’s here.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, the weight of everything crashing down all at once. The rejection. The endless days in this place. The gnawing truth that I’m not okay. My body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve raw and exposed. “I…” My voice wavers, and I force the words out, barely a whisper. “I need help.”

Thomas doesn’t hesitate. He nods once, his movements deliberate as he pulls the syringe from his pocket. “Alright,” he says softly. “This will take the edge off. Just for now.”

I sit frozen as he inches closer. My breathing hitches when he kneels beside me, the needle glinting faintly in the light. He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m going to make it quick, okay?”

I give a tiny nod, my body trembling as I force myself to stay still. The pinch of the needle is sharp but fleeting, and I barely feel it over the chaos in my mind. Almost instantly, a wave of calm starts to wash over me, dulling the jagged edges of my thoughts.

My body grows heavy, my limbs slackening as the fight drains out of me. I can feel Thomas’s arms wrap around me, lifting me off the cold floor. My head lolls against his chest, his steady heartbeat grounding me in the haze.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “You’re going to be okay.”

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(TW): Confinement, isolation, emotional distress, crying, mention of being restrained, mention of past trauma.

Thomas strolls to the glass, his usual casual demeanor in place. “Miss me?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe with an easy grin.

I roll my eyes at his playful tone. However, I wouldn’t dare to admit that I kinda missed him.

He chuckles. “No? Not even a little?” He nods toward my hands, his tone light. “Pink polish? Looks like you and Anna had a good time.”

I curl my fingers into my palms and tuck my hands under my thighs. The polish suddenly feels heavy. “She talks a lot,” I mutter.

“Sounds like her,” he says, his tone amused but not mocking. “She said you behaved yourself, though.”

I shoot him a wary glance, unsure where this is going.

“Which is why I talked to the medical director,” he continues, his voice softening. “And... he agreed you could go outside.”

My head snaps up. My chest tightens with something unfamiliar, excitement maybe, but I’m not sure. “Outside,” I whisper, the word barely audible.

He nods, his grin widening. “Fresh air. Sunshine. The whole deal.”

I stand before I even realize it, the thought of stepping into the open too enticing to resist. “Now, I want to go now.” The words come out breathless.

Thomas raises a hand, stopping my momentum. “Hold on. There’s a catch.”

I freeze, suspicion prickling at my skin. “What?”

“You’d have to go in a wheelchair,” he says, his voice careful. “And... you’d need restraints. It’s standard for Reds. For safety.”

The warmth that had started to creep into my chest freezes, replaced by an icy knot of dread. My fists clench, and I step back. “No,” I say sharply, my voice low and trembling.

“It’s not like—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“No!” I scream, my body jerking as if the word itself can’t contain my fury. I slam my hands against the glass, the sound reverberating through the room. “I’m not doing that! You’re not tying me down!”

“Ella,” he says gently, taking a step back, his hands raised. “We don’t have to—”

I grab the pillow off my bed and hurl it at the glass, the soft impact doing nothing to satisfy the boiling anger inside me. “Go away!” I scream, my voice breaking.

“Hey, it’s okay, we can just do something else—”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Tears streak down my face, revealing the hurt behind my anger.

Thomas doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t argue. He just stands there, watching me with that infuriating calm. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’m going.”

He turns away, leaving me alone. My chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I stand there for a long moment before collapsing back onto the bed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fluorescent lights buzzed above me, flickering faintly, their cold, sterile glow turning the room into a sickly white box. The chill of the metal table bit into my skin through the thin gown they’d given me, leaving goosebumps crawling up my arms. The straps around my wrists and ankles were unforgiving, biting into my flesh with every tiny movement. I hated how exposed I felt, how utterly powerless.

"Stop squirming," Kyle’s voice snapped, sharp and impatient. He loomed over me, his face a perfect mask of boredom with just a hint of cruelty shining in his eyes. He always had that look, like I wasn’t worth more than the dirt under his shoes. "You know how this works by now, A-13. You’re just making it harder for yourself."

I clenched my fists, the leather straps pinning them to the table creaking under the strain. "Please," I whispered, my voice trembling, breaking. "I’ll do anything. Just... don’t do this."

Kyle smirked, leaning down so his face was only inches from mine. “Anything? That’s a dangerous promise, kid. Lucky for you, I don’t need anything from you. You’re just the canvas today.”

The door creaked open, and I flinched at the sound. A man in a pristine white lab coat entered, his expression as empty as the room felt. He carried a silver tray, and on it sat a syringe filled with a swirling, ominous liquid that seemed to glow faintly under the light. Beside it were wires, small metal clamps, and what looked like a headset bristling with electrodes.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, no, no.”

“Always so dramatic,” Kyle muttered, rolling his eyes. He gestured for the doctor to begin. “Let’s get this over with.”

The doctor didn’t look at me. He picked up the syringe and tapped it against his palm, expelling a single drop of the glowing liquid. "This one’s new,” he said, his voice clinical. “We’re testing its effects on nervous system conductivity and resistance to pain stimuli.”

My stomach twisted. 

