#jcb

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It was, by all appearances, an ordinary day at Hawkins High. The kind where the halls buzzed with distant chatter and lockers slammed in uneven rhythm, just the usual. Yet inside Ms. Kelly's office, the world felt strangely muffled, like you were almost hearing it from underwater.

You sat in the chair across from her desk, fingers loosely intertwined, posture slack without meaning to be. The light above seemed too bright, bleeding into your vision until the edges of the room softened and swayed. A familiar throb pressed behind your eyes, your vision swimming as a dull ache pulsed from behind.

The headaches had lingered for so long they no longer startled you, so often you'd stopped counting. They were simply there, woven into your days like background noise you'd learned to live with.

"…are you alright?" Ms. Kelly called gently, her voice carrying a careful softness that didn'r quite match the sharp attentiveness in her eyes. She leaned forward slightly in her chair, fingers folding atop a stack of papers as she studied your troubled face.

"You drifted off again," she added, quieter this time, like she didn't want to startle you. "That's the third time since you've been sitting here. If something's bothering you, anything at all, you can tell me."

Her voice reached you as if from a distance. You blinked, awareness rushing back in a quiet jolt. The blur receded, replaced and reshaped by the neat lines of Ms. Kelly's tidy office, the ticking clock that had now sounded far too loud and her watchful gaze upon you.

You lifted a hand to your temple, pressing your fingers there, rubbing it as though you could smooth the pain away. But to no suprise, the pain pulsed stubbornly anyways. With a small exhale, you shook your head once, then again, trying to scatter the lingering haze from your thoughts before it settled back in.

"I'm fine," you said, the answer slipping out on instinct, polished by countless repetition from spending your time here. Your shoulders then rose in a small, careless shrug meant to end the conversation before it could begin. "I'm tired, that's all."

You were practically pleading to be let go, even if you never said it aloud. The urge to leave curled tight and restless in your chest. It had felt like there was something perched at the back of your mind, a quiet voice urging you to stay silent, to keep everything locked behind your teeth. And you had no choice but to obey.

Because lately, the more you tried to explain, the worse it became. Every attempt to put the feeling into words seemed to stir the ache in your head until it flared, punishing you from sharing. As if the pain fed on notice, on confession, on being acknowledged at all.

The excuse felt thin even to your own ears, but it was easier than explaining the dull pounding in your head, easier than admitting how often the world had started to blur. So you let the words sit between you like a closed door, hoping they'd be enough. It was the only thing you could do to keep your mind at peace, and you yearned for it, even if it's just for a little while.

But the look Ms. Kelly gave you lingered, like a question left unanswered in the air. Her eyes softened, yet there was a quiet concern there, a sense that she was reading the pauses between your breaths, the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers pressed a little too firmly against your temple.

It was the look of someone who suspected the truth was sitting just beneath the surface, even if you refused to let it rise. The kind of look that said she heard more than your words were willing to admit.

And to be fair, Ms. Kelly was right, something wasn't right. You'd always felt it, a low hum under the surface of your life, a persistent tug that whispered when things weren't as they should be. You'd been different in ways that even you couldn’t fully explain.

Life had a way of feeling blurry before a certain point, as if the edges of your own story had been smudged, memories lost to time. Anything before your adoption felt like a half-remembered dream, shapes and sounds without meaning.

It all became clearer when your parents, well your new parents, introduced you to the Harringtons. You were a teenager then, still adjusting to your new life, your new name, your new home. Steve Harrington, the 'king' of Hawkins High with that unmistakable hair, had been tasked by his own parents with keeping an eye on you, making sure you survived the treacherous halls of high school.

You'd been grateful, at least, that Steve never treated you like an obligation. What started as a favor between parents had softened into something more than the two ever expected. Somewhere along the way, you'd grown close, close enough to see the sides of him Hawkins High only whispered about.

You'd watched his high school life unfold from just beside him. From the dizzy, all-consuming way he'd dated Nancy, to the quiet fallout of their breakup. You'd been there when the whispers started too, when people called him a weirdo for hanging around kids instead of chasing popularity. He laughed it off most days, but you'd seen the way it sometimes lingered in his eyes.

And now everyone had moved on. Graduated. Left those halls behind.

Everyone except you.

You remained, like a page the school refused to turn. Your parents had convinced the administration to give you more time, more chances, more patience than most students will ever receive. On paper, it was academic concern. In truth, it was because something about you seemed… fragile.

Sleepless nights bled into exhausting days. The headaches came like clockwork, it was deep, throbbing and merciless. They hollowed you out from the inside. You've changed since then.

And then there were the voices. It was never loud or clear, just murmurs at the edge of thought at times. Foggy impressions of someone you couldn't fully remember, someone who felt important in a way that made your chest tighten.

Memories slipped through your grasp like water. No matter how hard you tried, it never seemed to be in your touch.

Some days, you couldn't even tell what was real and what your mind had stitched together to fill the gaps. The world felt slightly off-center, like a picture frame knocked crooked on the wall.

And you were the only one who seemed to notice.

You didn't really feel like talking after that. Words felt heavy in your mouth, and every sound seemed to press against your skull. Ms. Kelly watched you for a moment longer, then her expression softened into something resigned.

"…Alright," she said gently. "If you say you're fine. But my door's open, okay?" Her gaze lingered on you for a moment before she turned back to her papers, leaving you with the quiet weight of her concern.

You nodded, more out of habit than agreement. The chair legs scraped softly as you stood. For a second, the room tilted, your balance wavering, but you steadied yourself and reached for the doorknob before she could notice.

The hallway greeted you once again with noise and motion, from students laughing, sneakers squeaking against the floor, someone calling out across the corridor. It all felt too loud, too bright. You hated it, you hated all of it.

You had barely taken a few steps when a familiar voice stopped you. "Hey..." the person spoke, his voice all too familiar.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Slowly, you turned, and there he was standing there. Steve Harrington. Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, hair slightly messier than you remembered, eyes carrying a cautious warmth.

