Page 20 of Echoes From the Void (Shadow Locke Shifters #3)

Chapter 19

Frankie

Five Years Ago

I wake to the familiar sound of Valerie’s heels clicking down the asylum hallway. My body feels heavy from the drugs, bones sharp against paper-thin skin. They keep us weak here. Compliant. Malleable. The perfect vessels for their experiments.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Valerie’s voice drips false sweetness as she enters my room. Her lab coat is pristine as always, a stark contrast to our deliberately degraded state. “Today’s a special day.”

I keep my face blank, my body still. Five years in this place has taught me that any reaction becomes a weapon in her hands. Any sign of life just gives her more to shape, to break, to remake in her image.

“Dr. Chen will be conducting your examination today,” she continues, checking my charts with practiced efficiency. “We need to make sure you’re... compatible.”

The word makes my stomach clench, though there’s nothing in it to expel. They control everything here—food, water, light. Even our bathroom visits are monitored and measured, another way to remind us we’re not people anymore. Just subjects. Just vessels waiting to be filled.

“Compatible?” My voice comes out as a whisper, throat dry from the drugs they use to keep our powers dormant.

“For your new pack, dear.” She smooths my hair back with possessive fingers, the gesture a mockery of maternal care. “It’s time you started contributing to our program more... directly.”

I try to shrink away from her touch but lack the strength. The darkness that used to comfort me, used to feel like home, is silent now. Starved out of me like everything else that made me human.

But when Dr. Chen enters, something shifts. He sees me—really sees me—in a way no one has since they brought me here. His eyes widen fractionally before his professional mask slips into place, but in that brief moment, I glimpse something I’d almost forgotten existed.

Compassion.

“I need privacy for this examination,” Dr. Chen says, his tone carrying an authority I’ve never heard staff use with Valerie before. There’s something else in his voice too—a careful tension that makes me pay attention despite the drugs. “The compatibility tests are delicate. Any... external energy could interfere with the readings.”

Valerie’s fingers dig into my shoulder, a warning disguised as affection. “I prefer to supervise all examinations of my special cases, Doctor.” Her emphasis on ‘special’ makes bile rise in my throat. I know what happens to her special cases.

“And I prefer to conduct medical examinations without administrative oversight.” He meets her gaze steadily, his stance reminding me of how I used to face down bullies before this place broke me. “Unless you’d like to explain to the board why you’re violating patient privacy protocols?”

A tense silence follows. I hold my breath, waiting for Valerie’s usual explosion of temper. Five years have taught me exactly what happens when someone challenges her authority. But something in Dr. Chen’s stance makes her pause.

“Fine,” she says finally, each word precise and cold as a scalpel. “You have thirty minutes. I want a full report on my desk by end of day.”

“Of course.”

Her heels click sharply as she leaves, the sound echoing down the hallway like a countdown. Dr. Chen waits, counting under his breath, before moving to the monitoring equipment with deliberate purpose.

Without a word, he begins disconnecting wires, his movements quick and practiced like he’s done this before. When he reaches for my IV, his hands are gentle but urgent. Not the clinical touch I’m used to, but something almost... human.

I should feel afraid. Should question why this stranger is freeing me from the machines that have been my constant companions for five years. But something in his careful efficiency feels like the first real kindness I’ve known in this place.

“We need to move you to my office,” Dr. Chen says, already preparing a wheelchair. His movements are purposeful but not rushed—nothing that would draw attention. “These machines aren’t calibrated correctly for the tests I need to run.”

First floor. The words make bile rise in my throat. My hands start to shake as memories flood back—the ballroom, the men in expensive suits, Valerie’s voice commanding me to dance. To perform. To prove I could be... entertaining. To show my potential as a vessel.

“No,” I try to say, but my voice comes out as barely a whisper. Five years of saying no, of watching it mean nothing.

“It won’t take long,” he continues, his movements efficient but not cruel as he helps me sit up. My legs won’t hold my weight—they never do anymore. Another of Valerie’s control methods. “Just a few basic tests.”

That’s what they always say. Just a few tests. Just a little dance. Just be good and it won’t hurt this time. Just...

He must feel me trembling as he lifts me into the wheelchair because he pauses. For a moment, his professional mask slips, showing something that looks almost like grief. Like rage carefully contained.

But then it’s gone, replaced by brisk efficiency as he drapes a blanket over my legs. Not the thin asylum ones—this one is thick, warm. Real. The kind of comfort Valerie would never allow.

“Standard procedure,” he says loudly as we pass the nurses’ station, his voice carrying just the right amount of bored authority. “Compatibility testing requires specific equipment.”

I close my eyes as the elevator descends, fighting nausea that’s not just from the drugs. Memories of the last time I was downstairs threaten to overwhelm me. The music. The watching eyes. The way Valerie smiled as she showed me off like a prize animal.

The elevator doors open, but we don’t turn toward the ballroom.

We pass the ballroom doors—my heart hammering with each click of the wheelchair’s wheels against tile—but Dr. Chen doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even glance at them. Instead, he turns down a corridor I’ve never seen, one that smells of antiseptic instead of expensive cologne and fear.