Kyle grinned, catching my expression. “Sounds fun, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, A-13. I’ll let you tell me all about how it feels.”

I yanked at the straps again, my panic clawing up my throat like bile. "No! Please! I don’t—"

Kyle grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” He growled

The doctor slid the needle into my arm without hesitation, the sharp pinch a prelude to the fire that coursed through my veins a moment later. It wasn’t just pain—it was something worse, something alive, like electricity running wild under my skin. My muscles spasmed uncontrollably, my back arching off the table despite the restraints.

“Vitals spiking,” the doctor murmured, his voice detached as he scribbled notes on his clipboard.

“Good,” Kyle said, leaning back against the counter. “Crank it up.”

The doctor placed the headset on my head, the cold metal pressing against my temples. “Beginning conductivity tests,” he announced. He adjusted a dial, and suddenly my body seized again, my vision going white with the intensity of it. It wasn’t just pain—it was like my body was being pulled apart and stitched back together all at once.

I screamed, my throat raw, but no one flinched. Kyle watched me with a casual smirk, as though I were a mildly interesting movie playing in the background.

“Interesting,” the doctor muttered, twisting another dial. “Response is stronger than anticipated.”

The shocks came in waves, each one worse than the last, making my head spin. Tears streamed down my face, and my voice cracked as I begged. “Please,I can’t!”

The doctor continued his work, muttering notes to himself as my body was wracked with uncontrollable spasms. “Let’s test the neural pathways,” he said, pressing another button.

A jolt ran through me, so strong that I bit down on my tongue, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. My screams turned to gasps, my throat too raw to keep up.

“Subject is nearing threshold,” the doctor noted, his tone utterly devoid of concern.

Kyle straightened, brushing his hands together like he’d just finished a chore. “Don’t fry her completely. We’ll need her for the next round.”

The last thing I remembered was the doctor pulling the headset off and Kyle’s cold, smirking face looming above me.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said, his voice like nails on my already frayed nerves.

And then, mercifully, everything went dark.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The silence is deafening.

I lie on the bed, staring at the same ceiling I’ve been staring at for weeks. It’s so familiar now that I can trace every crack, every imperfection, without even looking. My body feels heavy, but my mind is too restless to let me sleep.

I’ve been in this room too long.

At first, the solitude was a relief. No experiments. No needles. No voices barking orders. Just me, my bed, and my thoughts. But now? Now it’s different. The walls feel closer, tighter, like they’re pressing in on me. The air is staler, heavier.

There’s nothing to do. Nothing to read. Nothing to watch. Nothing to break the monotony of this endless, suffocating silence.

My fingers twitch against the blanket, a restless energy building inside me that I can’t shake. I sit up, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to walk. Nothing to touch. Nothing that isn’t bolted down or out of reach.

The boredom crawls under my skin, prickling like tiny needles. I can’t stand it. It’s worse than the pain, worse than the experiments, worse than the fear. At least those things made me feel something, kept my mind occupied, even if it was awful.

I get up and pace the room, but the four walls mock me with their sameness. The bed, the table, the door—it’s all the same. I sit back down, then stand up again, my body unable to settle. My chest feels tight, like I can’t breathe right.

I think about the outside. I’ve never been, not really. I’ve seen it through the glass, watched the kids laugh and run and use their powers like it’s nothing. I’ve seen the sun shining on their faces, the grass under their feet.

It’s not fair.

I want that.

But the thought of being restrained—of being tied down again, helpless and vulnerable—it’s enough to make my stomach churn. My fingers tighten into fists as I try to push the memory away, but it clings to me, sticky and relentless.

I glance at the door. He said I could change my mind. He said I could go outside.

The thought feels like a lifeline, but also a trap. But then my eyes drift to the window. The faint glow of sunlight leaks in, a cruel tease of what I can’t have. The boredom swells again, a tidal wave of frustration and emptiness crashing over me.

I can’t stay here. Not like this. Not anymore.

I sit back down on the bed, my hands gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles turn white. My jaw clenches as I stare at the door.

Thomas appears at the glass. I don’t move from my spot on the bed, knees drawn up to my chest, fingers tracing the faint ridges in the blanket. He steps inside, quiet this time, his usual casual demeanor softened. Leaning against the glass, he studies me for a moment.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I wanted to check in.”

I keep my eyes fixed on the wall, my stomach twisting with leftover frustration and embarrassment. I don’t have the energy to lash out again.

“You okay?” His voice is soft but steady, like he’s trying not to startle me.

I shrug, the motion stiff and jerky.

He sighs, pushing off the glass and crouching slightly, trying to meet my gaze. “I get it, Ella. Earlier was... a lot. I didn’t handle it great, and I’m sorry if I upset you.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, my jaw tight. 

Shifting his weight, he rests one arm on his knee. “Look, I just wanted to ask if you’ve thought about it. About going outside.”

My chest aches with the weight of boredom. Weeks in this room—same walls, same ceiling—have worn me thin. The thought of fresh air feels like a lifeline, but the idea of restraints? Of being that vulnerable again? My stomach churns at the thought.