It struck you then how long it had been since you'd spoken. Months had passed since the last real conversation, months of fleeting glances in crowded hallways, of almost-words that never quite made it past your lips. And now here he was, standing in front of you as if no time had passed at all, yet the distance between you felt heavier than ever.

He offered a small, hesitant smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You okay? You look-" His words faltered, like he was feeling his way through a conversation he didn't know how to start. He blinked, searching for the right phrase. "...kinda out of it."

There was genuine concern on his face, soft and unassuming because of you, but it pressed against the raw edge of your mood, making the throb in your head flare just a little sharper. You wanted to respond, to explain, but the words stuck somewhere behind the fog in your mind didn't seem to be of help either.

Your patience thinned with the pain. Talking felt impossible; explaining felt worse.

You gave a quick shrug, avoiding his eyes. "I'm fine."

Steve opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, but you didn't give him the chance. The words came out sharper than you intended, laced with frustration you couldn't hold back any longer.

"I know my parents asked you to walk me home," you snapped, voice tight, "but look—I don't need it. I'll walk home myself. And honestly? It's already embarrassing enough that I'm still stuck in high school while all of you are off studying at colleges, working, living your lives. So don't even try to sweet-talk me into it."

The hallway seemed to grow quieter around you, the words hanging in the air, heavier than you expected. Your head throbbed, your hands trembled slightly at your sides, and for a moment you just wanted to escape, to let the pain and the frustration dissolve into the familiar hum of Hawkins streets.

Hearing your harsh words, Steve didn't move at first. He just stared, the warmth in his eyes dimming into a flicker of surprise, and maybe something else, something you couldn't name.

Before he could say anything else again, you stepped past him, your shoulder brushing his lightly. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as you walked, each pulse in your head urging you forward, toward quiet, toward escape.

Behind you, Steve didn't try to call out again. But if you'd looked back, you might have noticed the way his smile had faded into quiet concern. And the strange feeling that something wasn't right at all.

You stormed out of school, the weight of the hallway and Steve's concerned gaze fading behind you. Once outside, you shoved on your hoodie, slammed your backpack onto your shoulders, and shoved your earphones in. The moment the first chords of your favorite heavy metal song tore through your senses, the sharp edges of your headache dulled just slightly, replaced by the familiar pulse of rhythm that always seemed to cut through the haze.

The walk home was long, but it was yours. Each step, each beat of the music in your ears, dulled the world around you, giving you a temporary reprieve from everything, the embarrassment, the headaches, the voices in your head.

When you finally reached home, you didn't even bother with your bag. It hit the floor with a muted thud, and you collapsed onto your bed, letting your body sink into the mattress like it could finally hold you.

The pain in your head throbbed relentlessly, yet something about the exhaustion clawing at your muscles made it feel as if you could finally, finally sleep without the usual interruptions.

The moment your pillow cradled your head, the world seemed to fell away. The softness beneath you vanished, replaced by a cold, unforgiving surface. The air smelled sharp, like chemicals and something faintly metallic. A distant hum vibrated through the floor, steady yet alive, like the building itself was breathing.

Your eyes opened to harsh white lights overhead, bright enough to sting. Shadows stretched long across tiled floors and glass panels.

You were somewhere else. A cold place. It looked like a lab, but with colourful rainbow striped walls almost as if it were made as a childrens playroom. You assumed it must be, but everything about it felt… familiar, almost as if you had been here before, though you couldn't remember when.

And yet, even in that uncertainty, a chill ran down your spine, crawling beneath your skin. Something about this place felt like it belonged to someone else… or perhaps to something else.

Then a voice appeared, cutting through the hum of earie nothings like a lifeline.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was soft, carrying a strange mixture of concern and urgency, as if he had been rushing to search you, and the thought of you in pain was almost unbearable. "Look at me… tell me where it hurts. Don’t try to hide it. I need to know you're alright."

He took a careful step closer, his eyes scanning you with a sharp attentiveness, lingering on the smallest tremor in your hands, the faintest pale tint to your skin. "Don't… don't move too fast. Just… stay still for me. I can help you, I promise. Just tell me where it hurts."

You looked up, and there he was. His presence was impossible to ignore, he was tall, imposing, yet somehow calm, his sharp features framed by pale skin that seemed almost luminous under the harsh lab lights.

His dirty blond hair fell just over his eyes, and those eyes… they were startling, a storm of contradictions. Soft and concerned now, attentive to every shake in your body, yet carrying the faintest shadow of something colder underneath.

You tried to speak, to respond, but no sound came out. Your lips parted, thought and voice stuck in the same place. When words finally emerged, they weren't what you had intended.

"I… I don't know..." The words barely left your lips, weak and uncertain, as if your voice itself had forgotten how to speak. Your throat felt tight, your words twisting into something foreign. It wasn't what you wanted to say.

His eyes softened immediately at your hesitation, his expression shifting to something almost tender. He stepped closer, kneeling beside you as though the floor itself bent to welcome him. Reaching a hand out, he brushed a lock of hair from your damp forehead, careful not to touch the fresh blood that dotted your skin. His eyes softened, filled with an intensity that made the sting of your headache dull for just a heartbeat.

"You're bleeding," he murmured, his voice low and steady, careful not to alarm you. "It's okay," he murmured. "You're safe. I've got you." His hands were firm but gentle, grounding you as if his very presence could hold the world steady.

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you as if memorizing every line, every inch of your skin. You felt strangely safe under that look, cradled in the care he offered even though your body ached and your head throbbed.

For a brief moment, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to let yourself sink into the warmth of his care. But then, something shifted. A flicker of memory passed over his expression, darkening his eyes, hardening them with sudden fury. His hands tensed just slightly, and you felt it like an electric charge in the air.

"The one who did this…" he said, his voice low, controlled and dangerous. "He won't get away with it."