His office, when we reach it, isn’t what I expect. No observation windows. No restraints disguised as medical equipment. Just a simple desk, filing cabinets, and an examination table that looks... normal. Almost like this could be any doctor’s office anywhere else in the world.

He locks the door.

My breath catches. This is usually when the pretense drops, when they show their true intentions. I curl in on myself as much as my weakened body allows, waiting for the inevitable. Five years of lessons about trust and betrayal rising up to choke me.

But Dr. Chen moves to his desk instead of toward me. Opens a drawer. Pulls out...

A sandwich.

“Eat,” he says quietly, placing it in my lap. Real bread. Real meat. Not the carefully measured nutrient paste they feed us upstairs to keep us dependent. “Quickly. We don’t have much time.”

I stare at it, uncomprehending. Five years of conditioning scream that this is a trick. Another test. Another way to prove how broken I am, how much I need Valerie’s guidance.

“Francesca,” his voice is soft but urgent. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But right now, you need to eat. And then we need to get you out of here.”

The sandwich shakes in my trembling hands. Real food. Real kindness. Both seem impossible in this place.

“Why?” The question barely makes it past my dry throat.

“Because you don’t belong here.” He turns to the filing cabinet, removing what looks like clothes. Real clothes, not asylum scrubs designed to remind us we’re not people anymore. “And because in twenty minutes, Valerie will check the security feeds and realize we didn’t go to the main lab for testing.”

I manage half the sandwich before nausea hits—real food too rich after years of calculated deprivation. But even that small amount makes my head clearer than it’s been in... I can’t remember how long. Can’t remember the last time I was allowed to think clearly.

“Good enough,” Dr. Chen says, already moving the wheelchair closer to a filing cabinet. His urgency is controlled but growing. “Can you change while I...” He trails off, pushing against the cabinet’s side. It moves with a soft scraping sound, revealing a narrow passage behind it.

This should feel like another trap. Something worse than the ballroom, than Valerie’s tests, than all the other times I thought someone might help only to learn it was just another lesson in obedience.

“Maintenance tunnel,” he explains briefly, returning to help me stand. The real clothes feel strange against my skin—jeans, a hoodie, shoes that actually have laces. Items Valerie would never allow because they might remind us of being human. “It leads to the old parking structure. There’s a car waiting. Keys under the mat.”

“Why?” I ask again, leaning heavily against him as we maneuver toward the passage. “Why help me?”

For a moment, that same grief flashes across his face. But all he says is, “Because some things are wrong. No matter how you try to justify them.”

A sound from the hallway makes us both freeze. Heels clicking against tile. Getting closer.

My heart stops. I know those footsteps. Know exactly what they mean.

“Go,” he urges, practically lifting me into the passage. “Follow it straight down. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.” His voice carries an edge of desperation now, knowing what’s coming.

“They’ll know it was you,” I manage, legs shaking with the effort to stand. With the knowledge of what Valerie does to people who defy her.

“They’ll suspect. Won’t be able to prove it.” He starts to push the cabinet back. “Francesca? When you get out... live. Really live. That’s all any of us can do.”

The cabinet slides shut, plunging me into darkness. Through the wall, I hear Valerie’s voice, sharp with suspicion. Dr. Chen’s calm responses.

I run.

The darkness is absolute. My fingers trail along cold concrete as I stumble forward, legs threatening to give out with each step. Five years of enforced weakness make every movement a battle. The tunnel feels endless, my breaths too loud in the confined space.

One foot in front of the other.

Don’t think about how long it’s been since you walked.

Don’t think about what’s behind you.

Don’t—

The gunshot echoes through the tunnel, making me freeze.

One shot.

Two.

Three.

Then silence.

My legs give out, knees hitting concrete as bile rises in my throat. Dr. Chen’s last words echo in my head: live, really live. Another person who tried to help. Another death I caused just by existing.

The sound of dogs barking snaps me back to reality. They’re distant, but in these tunnels, sound carries. They’ll find his office. Find the cabinet. Find ? —

Me.

If they catch me, there won’t be any more chances. No more kind doctors. No more hope of escape. Just Valerie and her tests and the ballroom and ? —

Live.

I force myself up, legs shaking so badly I have to lean against the wall. The barking gets louder. Valerie’s pets, trained to hunt down escapees. To bring us back for “correction.”

Really live.

In the perfect darkness, I start moving again. Each step feels impossible, my atrophied muscles screaming in protest. But I keep going.

Because Dr. Chen died to give me this chance.

Because Valerie will never stop hunting me.

Because sometimes living is the hardest choice of all.

The barking echoes closer. The darkness presses in. But I keep moving.

One step.

Another.

Another.

For Dr. Chen, who chose to help instead of hurt.

For the girl I was before the asylum.

For the woman I might become if I survive this tunnel.

The dogs are getting closer, but so is freedom. And sometimes survival isn’t just about living—it’s about defiance. About choosing to move forward even when everything tries to hold you back.

I walk through the darkness.

Away from Valerie.

Away from the ballroom.

Away from five years of carefully measured torture.

Because Dr. Chen was right.

Living—really living—is all any of us can do.

Even if we have to bleed for it.

Even if others have to die for it.

Even if we have to walk through darkness to find it.

One step at a time.