“I... I don’t know,” I mutter finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas nods, not pushing. “That’s okay,” he says gently. “It’s your choice. I just wanted to check in.”

The silence between us stretches, heavy and taut. Almost impulsively, I blurt out, “Okay.”

He blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah?”

I nod, sharper this time, though my hands are trembling. “Yeah.”

His face softens, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright. Let me grab the chair. I’ll be right back.”

The door closes quietly behind him, and I sit there, staring at my knees. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. What am I doing?

The door opens again, and Thomas rolls the wheelchair into the room. The sound of the wheels squeaking against the floor feels deafening, and my breath catches in my throat. I stiffen, my back pressing into the bedframe. My fingers dig into the blanket as my chest tightens. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed. I can’t do this.

Thomas stops a few feet from me, crouching slightly so his gaze meets mine. “Hey,” he says softly, his tone careful, almost soothing. “I brought the chair. But remember, you can still change your mind. It’s okay.”

I shake my head sharply, though my body doesn’t match the confidence of the motion. My legs feel like jelly, and my heart pounds so loudly it drowns out everything else. “No,” I manage to mutter. “Let’s just... do it.”

He watches me closely for a moment, gauging my resolve, then nods. “Alright,” he says, standing and pushing the chair closer to me. “We’ll take it slow.”

I force myself to stand, my knees wobbling as I shuffle toward the chair. The closer I get, the more intimidating it seems, and I stop just short of it, staring at the straps like they might lash out on their own.

“Ella,” Thomas says gently, his voice steady. “It’s just to keep you safe. That’s all. If it’s too much, we can stop anytime. You’re in control here.”

I nod again, swallowing hard, and lower myself into the chair. The seat is firm but not uncomfortable, though the leather feels foreign against my skin. My hands grip the armrests tightly as if letting go would make the entire thing collapse.

Thomas kneels beside me, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s handling something fragile. “I’m going to start with the foot straps, okay?”

I nod, unable to speak, and watch as he gently lifts each of my feet onto the footrests. His hands move carefully, the leather straps wrapping snugly around my ankles. “Not too tight?” he asks, glancing up at me.

“No,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“Good,” he says, securing the straps with a small click. “One step at a time.”

He moves to my wrists next, crouching beside the armrests. “I’m going to do your hands now,” he says, his tone calm and even. “If anything feels uncomfortable, tell me.”

I flinch slightly as he takes my wrist, but his grip is light, steady. He wraps the leather strap around it, buckling it just snug enough to hold me in place without pinching. “How’s that?” he asks, pausing to meet my gaze.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, staring straight ahead.

“Alright. Last one,” he says, moving to the other wrist. The process is the same—gentle, deliberate. I hate the feeling of being restrained, but there’s something about the care he’s putting into each motion that keeps me grounded.

When he’s done, he stands back, giving me space. “That’s it,” he says softly. “All set. How does it feel?”

I test the restraints, my hands flexing slightly against the leather. They hold firm but don’t hurt. “Ok,” I admit, my voice shaky.

He leans down slightly, meeting my eyes. “You’re brave for doing this,” he says quietly. “I know it’s hard, but I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Something in his tone makes my chest tighten, but I nod, exhaling shakily. “Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes, straightening up and placing his hands on the wheelchair’s handles. “Let’s get you outside.”

The sunlight slices through the doorway, blinding and overwhelming. My eyes sting as I squint, trying to make sense of the brightness after so long in the dull gray of the cell. The air smells different—sharp and alive, like cut grass and dirt after rain. It’s almost too much. My fingers grip the armrests tightly, nails pressing into the padding as if holding on will steady me..

The chair stops under the shade of a large tree, and the world quiets slightly. The sunlight becomes gentler here, filtered through the canopy above. I blink hard, trying to adjust, my eyes still stinging as they take in everything. The air is cooler now, less overwhelming, but my fingers stay locked on the armrests.

Thomas moves around, settling on the grass beside me. He stretches his legs out, leaning back against the tree with a casual ease that makes me want to scream. “Better?” he asks, his voice calm, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

I nod stiffly, barely moving, but my heart is racing. The straps across my wrists and ankles feel heavier out here, like they’re digging into my skin.

He tilts his head toward me, a faint grin on his face. “You know, you’re so pale you’re almost reflective. Should’ve grabbed some sunscreen. Don’t want you catching fire out here.”

I squint at him, not sure if he’s serious. He’s watching me, waiting, his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

“Seriously,” he continues, mock solemn. “If you burst into flames, the medical director’s going to have my head.”

The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself, just enough that he notices. His grin widens, and he leans back, brushing a stray leaf off his knee.

Thomas sits cross-legged on the ground next to the chair, leaning back on his hands as he looks out at the open yard. The sun is still bright just beyond the shade, and the faint rustle of leaves fills the air. I squint into the distance, the expanse of green and blue too much after so long in the dull gray of my room.

“You okay?” Thomas asks, his voice soft but steady, not pushing.