You shivered at the intensity of the emotion, confused, afraid, and yet oddly comforted. It was a memory, but not just any memory. Somehow, you knew it was real, and yet it wasn't from your present.

His attention never wavered. He carefully pressed a cloth to your wound, the motion firm but gentle, his eyes never leaving yours. The soft, caring expression returned, though the shadow lingered beneath it, waiting for the thought of that other man, the person who had hurted you to return.

"You're safe now," he whispered again, almost reverently. "I won't let him hurt you again."

And in that moment, as the pain in your head pulsed in rhythm with the echo of your own heartbeat, you realized you weren't just seeing this. You were living it, trapped inside a memory that had found its way to you, unbidden, inexplicable, and impossible to escape.

All of a sudden, the headache slammed back into your skull, twisting and throbbing so violently that it stole your breath. You blinked rapidly, trying to anchor yourself, but the world around you had shifted.

Blood. Dark, glistening, and scattered across the cold, tiled floor had caught your eye first. The metallic scent hung heavy in the air, sharp and suffocating. Then a body, lying lifeless, twisted unnaturally in a way that made your chest tighten with disbelief.

Your stomach lurched violently, bile creeping up your throat, and your knees trembled as if they could no longer hold your weight. You froze, rooted to the spot, every instinct screaming to turn away, but your eyes wouldn't obey. They stayed locked on the scene, wide and unblinking, even as nausea clawed at you from the inside.

And then, you felt him. His presence filled the room before he even moved, a quiet weight that pressed against your chest and made your pulse spike.

He bent down slowly, deliberately, his movements measured, almost ritualistic, until his face was level with yours. His hands cupped your cheeks, cold but steady, lifting your head so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were dark, deep pools that seemed to hold the storm of everything he had been, everything he feared you might see.

"I… I can't let you see this," he whispered, his voice low and frayed at the edges, like each word cost him something to say. The grip on your cheeks softened, though his hands still trembled faintly. "It's… it's for you. I'm doing this for you."

His gaze flickered, torn between your eyes and the horror behind you, as if he wished he could shield you from both the sight and the truth. "No one will hurt you," he murmured, more firmly now, like a promise carved into stone. "Not while I'm here. Not ever again."

There was devotion in the way he said it, fierce and unwavering, but beneath it lay something desperate, something afraid of losing the one person who mattered enough to make him do terrible things.

A single tear slipped free, warm against your cold skin, carving a quiet path down your cheek. You hadn't even realize you were crying until his thumb twitched beneath it.

His own eyes trembled, flickering with a fear he couldn't hide. Almost as if your gaze were a mirror he couldn't bear to face. Thinking that in your eyes, he might finally become the monster he feared you believed him to be. The thought seemed to crack through his composure, leaving him exposed in a way that power never had.

For a small flicker of a second, he looked less like something dangerous… and more like someone terrified of losing the only person who still saw him as human.

"Please…" His voice cracked under the weight of the word, splintering into something fragile and painfully human. It trembled as it left him, like he was holding onto the last thread of something he couldn't afford to lose. "Please… don't look at me like that."

His fingers tightened ever so slightly against your cheeks, not to hurt, but to keep your attention, to keep you with him. His eyes searched yours with a quiet desperation, as if he were trying to rewrite whatever he saw reflected there.

"Don't… please…" he whispered again, softer now, the plea barely more than breath.

The intensity of it, his care, his fear, his power, pressed into you from all sides. And though your heart pounded and your stomach revolted, you felt a strange tether to him, a connection that defied everything your mind tried to process.

You didn't know what was real anymore. The room, this person you had a strange connection too, your feelings, everything felt surreal. But you knew one thing: he would do anything to protect you.

Just as your breathing began to steady, the pain struck yet again without warning, sharp and splitting, like something prying your mind open. The world soon warped, colors bleeding into one another, and you were suddenly somewhere else once again.

The smell of food and disinfectant filled your nose, a strangely nostalgic scent that settled heavy in your lungs. The clatter of trays, the echo of chatter, the scrape of chairs against tile.

You stood in the middle of it all, motionless, as the noise swelled around you like a tide. To you, the place had looked painfully familiar.

Your eyes swept across the room, as if you were searching for something, and then it all seemed to click. The familiar layout, the banners in school colors, the long rows of tables you'd passed a hundred times before. It was no doubt Hawkins High.

But not the Hawkins you knew of now. This one felt older, worn at the edges. The colors seemed slightly faded, like sun-bleached fabric, and the air carried a muted stillness beneath the noise. It was the same place, yet not.

You glanced down, and only then did you notice the weight in your hands. A plastic lunch tray rested against your palms, your fingers curled around its edge like you'd been carrying it for some time without realizing.

You looked up. In the corner sat a young boy, alone at a table too big for one person. His posture was closed off, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes lowered like he'd learned not to meet anyone's gaze for too long. Kids passed him with wide berths, their faces twisted with disgust or unease, whispering behind their hands.

Your chest tightened, a dull ache blooming beneath your ribs, as if those words had struck somewhere too close to home.

"Freak," one boy muttered as he passed, loud enough for others to hear, his lip curling with casual cruelty.

"Monster," another echoed with a snicker, the word tossed out like a joke everyone else was already in on. A few nearby kids laughed under their breath, some glancing over with wary curiosity, others quickly looking away like they didn't want to be associated with the target, or the insult.

The words lingered in the air, ugly and heavy, and for reasons you couldn't explain, they settled deep in your chest. As if they meant more than they should. As if they were familiar.

And before you could think, your feet were moving. Not your choice. Not your decision. Your body simply… knew where to go.

Step by step, you crossed the cafeteria, the noise dulling around you. Your grip tightened slightly on the tray as you walked, heart beating in a rhythm you didn't understand. You weaved past tables and backpacks and careless elbows until you reached the corner of the room. His table.

"Hi," you said gently, your voice warmer than you expected. "Can I sit here?"

