55

Gillian

T he second the monitor spikes, I move.

Not later. Not after. Now.

I stand. Not fast—fast draws attention. I move like I’ve been instructed to. Like I’ve done it before. Because I have.

On the other side of the mirrored glass, two attendants step toward the gurney, eyes on the machines. One of them says something under his breath. The other’s already reaching for the IV.

I don’t look again.

I’m already out the door.

No one comes right away, but they will. Someone always does. They’ll check the readings, check the dose. They’ll move her, or sedate her further, or ask questions they already know the answers to.

I slip into the hallway.

Not running. Walking. Walking like I’m expected somewhere else. Like I belong somewhere better. The corridor bends ahead of me. Right leads deeper. Left leads out.

I choose left.

A door at the end. Security glass. Keypad. Camera above it. My reflection flickers in the mirrored panel—pale, tight-faced, wrong. I press the first number I remember from before.

It blinks red.

Again.

Red.

Shit.

There are footsteps behind me now. Not fast. Not running. But coming.

I lean against the wall like I’m waiting for someone. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. My heart is too loud. Too fast. My hands aren’t shaking but my legs want to bolt.

I hear the door at the far end open. The whisper of a coat. A voice.

Not Ellis.

Worse.

A helper.

“Hey,” he says, halfway casual. “Lose your babysitter?”

I don’t answer. I couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat, even if I wanted to.

He’s walking toward me now. Calm. Curious. Like he doesn’t know—but he does. Helpers always know.

“Funny place for a field trip,” he says.

I don’t move. If I move, I’m caught. If I speak, I’m still caught.

He stops about six feet away.

“You weren’t cleared to leave,” he says lightly. “Which makes this either a miscommunication…or a violation.”

His voice isn’t cruel. That’s the worst part. It’s patient. Like this is just a hiccup, a minor misunderstanding. Something that happens all the time.

A small silence opens up between us.

He doesn’t fill it.

He doesn’t have to.

Behind him, two more helpers appear. One with a weapon. One with restraints. They’re not looking at him.

They’re looking at me.

I feel it—how this ends. Not dragged. Not screaming. Just…erased.

“Mr. Harrison wants you returned,” he says, like he’s ordering lunch. “I offered to let you walk, but—” he gestures lazily at the camera above me, “—you’ve made that a little complicated.”

A nod from him. The two step forward.

I don’t move.

I take a slow step back. Then another. My shoulder brushes the wall. Cold. Solid. Real. I grip it like it might open. Like there’s still a version of this where I make it out.

“Ms. Martin,” the man with the gun says, voice neutral. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

“Of course you are. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

They pause. Just for a second. Like maybe they weren’t expecting that. Like maybe I’m still in there, somewhere.

“Please don’t escalate this,” he says. “You were cleared to observe. Not to interfere.”

“Then maybe stop doing things that need interfering with.”

The one with the restraints twitches. Subtle. Training kicking in. I twist and run?—

Three steps. That’s all I get.

Before something hot explodes behind my eyes. Like a needle threading through bone. Like someone yanked a wire loose inside my skull.

The lights above me pulse. Hard. My ears ring. My legs buckle, but I don’t fall?—

Because they catch me.

Because they knew.

“She’s seizing,” one of them says, sharp.

“Reset’s triggered,” someone else replies. “Don’t let her go down.”

I try to scream. Or laugh. Or spit in their faces. Something. Anything. But it’s already too late.

The signal hits full force.

Everything splits.

My body stays upright, but my mind—my mind drops out from under me.

Not sleep. Not sedation. Not unconsciousness.

Erasure.

Like someone dragged a wet cloth through my head and wiped out every sharp corner.

The fear goes first. Then the resistance. Then the thought I was ever something separate from them at all.

The car is waiting when we reach the curb. Same as always. Black. Tinted. Already running.

The back door opens. A hand reaches out, not to help, but to usher.

I get in. Willingly. Soft-footed. Empty.

I know where I’m going.

Back with him.

Back to the house with the citrus-starched sheets and the locks you can’t see.

The door clicks shut beside me.

And the driver pulls away.