I nod tightly, but my fingers dig into the arms of the chair. The sunlight feels like it’s crawling under my skin, too raw, too open. My chest feels heavy, and I can’t bring myself to look at him.

“Your nails still look good,” he says lightly, glancing at my hands. “Anna really outdid herself.”

I blink, the unexpected comment pulling me back just a little. My fingers twitch against the armrests, and I glance down at the faint pink polish. “She never stops talking,” I mutter, my voice quiet, almost lost in the breeze.

Thomas chuckles softly. “She’s a bit of a yapper but shes sweet.”

I don’t respond, my gaze drifting back to the yard. The sunlight dances across the grass, and for a moment, it feels like the world is taunting me with its freedom. My stomach twists, and my throat tightens.

He shifts slightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “The medical director’s been pretty impressed with you,” he says, his tone conversational but gentle. “The progress you’ve made.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye but don’t say anything. My hands grip the armrests harder, the leather cool against my palms.

“He’s hopeful,” Thomas continues. “Not saying it’ll be next week or even the one after, but... he thinks moving you to a lower level is in the cards. Eventually.”

The words sit heavy in the air. Eventually. Not now. Not soon. My chest tightens further, the weight of the restraints making it hard to breathe. I blink quickly, trying to swallow down the rising pressure in my throat.

“You’d have more freedom,” he says quietly, watching me carefully. “A step-down unit isn’t perfect, but it’s better than being cooped up all the time. You’d get to be around other kids.”

I flinch at that, the idea of being around anyone else feeling as overwhelming as the open space. My nails dig into the armrests, and I turn my face away, blinking hard.

Thomas notices. Of course, he does. “Ella?” His voice softens, and he shifts closer, his posture open but not crowding me. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head sharply, my jaw clenching as my vision blurs. The sunlight feels too bright, even in the shade, and the world feels too big, too far away.

“You can tell me,” he says gently, leaning in just enough to meet my gaze. “Whatever it is, I promise, it’s okay.”

I press my lips together, my shoulders trembling as the tears come hot and fast. “I can’t,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Thomas’s expression softens immediately, his brows drawing together. “Ella...”

“It’s too much,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I’m... I’m trapped. I can’t—” My voice cracks, and I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head violently. “I can’t stay in there. It’s driving me crazy.”

He doesn’t speak right away, letting the silence settle between us. When he finally does, his voice is low and steady. “I know it feels like that. And it’s not fair. None of this is.”

I sniff hard, swiping at my face with my arm. “Then why... why can’t I just go?” My voice is sharp, desperate.

“Because they want you to be ready,” he says softly, his tone careful but firm. “And I know that doesn’t make it easier. But it’s not forever, Ella. I swear it’s not.”

I shake my head, my chest heaving with uneven breaths. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “More than you think.”

I glance at him, my vision blurry from the tears. There’s something in his expression, a weight that feels different. “How?” I whisper.

He exhales slowly, leaning back slightly. “A few years ago, I worked with a kid like you,” he says, his voice softer now. “A Red. Same anger, same fire. He was stubborn as hell. Thought he’d never get out.”

I blink, the tears slowing slightly. “What... what happened to him?”

Thomas hesitates, just for a moment, before a faint smile crosses his lips. “He made it,” he says simply. “He got moved down. Eventually, he left.”

The words hang in the air, and I can’t tell if I believe him. But there’s something in the way he says it—a steadiness that feels like it might be true.

Thomas shifts again, sitting back with his hands on his knees. “You’re stronger than you think, Ella,” he says quietly. “And you’re not alone in this. You’ve got people who care about you.”

He places his hand on top of mine.

Thomas shifts slightly, brushing some stray grass off his knee. The air between us has settled into a tentative calm, broken only by the gentle rustling of the leaves above.

After a moment, he glances at me, a small, easy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Hey, when we head back in,” he starts, his tone casual, “do you wanna watch a movie or something? I hear you’ve got some strong opinions about Anna’s taste in chick flicks.”

I let out a small huff, almost a laugh, but not quite. My fingers twitch against the armrests, my shoulders relaxing a bit. “She talks too much during them,” I mutter, barely audible.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Thomas agrees, his grin widening slightly. 

The conversation lingers in that light, safe space for a moment before Thomas’s expression softens. His gaze flickers away briefly, then back to me, and I notice the slight hesitation in his movements.

“There’s, uh... one more thing I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice quieter now but steady. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s something I found out a little while ago, and I didn’t want to drop it on you all at once.”

My chest tightens, my body tensing automatically. “What?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

Thomas takes a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “When you came here, part of the intake process is running a DNA scan. You know, checking for matches in missing persons databases.”

I blink, my mind racing to catch up with what he’s saying. 

He continues, his tone gentle but firm. “Your DNA came back as a match. For a missing person.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

“We haven’t heard anything back yet,” Thomas adds quickly, his tone steady and calm, like he’s trying to anchor me. “But we reached out to the contact listed on the case. It might take some time.”

I can’t think of anything to say. I stare at him, my throat tight, my mind blank and buzzing all at once.