You slid into the seat across from him and set your tray down with a soft clatter that sounded far too loud in the quiet bubble surrounding him. The noise finally drew his attention. His head lifted slowly, cautious, like he expected trouble.

"I'm in the same class you're in." you added, offering a small, kind smile that reacged your eyes. "You looked like you could use some company."

For a moment, he didn't respond. His fingers stilled around his utensils, shoulders tense, gaze darting briefly to the kids nearby as though expecting them to be watching.

His attention then returned to you, uncertainty written plainly across his face, caught between suspicion and hope, maybe, though he didn't seem used to holding onto it.

But you stayed. You shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your tray, settling in as if you had all the time in the world. You treated the moment like it was ordinary, like sitting across from him was the most natural choice you could have made.

The normalcy of it seemed to confuse him more than anything else. His shoulders eased by the smallest fraction, tension loosening where he hadn’t realized he'd been bracing.

Then all of a sudden, the world seemed to crumble inward. Sound warped once more, the cafeteria dissolving like paint washed from a canvas. You squeezed your eyes shut, and when you opened them again, you found yourself back in the room.

It was dim. The air thick with the low hum of electricity buzzing through the silence.

Your gaze locked onto him. He stood a few feet away, half-claimed by the shadows, as though the darkness itself was reluctant to let him go. The dim light traced only the sharpest edges of his silhouette, the line of his jaw, the stillness in his posture, the quiet tension in his shoulders.

His eyes found yours, and whatever lived in them made your pulse falter. It wasn't one emotion but many, layered and shifting too quickly to name. Regret lingered there, heavy and unresolved. Urgency flickered beneath it, sharp as a warning. And threaded through it all was fear, not for himself, but for you.

"You open for something a little more challenging?" he said quietly. "Try not to show any emotion while I speak, okay? Just keep playing the game if you understand."

He stepped forward at last, his footsteps quiet against the floor, controlled and unhurried. The scrape of a chair then broke the silence as he pulled it out and sat across from you.

Between you lay a chessboard you hadn't noticed before, its pieces already arranged mid-game, as if the match had begun long ago without your knowledge.

He reached out, long fingers steady, and moved a single piece across the board. The soft click of it meeting the square sounded far louder than it should have.

"The boy is still in the infirmary recovering," he said, his tone calm, but something taut pulled beneath each word. "He's being watched." His eyes lifted to yours as he said.

"But once he's released…" He stopped, a slight pause. "He and the others are going to try to kill you. Right here. In this room." The statement landed without any exaggeration, he was certaint, which somehow made it worse.

His fingers lingered on the chess piece, resting lightly atop its carved head, unmoving. It was the stillness of someone thinking several steps ahead, tracing outcomes only he could see, like you were already part of the board.

Your breathing hitched despite yourself, the air catching halfway into your lungs like your body had forgotten how to finish the motion. You tried to steady it, to keep your face unreadable, but the warning he'd given you echoed too loudly in your mind.

Each inhale felt shallow, each exhale too slow, as though the room had quietly stolen the oxygen from around you. Your fingers curled slightly in your lap, a small, unconscious tell betraying the calm you were trying so hard to maintain.

You could feel it now, the weight of the room, the weight of his words, the sense that something irreversible had already been set into motion. And whether you wanted to or not, you were standing right in the middle of it.

"And Papa will let it happen," he soon added. "He wants it to happen. He's been planning it for a long time."

The words settled over you like a weight.

The air thinned, or maybe it only felt that way. Each breath turned into effort, your lungs straining as though the room had shrunk around you. A faint ringing crept into your ears, dull and persistent, matching the quickened beat of your heart.

"Stay calm," he urged softly, though the tension in his gaze betrayed how fragile that calm truly was. "Focus on the game. There's a reason he escaped his room last night. Why the security cameras went dark."

He nudged another chess piece forward, the faint click against the board punctuating his words. "They don't even realize it," he continued, quieter now, "but he's moving them like pieces on a board. Guiding them exactly where he wants them to go. Every choice they think is theirs… isn't."

A chill traced your spine, the board between you no longer looked like a game. Your voice slipped out slowly before you could stop it, small and unsteady. "…Why?"

His gaze sharpened, fixing on you with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "Because you fascinate him," he said.

"He knows you’re different." His eyes flicked over your face like he was measuring how much you could handle. "You don't age the way the others do. You remain the same while time moves around you, while everyone else changes."

The words struck something deep in your chest, a recognition you didn’t want to name.

"And you have abilities like they do, like i do." he continued. "Strong ones. But you've barely scratched the surface of them. They're in there buried. Waiting. You just haven't unlocked your full potential yet."

"And he wants that power," he went on more quietly. "But more than that, he wants control. And he knows he can't control you." His fingers finally left the chess piece, but the tension in his hand remained, tendons taut beneath pale skin.

His jaw tightened. "That's why you’re dangerous to him," he said. "Not because of what I've done for you… but because of what you could become."

"You're the one variable he can't predict," he murmured. "And men like him fear what they can't predict."

For a brief second, something softer crossed his face. Regret, maybe even guilt. "I saw it happening," he admitted, voice rougher now. "All of it. That's why I tried to help you." His jaw tightened slightly, regret seeping through the cracks of his calm. "But I think… I only made it worse."

"Helping me… made Papa hurt you," you whispered back, the realization forming slowly, painfully, like a bruise surfacing beneath skin. The words felt fragile in your mouth, but once spoken, they refused to disappear.

His shoulders stiffened at your words. You watched the way his jaw tightened, the subtle shift in his posture. He didn't deny it.

You knew you trusted him. That certainty lived somewhere deeper than memory, deeper than logic. It was just instinct, the same way your body knew how to breathe without being told.

"Ever since they wiped my memories," you murmured, your voice quieter now, "I've been stuck here. I can't even remember who I used to be." The words scraped on the way out.

This place. These walls. The endless tests. The cold lights. The way the air always smelled too clean, too empty. You hated it. Every corner of it felt like a cage pretending to be a home.

