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No panic.No bargaining.

Just stillness.

She understands enough.

I sit across from her, elbows resting easy on my knees.

“You’re here because you’ve been seen,” I say.Calm.Direct.“No more filters.No more curated grief.No more borrowed pain.”

She closes her eyes again.Drowsy, yes—but that’s not the reason.It’s easier than looking at the truth.

But as usual, the truth isn’t going anywhere.

6

Marlowe

The first thing I register is the weight.My limbs feel dull, slow to report back.My mouth is dry.Head full of static.

For a second—just one—I think of Ava.Panic flares, fast and sharp.Instinct, not logic.She wasn’t with me.She’s safe.That’s the only thing I know for sure, so I hang onto it like oxygen.

The walls are white.Bare.Nothing personal.Not lived-in—staged.That’s worse.

I don’t move.Sometimes the only advantage you have is letting them think you’re weaker than you are.

My pulse throbs at my temple—slow and heavy, like a drumbeat.

There’s pressure at my wrists and ankles.Not painful, just firm.Padded restraints.A touch of concern with a locked buckle.How thoughtful.

Then I feel it—something lower.

A deeper discomfort.Internal.Anchored.

It takes me a second to name it, a moment to register the pressure—low, internal.

A catheter.

What the fuck?

My stomach turns.

Of course.Wouldn’t want a hostage ruining the linen.

The bed’s too soft to be punishment, too precise to be comfort.High thread count.No creases.The kind that says: lie still, look pretty, don’t bleed on the sheets.

Everything feels arranged.

Cool air.No drafts.No street noise.No footsteps overhead.

That means distance.Seclusion.

This isn’tjustaroom in a house.

It’s a setup.

A place where a person can take their time.

A holding space.Temporary.Which makes it worse.