Thomas leans back slightly, giving me space. “I didn’t want to keep it from you,” he says softly. “I just... thought you should know that we might have found your parents”

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The world feels too big, too loud, and yet impossibly small all at the same time.

Heyyyyy. Part 11. Very exciting. I'm still writing but my tummy has been hurting so I laid down for a week and are just now getting back up. I live for y'alls feed back and messages. If you have any suggestions or request just lmk. :)

TW: Menstruation, bodily functions, mild panic, emotional distress

The courtyard that overlooks my room is always busy around this time of day. I sit on my bed, my gaze taken by the activity outside. I see many children around my age playing and chatting. They don’t wear any uniforms, nor do they require the constant gaze of onlooking cameras. The only thing that would separate this scene from any other is the fact that a boy just made fire erupt from his hands. Beside him, a girl creates an array of blossoms and blooms sprouting from where she’s standing.

It pisses me off. I don’t care that they’re having fun; I’m pissed because I’m trapped in this fucking room 24/7. I’m pissed because I can’t do what they’re doing. I look at the cup on the table beside my bed. It’s the only thing not bolted to the floor. I quickly drink down the rest of my water and place it on the bed in front of me. I stare at it intensely, searching for the flame behind my eyes. For the invisible hands to tear out of my corneas and lift it up. Holding my breath, I lift my hand, prompting it to float. But nothing happens. I look out the window again. A different boy takes a ball and throws it so high up, I can’t even see it anymore.

“Agh,” I grunt out, throwing the cup to the floor. The plastic bounces on the floor, echoing through the room. I don’t get it. They took the collar off, so why isn’t it working?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He knows what she’s trying to do. He stares at the second monitor, showing the security footage of her room. Her, sitting on her bed, staring daggers into a plastic cup. She’s tried a few times in the past weeks to use her powers on different objects: a cup, her pillows, the door. But it won’t work, not with the chip in her neck at least. He debates whether or not to go check on her. This place is designed to help the patients live with their powers, not make them something to be ashamed of, but on the other hand, she’s not ready for that responsibility, and he runs the risk of scaring her off, preventing her from wanting to use them altogether.

An alert dings on his computer, and he looks at the email subject. “Confirmed DNA Match.”

He lets out a sigh and rubs his hands on his face. He’s not going to open it right now. Because if he does, he knows his job is about to get a whole lot more complicated. He then sees an update on his calendar taking up a space for the next two days. He closes the tab and looks at his notes for this week:

Reluctantly taking medications but only with clear explanations and assurances from staff.

Occasionally pretends to swallow pills and hides them, requiring extra monitoring.

Recently started accepting medications with fewer incidents, though remains visibly tense and tearful during the process.

Progress noted: more responsive to verbal prompts from Anna. Allowed assistance during one shower session but remained stiff and silent throughout.

First unsolicited verbal exchange occurred during a session with Thomas (“Thomas”), marking significant progress in trust.

Today:

Attempts to use telekinesis noted on multiple occasions (e.g., staring at objects, small hand gestures).

He looks back at the monitor to see her back to working on the cup. He closes out the window and heads her way.

Reaching the cell, he knocks on the glass, making his presence known. Catching her attention, she quickly stands up, acting as though she was simply admiring the cup and its simplicity.

“Hey, whatcha doing?” She shrugs her shoulders and sits on the bed with a bounce. “Nothing?” he says in an exaggerated tone. “Well, in that case, do you wanna play cards or something? I’m headed out this afternoon, so I won’t be here to play for a day or two.”

She straightens out in bed, concern flaring across her expression. “Why?” she says in a hushed voice. If he didn’t know any better, she almost seemed sad to hear of him going.

“I have a work thing, but don’t worry, Anna’s still gonna be here to check on you, and y’all can have lots of fun. I do think, however, she is an expert at Crazy Eights, so I’d put on your A-game.” Whenever Thomas comes, he brings a casual environment with him. She likes that. She doesn’t like that she’s gonna be stuck with that girl for two days.

She lays on the bed and huffs through her nose, pulling the blanket over her head. “Okay, well, if you don’t wanna play, I’m gonna go ahead and get going then. But hey.” He waits for her to poke her head out of the blanket. “I need you to promise me that you’re gonna be nice to Ms. Anna, okay.” He gives her a stern look, not his normal relaxed demeanor. “I don’t want to come back and hear that you hurt her or were being difficult because I know you love to give her a hard time.”

He angles his head in her direction. “I need you to say that you understand.” She sits up and slumps her shoulders forward and sighs, “Okay.” His gaze relaxes.

“Thank you. Hey, how about if I hear that you were good, I can see if I can try to get you out of this room for a few hours, okay?” She basically launches to her feet in anticipation, eyes as wide as the moon. “Out. I want to go out,” she says, hands pressed against the glass, leaving light fingerprints.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see. I’ll see you soon,” and with that, she watches as he makes his way down the hallway. The excitement of potentially being able to go outside makes her antsy and restless and maybe also gives her a stomach ache.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My stomach hurts relentlessly. It’s nothing like I’ve ever felt before—it’s like my organs are being ripped apart. I know because I’ve felt that before. I curl up tighter on my bed. By now, the sun has set, casting a thin darkness over the room.