And yet, he was different. The thought itself had your eyes lifted back to him. He never felt like that part of the cage, but like something your heart recognized even when your mind couldn't.

"Sometimes," you admitted softly, fingers curling against your sleeves, "it feels like I knew you before all this.."

"I think…" you whispered now, your voice unsteady, "I knew you when I still had a name." Your gaze dropped to the chessboard. The pieces looked frozen mid-game, like they were waiting for someone braver to make the next move.

"Did I?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Know you before this?"

There was no accusation in your tone. Only a quiet hope, the kind you weren't supposed to have in a place like this. The kind that could get someone punished for.

He didn't answer right away. For a moment, the only sound between you was the faint tick of the clock on the wall and the distant hum of electricity running through the facility.

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly toward the camera in the corner before returning to you. In those few seconds, that silence told you more than words could.

His fingers curled slightly against the edge of the chessboard, knuckles paling. "I knew you," he said at last, voice low and careful, each word chosen like a step across thin ice. "Before they started calling you by a number. Before they decided what you were meant to be, to be another version of me."

Your heart jumped, a quick, uneven thrum that caught you off guard. A fragile warmth unfurled in your chest, tender and fleeting, only to be pierced moments later by a sharp sting behind your eyes, as if something long buried was pressing to be remembered.

"You used to smile more," he added quietly, almost to himself. "You are kind. You are also brave. You are my saviour."

A flicker. A flash of sunlight spilling through leaves, laughter that once belonged to you, a hand tugging yours down a corridor you couldn't quite place. Your chest tightened, breath caught in your throat.

Then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone, slipping away like water through trembling fingers with pain followed in its wake, a relentless pulsing behind your eyes, as if something inside you was clawing, desperate to break free.

He noticed it immediately. He always did.

"Hey," he murmured softly, leaning just a fraction closer, his eyes locked on yours. "Don't push it. That's how they keep it buried. It's like a lock on your mind, the closer you get, the more it hurts."

His voice held a careful gentleness, the kind meant to steady rather than command, as if he could and would absorb some of the pain for you.

Guilt shadowed his expression now. Guilt, and a quiet protectiveness that softened the sharpness in his gaze.

"If they knew you were remembering," he said, "they'd make sure you forgot again." And somehow, the way he said it made it clear to you. He'd seen it happen before.

"And that is why you must escape," he said, and this time the urgency bled through the calm he had trued to wore so carefully. "Today. Not tomorrow. Not when you think you're ready."

His fingers shifted a chess piece, but his eyes were no longer on the board. They were on you, as if memorizing every inch of your facial features, as if he didn't want to forget how you'd look like.

"They're watching us," he continued under his breath. "Every camera. They measure pauses. They study reactions. To them, silence is just another answer."

"So if you want to leave this place alive," he said, emphasising each word, "you must do exactly as I say. No hesitation. No questions when it starts."

His fingers then drummed once against the edge of the chessboard, a restrained, nervous habit of his. "When the moment comes," he chocked at his own words, eyes softening just slightly, "you move. You don't look back. You don't look for me. You just go."

His eyes found yours then, softer than before, yet carrying a gravity that rooted you back in place. It wasn't kindness alone in them, but a quiet plea, the kind someone makes when the outcome matters more than their own.

The room fell into a brittle silence. Even the distant hum of the lights seemed to fade, as if the world itself were holding its breath with you. His words were the only thing that echoed back and forth in your mind since then, droqning all your other thoughts.

Your throat tightened, a quiet pressure building where words struggled to pass. The walls seemed to inch inward, the ceiling lower than before, the air too thin to fill your lungs properly.

Yet the question that rose inside you wasn't about the plan, or the danger, or even Papa. It was about him. "Why…" Your voice came out smaller than you intended, but you forced it out steady. "Why do you still help? Why can't I just leave with you?"

The words felt reckless the moment they were spoken, too honest for a place where honesty was dangerous. The words lingered between you, fragile but undeniable. Because in a place built on fear and obedience, kindness felt like the strangest mystery of all.

And how could you bear the thought of leaving behind the one person who had been your only warmth in a place so cold. The realization sat heavy in your chest, tender and frightening all at once.

You didn't have the words for it, not fully. You were still just a teenager, still learning the shapes of your own heart, still trying to understand the strange, swelling feeling that surfaced whenever he looked at you like you mattered.

It was confusing. Overwhelming. New.

But beneath the uncertainty, beneath the fear and the noise and the questions, there was one truth that rang quietly yet undeniably clear.

You knew. In the way your chest ached at the thought of losing him. In the way your eyes searched for him in every room. And even in the way his safety felt tied to your own.

You loved him.

Even if you didn't yet know what love was supposed to look like, feel like. It was certain.

His hand stilled on the chess piece mid-move. For the first time since you had known him here, his composure completely faltered. He looked caught off guard, not by fear, not by the cameras, but by you. By the question itself.

His eyes dropped briefly to the board, jaw tightening as if he were choosing between the truth and the safer lie.

When he finally looked back at you, the distance in his gaze had returned, like a mask hastily put back on. He couldn't offer a chance to lose this oppurtunity to keep you safe, get you out of this hell hole.

"That's not how this works," he said quietly. And somehow, the way he said it sounded less like a rule… and more like a sentence he'd already accepted for himself. He would do anything to save you, even if it costs him in the process, cause love will and always will be stronger.

"And for you..." He exhaled softly, almost a humorless breath. "I would do anything. Anything, if it meant for your happiness."

"Because," he added quietly, the words drawn from somewhere deep and worn, "this place takes and takes until there's nothing left of a person but what they can use."

His gaze held onto yours steadily, like he wanted you to feel the truth of it rather than just hear it. "And I refuse," he finished, more firmly now, "to let it take you too."