I sorta miss Thomas—not that I actually miss him. I’m just fucking bored. I brush away the thought. Okay, maybe I do miss him a bit. It’s only been a few hours, and I already wish he was here, clacking away at his computer. I sigh and sit up in the bed. Maybe going to the bathroom will help.

I make my way to the toilet and pull my pants down.

“Shit.”

The heat drains from my face as I see the blood saturating my underwear. What’s going on? If I’m bleeding, then they’re going to take me to sick bay. If I’m in sick bay, then I’ll be strapped down for days on end—and the needles and—. My breath hitches as my thoughts race with the consequences of this new discovery. Quickly, I take the underwear off and throw them into the corner. Grabbing a fresh pair, I shove toilet paper inside to catch any remaining blood.

Why couldn’t this have happened when Thomas was here? At least maybe he’d console me in my sick bed. Maybe even rub my back. I quickly exit the bathroom and sit on the floor by my bed, careful not to move to avoid dislodging the paper. I sit like a statue, frozen, until little Miss Sunshine herself walks up to the glass.

“Hey, girlie,” she says in an enthusiastic tone. “I’m pretty sure Thomas told you, but I’ll be with you for a couple of days. I thought we could watch a movie or play cards.”

I barely move, giving only a subtle head shake to acknowledge her suggestion.

“Are you sure? I know you’ve been alone for most of the day since Thomas left.”

I shake my head, keeping my expression firm. I sit uncomfortably still, quietly hoping she hasn’t noticed the blood starting to seep through my pants.

“Okay, then I’ll—”

She stops mid-sentence, and I know it’s over.

“Oh, girlie.”

Her inflection changes to one of sympathy. I immediately cover the spot by sitting on my knees. Without thinking, I blurt out, “I’m not sick!” My heart pounds in my chest as panic rises.

“G-Go away!” I shout, tears threatening to spill over.

She crouches down to my level, her tone gentle. “I know you’re not sick,” she says with a sweet smile. “Can I help you, though? I think you got your period.”

“Leave me alone!” My pleas grow more desperate, hoping she’ll realize I’m not going to allow her to do anything.

“Ella, listen to me. I know you’re not sick. You got your period. Do you know what that means?”

I shake my head violently, pressing my hands against my thighs as if I can somehow erase the evidence.

“I’ll be right back,” she says gently, standing up and leaving.

The second she’s gone, I scramble to my feet, darting into the bathroom and wedging myself between the toilet and the wall. Moments later, I hear her call out from the other side of the door.

“Ella.” She pauses for a moment. “Honey, I know you’re scared, but I’m not going to hurt you.”

The door creaks open, and I curl up tighter, wishing I could disappear. She stands in the doorway, taking in my pitiful form.

“Ella,” she says softly, “will you let me help you?”

In her hands, she holds fresh clothes, a washcloth, and a few pink packets of something I don’t recognize. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I won’t come in if you think you might hurt me. So, I'm gonna ask you again, can I come in?”

My emotions take hold of me, and the tears streaming down my face turn into full-on sobs. My gasps and cries echo through the bathroom. Gently, she places the items down on the floor next to me and takes a seat on the floor.

“I promise you’re not sick,” Anna says softly, her voice cutting gently through my cries. “This is something that happens to every girl. It’s scary the first time, especially if you’ve never heard of it.” She picks up the pink packet from the top of the pile, holding it up so I can see. “Every month, for about a week, you’ll bleed. It’s not a bad thing—it just means your body is growing up and preparing to become a woman. You might feel more tired or emotional, and you might get a stomachache too.”

I glance up at her, my heart pounding. I hadn’t told her my stomach hurt, but it does. I look at the packet in her hand, then back at her face, trying to process what she’s saying.

She unwraps the packet, revealing a long white, soft-looking pad. The crinkly wrapper falls to the floor, and she holds the pad up for me to see. “This is a pad,” she explains gently. “You put it in your underwear to catch the blood. You’ll need to change it every few hours, but that’s completely normal.”

Her voice stays calm and steady as she studies my expression. “It happens to every woman you’ve ever met, including me,” she adds, a small, reassuring smile crossing her face. “Do you want to put on some fresh clothes?”

I nod hesitantly, the reassurance in her tone easing some of the panic swirling in my chest. My hands tremble slightly as I take the clean clothes and the pad from her. My mind feels like it’s racing, but her calm presence keeps me grounded enough to move.

Anna smiles warmly and stands, stepping back toward the doorway. “Take your time,” she says gently, leaving the bathroom door ajar. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Once I’m alone, I let out a shaky breath and stare down at the items in my hands. The clean fabric feels soft and comforting against my fingers. I fumble awkwardly as I try to mimic what Anna showed me, finally managing to get the pad in place. Changing into the fresh clothes feels like shedding a layer of panic, though the fear still lingers at the edges.

When I step out of the bathroom, Anna is sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a small bag of items she must have brought. She looks up immediately, her smile warm but not overbearing, as if she knows I need gentleness right now.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Feeling a little better?”

I don’t answer with words, just give a small nod before sitting down on the floor a few feet away from her, pulling my knees to my chest.

Anna doesn’t push. Instead, she pulls out a small bottle of nail polish and holds it up. “You know what always made me feel better when I was your age? Painting my nails. Want to try it?”

I glance at the bottle in her hand. The soft pink color catches the light, and though I can’t explain why, it makes my chest feel tight. Slowly, I extend my hand toward her, unsure but curious.

Anna’s face lights up, though she keeps her reaction calm. “Alright,” she says, uncapping the bottle. She scoots closer, taking my hand gently in hers. “You’ve got such pretty nails, Ella. This is going to look great.”

As she carefully brushes the polish onto my nails, I watch her hands move steadily and deliberately. The cool liquid feels strange but not unpleasant on my skin. My fingers feel heavier with each coat, but it’s oddly... nice.

“You know,” Anna says conversationally, her tone light, “when I was your age, I used to do this all the time with my sisters. We’d sit in the bathroom and gossip about silly things like boys or school.”

I tilt my head slightly, the faintest flicker of curiosity breaking through my guarded thoughts.

“Of course, none of it really mattered,” she continues, glancing up at me with a soft smile. “But at the time, it felt so important. Funny how that works, huh?”

I don’t respond, but I let my fingers relax in her hand. The polish gleams softly under the light as it dries, and for a moment, the tension in my chest eases.

When she finishes, she gently blows on my nails to help them dry. “There,” she says, leaning back to admire her work. “What do you think?”

I lift my hand, examining the soft pink sheen on my nails. It feels strange, like I’m looking at someone else’s hand. But it’s also... pretty.

Anna starts packing her supplies into the small bag. “Well, it’s getting late,” she says, standing and brushing off her knees. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” She ruffles my hair lightly and gives me a quick smile. “If you need anything, just call out.”

As she heads to the door, I sit quietly, admiring my nails. The pink glints faintly as I wiggle my fingers, and a warm, unfamiliar feeling blooms in my chest. For a moment, I think maybe Thomas can stay gone an extra day or two.

OK, so this chapter was kinda two separate ideas that I kinda got carried away with. If you have any suggestions please leave a comment. I love to read y'alls feedback! I'm gonna head to bed.

TW: child abuse, trauma, non-consensual medical procedures, physical pain, emotional manipulation, dehumanization, visible distress, power imbalances, institutional cruelty.

“Do you have anyyyyy... fours?” Thomas drawled, inspecting his cards with an exaggerated squint, as if his focus alone could will a win.

Through the glass, A-13 shook her head slowly, her movements deliberate but tense. She gestured for him to draw, and he sighed with mock exasperation, reaching for the deck sticking halfway through the door slot.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, pulling a card and flipping it over. “Nope. No help there. Again.” He tossed the card into his hand with a groan, feigning frustration.

A-13 riffled through her cards, glancing at him briefly before holding up five fingers.

“Of course,” Thomas said with a resigned huff, sliding the card through the slot. She took it with careful precision, adding it to her hand before laying down a full set of fives.

“That’s it,” he said, throwing his remaining cards onto the floor with dramatic flair. “Four wins in a row. You’ve got to be cheating. Can you see my cards or something?”

A-13 tucked her remaining cards close to her chest, her lips twitching in what might have been a smile before she quickly ducked her head.

Thomas watched her for a moment, the faint smile lingering on her face, and felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. In the past few weeks, she’d changed. Not drastically—she still didn’t speak—but there was a difference.

She didn’t lash out as much anymore. She didn’t try to destroy everything within reach or claw at the walls in frustration. She was beginning to tolerate his presence, even expect it.

The therapy sessions were less promising. The therapist on call had been in a handful of times, sitting across from A-13 and asking gentle questions that were met with nothing but silence. But even then, Thomas noticed she was listening. It was progress. Small, painstaking progress, but progress nonetheless.

However, something was bothering him. He didn’t know what to call her. Usually, that's one of the first things they do is give the patients proper names but with the intensity of her arrival, it had slipped his mind.

“You’ve been here a few weeks now,” he said, his tone steady but casual. “And, well, we usually try to give people names when they’re ready. Something other than the ID numbers.”

A-13 froze. Her fingers, which had been smoothing the fabric of her pants, shifted to her sleeve, tugging it down over her forearm.

Thomas noticed the motion, the way her shoulders tensed, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he kept his tone easy, unassuming. “I mean, A-13 works for now,” he continued, leaning back slightly. “But if there’s something else you’d like—something that’s yours—just let me know.”

She didn’t look at him. Her hands stayed tightly clutching the sleeve, her posture shrinking as if she could fold in on herself entirely.

Thomas sighed softly, sliding the cards into their box and packing up his backpack. “You don’t have to decide today,” he added. “Or even soon. It’s just something to think about.” 