The promise barely had time to settle before the lights above you flickered. At first it was just a subtle, faint tremble in the fluorescent glow, but then it came again. The steady hum of electricity warped into an uneven buzz that scraped at your nerves. Shadows stretched along the walls, warping and shrinking like living things.

"You are seeing too much..."

The voice did not pass through the air like a normal sound, did not brush your ears or echo off the walls. Instead, it uncoiled slowly inside your mind, deliberate and invasive, as if it had always known the way in.

The words slithered deep, vibrating through your thoughts, carrying a weight that did not belong to something or anything human. It felt less like hearing and more like being reached into something vast that had leaned close and spoken directly into the quiet spaces of your head.

Your breath faltered, catching painfully in your throat as a tight pressure wound itself around your ribs.

Your gaze swept the room in quick, restless passes, searching for something tangible to pin the voice on. A concealed speaker, a trick of light, a figure standing where it shouldn't be, yet nothing answered you. Only the wavering glare of the fluorescents and the blank, clinical walls stared back.

The discomfort didn't fade anyways. Instead, It settled deeper, a quiet weight beneath your skin. It gathered in the dim edges of the ceiling, in the dark gloss of the observation pane, in the stretches of space your eyes slid over without daring to pause. The room no longer felt empty. It felt shared, with someone or something you can't quite name.

This wasn't merely the fear of eyes on you. It was the cold certainty that something had marked your awareness and was following your every realization.

Reality began to waver, as if the world around you were made of thin layers pulling loose at the seams. Nothing felt firmly rooted anymore; everything seemed one breath away from coming apart.

A chill traced its way up your spine, slow and suffocating, stealing the warmth from your limbs. You struggled to separate what was real from what wasn't. The room lurched in your vision, tilting slightly as the lights surged too bright, then dipped into a sickly dimness.

The voice has returned once more, quieter but heavier, curling through your mind like a low, rumbling warning.

Your body soon reacted before your thoughts could catch up. You sank to the floor, your knees striking the tile with a dull sting you barely registered. Instinct folded you inward, arms coming up to shield your head, palms pressed tight against your ears as if you could muffle the sound from the inside out. Your eyes shut hard, locking the trembling world away behind your lids.

You were terrified.

The electric hum thickened, muffled sounds of buzz were heard as you felt the unseen presence drew closer. Your thoughts frayed right away, dissolving into a shapeless rush of noise. You couldn't think straight.

The noise rose until it no longer felt like one but pressure, a crushing force inside your skull, prying, searching, pressing against every thought you tried to hold onto. It was as if your mind had become a door someone was trying to force open from the other side.

Your breaths came unevenly, snagging in your throat. Air went in but never felt like enough. The world lost its rhythm; seconds stretched too long, then snapped short, time folding in on itself like a broken reel of film.

You couldn't tell how long you stayed like that, curled tight, eyes shut, fingers trembling against your ears. The darkness behind your eyelids wasn't empty to you. It swirled, alive with fractured impressions: flashes of white hallways, the echo of footsteps, a distant scream you weren't sure belonged to memory or imagination.

Then, threading through the noise and panic, came the unmistakable feel of a touch.

Warmth was felt against your shoulders. Firm hands, and not just the phantom sensation of the voice. They guided you, fingers pressing just enough to remind you of gravity, of your body, of where you were.

Your name drifted toward you, blurred at the edges, like a voice reaching through deep sea water. You couldn't grasp it at first. It came again, clearer, threaded with urgency but softened by concern.

The pressure in your head began to ebb, not vanishing but loosening its grip upon you. The buzzing receded in uneven waves, like a storm pulling back from the shore. Each retreat left you a little more aware of your surroundings, the cool tile beneath your knees, the strands of hair bunched in your fists, the faint hum of the lights stabilizing overhead.

Your lungs finally drew a full breath in slight relief. Slowly, the violent spinning behind your eyes settled into a dull throb. The presence that had filled the room no longer pressed so close, though the memory of it lingered like a shadow at your back. A promise that it had been real. A warning that it wasn't gone for good.

Your fingers slackened where they covered your ears. Your arms felt heavy as you lowered them, your body still curled inward like you expected the world to tilt again at any moment.

But it didn't.

The silence that followed wasn't empty, it was fragile. The kind that comes after something breaks. And through it, the person holding you remained, hands steady on your shoulders, voice quieter now but still there, still tethering you to the present, refusing to let you slip back into whatever had tried to claim you.

"You've got to run. There's no time left. I'll stall them, okay?" His fingers were already on your shoulders when he said it, warm and trembling, as if he could physically turn you toward the open vent and make the choice for you. Behind him, the room stretched into shadow, every distant sound sharpened by the fear pounding in your ears.

You shook your head immediately. "No." The word came out smaller than you intended, but you meant it.

His jaw tightened, the muscle feathering with restrained urgency. "This isn't a debate." He said as he cast a sharp glance over his shoulder, head tilting slightly as he listened like a man counting down to an unseen clock.

Perhaps it was footsteps, distant voices or perhaps it was the silence itself, stretched so thin it might snap. The air seemed to still around you, heavy, breathless." They'll be here any minute." He warned, urgency filled his tone.

"Then we go together," you insisted, grabbing his sleeve before he could pull away. Your grip wrinkled the fabric, fingers twisted into it, clinging hard enough to crease it, "You don't get to decide to stay behind like it’s nothing." you said desperately, eyes searching his face for any sign he might yield.

A flicker of pain crossed his face. "If we both run, we both get caught." he said, quieter now, but no less certain. The steadiness in his voice felt almost practiced, like he had already argued this with himself a hundred times. The logic was cruel in its simplicity.

"And if you stay, you-" Your voice cracked. The words refused to form, lodging somewhere between your heart and your throat. Because saying it aloud felt like it would make it real, would carve the outcome into fate you so desperately tried to dodge.

Your fingers curled tighter in his sleeve, as if holding on hard enough could rewrite the ending you feared. Silence filled the space where your words failed, thick with everything you couldn't bear to name.