She was small, barely six years old, and the world seemed impossibly big and cold.

The line stretched out ahead of her, a slow-moving procession of children shuffling forward under the glare of fluorescent lights. The air was sharp with antiseptic, and the sound of muffled sobs and harsh commands echoed off the sterile white walls.

She clutched the hem of her threadbare shirt with trembling hands, her bare feet shifting against the freezing tile. The child in front of her—an older boy—was crying openly, his small shoulders shaking.

“Next!”

The voice was sharp and clipped, snapping like a whip.

The boy hesitated, his sobs hitching, but a hand on his back shoved him forward. He stumbled, his feet dragging as he was led to the chair.

A-13 swallowed hard, her throat tight as she watched the scene unfold.

When it was her turn, she barely had time to process the hand that gripped her upper arm and pulled her forward.

“Let’s go,” the man muttered impatiently, dragging her toward the center of the room.

She whimpered, her legs struggling to keep up with his longer strides.

A seated doctor glanced up from his clipboard, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This one is—A-13” he muttered, gesturing for her to be brought closer.

The man holding her hoisted her easily into the doctor’s lap, settling her sideways. Her small frame fit snugly against his chest, but his grip was firm, one arm wrapping around her waist while his other hand pinned her wrist in place.

“Hold still,” he said curtly, adjusting her in his lap.

She squirmed instinctively, trying to pull her arm away, but his hold tightened.

Before anything could happen, the door to the room slammed open, and the head doctor strode in, his expression thunderous.

“Unacceptable!” he barked, his voice loud and commanding. “An escape under our watch? Unacceptable!”

The tattoo artist, hunched over his tools, froze mid-motion.

“Keep going,” the head doctor snapped, his sharp gaze darting to the trembling children in line. “We’re marking them. Every single one. No more mistakes.”

The hum of the machine came next, a sound that made her stomach churn.

“No,” she whimpered, her voice small and desperate. Tears streamed down her face as she squirmed again, her tiny legs kicking weakly.

The doctor sighed sharply, his patience wearing thin. “Hold still,” he muttered, pulling her arm taut and bracing it against his knee.

The needle bit into her skin, and she screamed, her cry high-pitched and broken.

“Quiet,” the doctor said, his tone flat.

The artist worked quickly, the needle dragging through her flesh with sharp, burning precision. Her tears fell faster, her small frame trembling violently against the doctor’s chest.

When it was over, the artist wiped her arm briskly, revealing the fresh black numbers: A-13.

The doctor barely glanced at the tattoo, his grip still firm on her as he turned toward the head doctor.

“Next,” the head doctor barked, gesturing to the next child in line.

The memory faded, leaving A-13 feeling hollow and disoriented. Her fingers stayed clenched around her sleeve, shielding the mark that felt like it burned beneath the fabric.

Lost in thought she hardly realized he was headed towards the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Thomas.”

The word slipped out before she could stop it, her voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas froze mid-step, his back still to her. Slowly, he turned around, his expression calm but clearly surprised. He crouched down on the other side of the glass, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You said something,” he noted, his tone quiet but easy, like he was remarking on the weather. 

A-13 ducked her head, her pulse hammering in her ears. She didn’t know why she’d said his name, and now that she had, she felt exposed.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully. “You don’t have to say anything else,” he said after a moment. “I’m just glad you did.”

The silence stretched for a few seconds, and Thomas shifted, settling more comfortably on the floor, deciding to seize the opportunity to prompt more speaking. “So... about that name thing,” he began, his tone almost conversational. “I figure it’s about time, you know? Most people here get a name pretty quickly. Makes things a little less... clinical.””

She didn’t move, but her breathing slowed slightly, her grip on her sleeve loosening just a fraction.

Thomas continued as if he were just talking to himself. “I was thinking about names. Like Sarah. Can’t go wrong with a classic. Or something unique—Nova’s got a cool sound to it, right?”

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, her gaze lowering even more.

“Of course,” he added, glancing at her. “You could just tell me if one of these is a hard no. I’m not that fragile.” He smirked faintly, his voice light. 

Still nothing, but she wasn’t shrinking away either. He decided to keep going, his voice steady and casual.

“You know what name I liked?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Ella. Like in that movie we just watched—Ella Enchanted. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Her fingers twitched against her sleeve, her shoulders drawing in slightly as if to brace herself.

“It’s just a suggestion,” he said lightly. “But hey, if it doesn’t fit, no big deal. We’ll find something else.”

He shifted to stand, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “Alright,” he said. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Ella.”

The word was so soft he almost thought he’d imagined it. He stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to look at her.

She didn’t meet his gaze, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her sleeve, but the faint sound of her voice still lingered in the air.

Thomas crouched back down, his eyes searching hers through the glass. “Yeah?” he said gently. “You like that one?”

She gave a single, hesitant nod, her expression unreadable but her body tense.

A small smile crossed his face, warm and genuine. “Ella it is, then.”

He didn’t move right away, letting her sit with the decision. When he finally stood again, he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ella. Same time, same place.”