He softened for the briefest moment, the steel in him giving way to something warmer, something that almost hurt to look at. His thumb slid gently over the inside of your wrist, brushing the frantic beat of your pulse as if he could calm it by touch alone.

"You've always been the brave one," he murmured, voice low, meant only for you despite the danger pressing in on all sides. "Be brave now."

His gaze held yours, steady, pleading beneath the resolve. He needed you to understand his descision.

"You know they need me," he continued quietly. "They'll do anything to get me back." It was a bitter truth, spoken without pride. "But if it's you. If you leave now, they'll chase you at first, but they'll eventually give up. That's because they have me, my blood. They'll make a new one eventually if you flee far enough."

The words felt cruel in their practicality, like he was reducing your worth to something replaceable just to make this easier for you.

His hands gradually tightened around your wrist. He was urgent, desperately urgent.

"I am being brave," you shot back, eyes bright with unshed tears and stubborn fire. "And I'm refusing to leave you."

The words struck true, your declaration landed squarely. You saw it in the way his expression faltered, the way the argument he'd prepared seemed to fracture mid-thought. Frustration flared across his helpless face, born from caring too much and having too little time.

He dragged a hand through his hair, the motion rough and restless, like he could scrub away the situation if he tried hard enough. A harsh, strained exhale left him.

"We've been gone too long," he said under his breath, each word clipped by urgency. His attention darted toward the only entry behind him, listening for the shift that would mean it was already too late.

"They'll notice." He added, his eyes now returned to yours, carrying the weight of consequences you both understood too well.

"If you don't walk out of here in the next minute," he said quietly, "this whole thing falls apart."

"Then let it fall," you whispered. The words slipped out softer than the chaos around you, yet they landed with the weight of a decision you'd already made.

Your fingers remained fisted in his sleeve, a silent refusal to release him to whatever fate he was trying to shoulder alone.

You had finally chosen which fear to live with. The fear of what was coming… or the fear of losing him. Your eyes held his, steady despite the fear shimmering beneath them.

Your gaze didn't waver from his, even as the distant sounds beyond the corridor grew louder. Each echo was a warning bell, counting down the seconds you were so willing to throw away.

To you, the world could crumble, the plan could shatter, the escape could fail, none of it seemed as catastrophic as the thought of turning your back on him.

In fact, they all seemed small next to the simple, immovable fact that leaving him behind was not an option you could live with. You would choose him all over again.

For a moment he simply stared at you, like he was memorizing your face against his will. It was truly all he could ever do in that moment. Something in his gaze ached, like a goodbye he hadn't earned the right to say.

Then his expression shifted, his descision clear.

He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small pill, pale and round, barely visible in the dim light. Between his fingers rested a small pill, pale and round, almost fading into the dim light. Fragile, but heavy with purpose.

He took your hand before you could question it, turning your palm upward. The pill was pressed into it, curling your fingers around it with a careful insistence.

"Take it."

You frowned, twisting your hand slightly as the pill rolled in your palm. "What is this?" You questioned, your voice carried suspicion now, threaded with the lingering fear of everything else he wasn’t telling you.

"It'll help you," he said quickly. The words stumbled over themselves. "Just- trust me. Swallow it and go."

Your brows drew together, confusion sharpening into wariness. Nothing about this felt right. Not the rush in his voice, not the way his eyes wouldn’t quite meet yours now.

You lifted your hand to give it back, pushing it lightly toward him, offering the pill back. "I'm not eating something you won't explain,"

He hesitated, the tension coiling in his shoulders, and for a fleeting second, you saw the weight of the choice he'd forced upon you. The corridor seemed to shrink around the two of you, the silence thick with what neither of you wanted to say but both knew had to happen.

"You don't understand," he breathed, almost pleading, "if you don't- if you don't take it now…"

But you shook your head, stubborn and furious, the pill burning cold in your palm, a promise you weren't yet willing to accept.

A distant clang echoed somewhere beyond the walls. His head jerked toward the sound, body going rigid. The careful calm he'd been holding together splintered at the edges.

“Please,” he urged, "Just this once, don't argue with me."

The plea unsettled you more than his orders ever could. You took a step back instead of forward, your fingers curling slightly as if guarding yourself. "No, not until you tell me what it does."

He swore under his breath, a curse slipping past his lips. You watched the panic creep in despite his effort to contain it, the tight pull of his shoulders, the way his gaze kept darting toward the hallway as though he could already see danger rounding the corner.

"It slows your heart rate," he said quickly. "Calms your system. They won't detect you as easily. It buys you time."

"You could take it too," you said immediately, your face lit with confusion on why he wouldn't be able to leave with you when he had this.

"I can't," he replied, his voice just a little louder now. Then, after a beat that stretched thin, he added more quietly, "I need my head clear."

Your eyes narrowed, searching his face for the parts he wasn't saying. There was always something he wasn't saying. You hesitated.

But in a place like this, moments were luxuries. Doubt was time. And time was the one thing he did not have.

His hand rose and cupped your jaw, the touch swift yet achingly gentle, grounding your startled gaze on his. Warmth against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your ear where your pulse betrayed you.

Before you could read him, before you could question him, pull away, or piece together the shape of his intent, his fingers closed over your hand once more.

Soon, the pill vanished from your palm in one smooth motion. You barely had time to register the loss of its weight before he lifted it to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours. There was apology there. Something that looked dangerously like a goodbye.

Then his hand rose, and the pill touched his mouth.

Your confusion barely formed into a word. "Wh-"

Then he kissed you. It wasn't soft. It wasn't romantic. It was urgent, desperate, his other hand steadying the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as he pressed closer.

The taste of bitterness touched your tongue. He took that moment to push the pill past your lips. By the time you realized, it had already dissolved enough that swallowing was reflex.

You tore back from him, eyes blown wide, breath snagging somewhere between outrage and disbelief. "You-" The accusation never found its shape, the word caught in your throat.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, forehead resting against yours for half a heartbeat, close enough to share warmth and guilt at once. His voice was hoarse from the kiss as he explained "You would've refused forever."

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, your breaths shallow and frantic. "You don't get to- to trick me like that!" The anger trembled in your voice, jagged at the edges, laced with hurt. Your thoughts still scrambling to catch up with what he'd done.

"I get to if it keeps you alive."

The words spoken were soft, but they landed like stones in your chest. They pressed against something fragile inside you, forcing the anger in your eyes to wobble. You could feel it, fear crawling beneath it, and beneath that, the hollow ache of inevitability.

Closer now, the sound of heavy footsteps, voices and faint shouts echoed off the walls. The danger you had tried to ignore pressed in from all sides.

He turned you toward the one and only exit, hands firm on your shoulders. The warmth of them burned against your skin. "When you enter, don't look back," he said. "Count to fifty. Then continue down. You remember the route?"

You couldn't look away, your eyes couldn't leave his. Every line of his face burned itself into your memory as you traced the lines of his face, every shadow and crease, trying to memorize him the way someone memorizes a place they might never return to.

"You can't make me do this..." you whispered, the words small and fragile, loaded with everything you couldn't say out loud.

His lips curved into a crooked smile, heavy with unspoken sorrow. "And I will make sure you survive long enough to despise me for it."

The warmth of his hands then slipped away. A strange hollow opened in their absence, leaving you acutely aware of every sound, every movement around you.

The more you hesitated, the closer the sounds of footsteps grew, scraping and echoing against the linoleum floors. Voices shouted, sharp and impatient, their cadence quickening.

Your pulse pounded so hard it threatened to drown out everything else. The hallway beyond the door stretched like a chasm. One wrong step, one glance back, and you could lose everything.

He leaned just slightly forward, eyes locking on yours with an intensity that pulled you down in ways words could not.

"Go," he commanded. The word was final, sharper than a whip. Before you could protest, before your instincts could even form a plan, he shoved you forward. You stumbled, caught off guard, your hands pressing against his chest as you tried to resist.

"Wait-!" you gasped, but your words were swallowed by the narrow metal tunnel ahead.

The vent loomed, dark and uninviting, its edges cold beneath your palms as you were pushed inside. The instant you disappeared into the cramped space, he slammed the vent cover shut. The metallic clang rang in your ears, the echo bouncing through the small tunnel.

"Hey! Let me out!" you shouted, your voice raw, cracking under fear and panic. You pounded against the walls of the vent, but it was no use. You were trapped.

And then came the crash.

The door behind him splintered with force, and you heard the sharp crack of a taser. The sickening jolt of electricity that made his body convulse just out of your reach.

You could see it all happening from behind the vent, how his eyes went wide from pain, and desperately locked on the vent where you were. All he could do was hope you had made it half-way through the vents.

Your hands flew to your mouth as tears slipped past your fingers, hot and fast, leaving streaks along your cheeks. Every sob was muffled, swallowed by the narrow metal around you. Your heart hammered, loud enough to fill the tight tunnel, but you forced it down, you had to.

"No-!" You shouted, tears streaked down your cheeks, leaving salty trails against the dust of sleep. Your chest heaved, each breath ragged and shallow.

You swallowed hard, trying to make sense of the pounding sensation in your skull, the lingering echo of that voice, that desperate fear that had clung to you like a second skin.

It was a dream. Or at least, it should have been. The metal taste of panic lingered on the tip of your tongue. Your hands shook as it clutched at the sheets, trying to ground yourself, trying to convince yourself it was over.

"It's just a dream... Just a dream..."

————————————————

You felt the pain in your body before you even opened your eyes. You groaned, feeling the bright light above flood your vision. “Jamie?” you called out wanting only him.

“Darling I’m right here,” he said walking over to your bedside. “How are you feeling love?” 

“Everything hurts.” you whined. The more lucid you became the more of your body you felt, the more every little move made the stitches from your surgery burned.

“As expected,” he sighed, taking your hand after he pressed the nurse call light.

A nurse promptly popped their head in but perked up once he saw you awake. “Oh good, you’re awake! I’m gonna take your vitals really quick.” he took your vitals but as he moved to leave Jamie stopped him.

“They need something for the pain,” he said.

“Of course, I’ll be back.” he said before walking out of the room.

Jamie brushed some of your hair away from your eyes and thumbed over your cheek, “Are you in terrible pain my love?”

“It’s not exactly comfortable.” you said with a small smile, trying to reassure him.

“Well, I stopped off at the flat to get you some things that might make you feel better.” he said, reaching for the duffle bag in the guest chair. “Fuzzy socks, heating pad, your favorite pajamas, the lucky blanket, some of the chocolate from the shops I know you like, a few - hey, what's wrong darling?”

You couldn't help but stare at him with pure love and adoration, quickly wiping a tear from your cheek. “You’re just so… perfect.” you waved him over to you, pulling him down gently for a kiss. 

“I fear the perfect one is you dearest.” he kissed your forehead letting out a soft chuckle.

“Sorry to break up a tender moment but I have some yummy narcotics for you.” the nurse joked as he handed you a pill and watched you swallow it with a few sips from the water resting on your bedside table. “You’re probably going to fall asleep again for a few hours but don’t worry we will still come check your vitals every two hours. When you wake up we will need to get you some solid food, can’t survive off Jell-O and pudding cups alone. Ring if either of you need anything.” he smiled with a curt nod before leaving. 

You could already feel your eyes starting to droop with the warmth of the pain killer spreading through you quickly. 

“Did you chew that percocet?” he laughed at you. 

“I thought I was being sneaky,” you giggled, “I just wanted it to hit faster. I feel so sore and tight.”

“Rest now sweetheart, I’ll be here when you wake up.” he kissed your eyelids as you shut them. The last thing you felt was him gently throwing the lucky blanket over you, enveloping you in warmth and his scent. 

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Naboo's Note: