Ellie
The bruises on my neck throb with every pulse.
Five distinct marks. I can trace the exact shape of Reed's grip, a series of mottled purple and sickly yellow stamps where he tried to crush my windpipe. I press them gingerly, testing the resistance of the swelling. My body is keeping score, even if I’m trying to pretend the days aren’t starting to blur.
"Rise and shine, pretty girl."
The voice slithers through the cell door before he appears. Reed is standing in the doorway, all six-foot-something of him, but his weight is shifted to one side, a subtle, stiff wince he can't quite hide as he looks at me. "Sleep well? I know I didn't. Kept thinking about our unfinished business."
His voice scrapes across my nerves. A low, abrasive rumble that lets me know he hasn't forgotten the knee I drove into his crotch. I say nothing, retreating to the corner of the narrow bed.
“Got some good news for you.” His grin shows too much teeth.
The nose ring catches the light as he tilts his head, my silence seems to amuse him.
“You’re getting an upgrade. Mrs. Ross thinks you've earned some better accommodations.
" He gestures to the second guard. "Me and Stefan here are your personal escort service. "
“Reed, maybe ease up.”
The second guard is younger, leaner, and currently obsessed with a spot on the concrete.
I notice his nails, clean and trimmed. Not a bruiser like Reed.
He looks like a man who has convinced himself he’s following orders so he doesn't have to feel the weight of what's happening.
In a place like this, the man who still thinks he's a 'good person' is always the first one to crack.
Reed doesn't even look back. “Fuck off, Stefan.”
Stefan.
I file the name away with Reed’s. I watch the way Reed leans into my space and the way Stefan carefully avoids it. The alpha and the weak link.
My psychologist brain still works even when the rest of me wants to shut down.
"Hands out." Reed steps forward, zip ties in hand.
I comply. Fighting is wasted energy. The white plastic bites into my wrists, the ratcheting sound loud in the small room.
He pulls it tighter than necessary, cutting off the circulation until my fingers start to tingle.
He’s looking at my eyes, waiting for a wince, a gasp. Any sign that he’s winning.
I give him nothing but a blank stare.
"One word about yesterday and I'll make sure you regret it," he mutters, his voice a low vibration meant only for me. He straightens up, voice regaining its professional edge for Stefan’s benefit. "Just following procedure with the guest. Nothing personal."
But the way his eyes linger on the bruises on my throat makes it very personal indeed.
The “upgrade” is a room twice the size of my cell. Actual furniture. A proper bed. A dresser. A small desk and chair. There’s even a partition for the toilet. The walls are a pale, soft blue instead of institutional beige, creating an unsettling simulation of a hotel room.
That’s the insidious part. My body wants to relax. It wants warmth and soft surfaces. But my brain sees the reinforced door and the lack of windows. The blue paint is just a different color of cage.
Grace isn't just moving me; she's recalibrating my baseline for comfort. It’s operant conditioning. Give the subject a scrap of dignity, and she’ll work twice as hard to keep from being sent back to the dark.
"Welcome to your new suite." Reed shoves me forward after cutting the zip ties with a pair of cutters. "Mrs. Ross went to a lot of trouble. Be appreciative."
I rub my wrists where the plastic left marks. I survey the room while blood flow returns to my hands.
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere no one will find you." Reed’s gaze travels over my body, lingering on the waistband of my scrubs.
"Enjoy the amenities. There are fresh clothes in the dresser.
Mrs. Ross expects you to look presentable for your next session.
" He leans in, his voice dropping. "Though personally, I prefer you just as you are. "
"That's enough, Reed," Stefan mutters, shifting uncomfortably.
Reed’s expression hardens, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Just being friendly, Stefan." He backs toward the door. "Mrs. Ross will be along shortly with breakfast. Isn't that nice?"
The sequence of bolts engaging is the final punctuation on the move. Three distinct clicks.
But before the footsteps fade, I hear Stefan’s voice in the corridor.
“You didn’t have to be such a dick, man.”
Reed’s laugh echoes.
“Fuck off, Stefan. She’s not your concern.”
“Grace said—”
“Grace isn’t here.” Silence. Then Stefan’s footsteps fade in the opposite direction. So, Stefan questions Reed. Stefan invokes Grace’s authority. Stefan might actually follow rules.
I file that away. Weak link. Possible ally. Or potential trap.
Inside the dresser are neatly folded clothes. Plain cotton t-shirts. Yoga pants. Underwear. Everything is black or gray. Nothing with buttons, zippers, or drawstrings. Nothing that could be used as a ligature or a weapon. It’s safety-rated clothing for a high-risk ward.
I change quickly, keeping my back to the wall where I hope the blind spot is. The fresh cotton is soft, a jarring contrast to the starchy scrubs.
"Good morning, Eleanor," Grace enters with a breakfast tray. She’s wearing a cream-colored silk dress, not a hair out of place.
Her stiletto heels click against the floor as she places the tray on the desk.
Fresh fruit. Yogurt. Toast. Real silverware, though the knife is plastic, but still, an upgrade from fingers.
"I trust you're finding the new accommodations more... restorative?"
I don't look at the food. I stay silent, watching her face for the flicker of impatience that never comes.
"You really should eat, Eleanor. Maintaining your strength is important for our work together."
"Our work?" I finally speak.
"Mm-hmm." She smiles. "Building trust. Sharing information. Finding common ground." She gestures to the chair. "Please, sit."
I remain standing.
"What do you want from me?"
"Direct. I appreciate that." Grace sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirt.
"What I want is simple: cooperation. What I have to offer in return is equally simple: comfort.
" She gestures around the room. "This is only the beginning.
Your experience here can be quite pleasant, or...
" Her smile doesn't waver. "Well, let's just focus on the positive alternatives. "
She doesn’t need to finish the threat. I can fill in the blanks myself, what happens if I’m not “pleasant” to deal with.
“You’re a psychologist,” Grace says. “That gives you certain advantages.” She smiles. “And certain disadvantages.”
I say nothing.
“You recognize everything I'm doing. Environmental control, operant conditioning, intermittent reinforcement." She pauses. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Being unable to experience something without dissecting it?”
The observation lands. I want to argue, but she’s right, and we both know it.
Fuck.
“That’s your weakness, Eleanor. You can recognize manipulation, but you can’t stop your autonomic responses. Your body will betray your mind every time.” She leans forward. “And the more you analyze, the more mental energy you waste, the less you have left to actually resist.”
My throat closes up. I force myself to swallow past the tightness.
“See?” Grace’s smile sharpens. “You know I’m using meta-cognitive manipulation right now. But that doesn’t stop it from working.”
The clinical assessment of her own techniques throws me off-balance. "Why am I here?"
“Several reasons.” Her fingers pick at an invisible speck of lint on her dress. I watch her hands instead of her eyes. It’s an old trick, distract the subject with a small gesture while you deliver the blow.
“You have information I need. Your connection to Killian makes you valuable leverage. But more importantly, your father’s research has become... relevant to The Order's current operations.”
I feel my heart skip. It’s a physical stutter in my chest. “What research?”
“Project Ghost.” She watches me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. “Gregory was developing something extraordinary before his unfortunate passing. Cognitive conditioning. Behavioral imprinting. The kind of tech that makes the human mind... programmable.”
My blood drops ten degrees in a second. I can feel the warmth draining from my chest, leaving my fingers numb with the chill of shock.
"I don't know anything about his classified work." I swallow hard, my voice jumping an octave before I can control it.
"Perhaps not consciously." Grace stands. She has a ballerina’s discipline.
The kind of fluidity that only comes from years of learning how to move without making a sound.
"But Gregory was a man who planned for every contingency.
He wouldn't have left his life's work to the whims of the government.
He would have left a trail for the one person he trusted. Someone like his daughter."
I shake my head, but the sound of her voice is already burrowing in. "You're mistaken."
"We'll see." She moves toward the door. "Enjoy your breakfast, Eleanor. I'll return this afternoon. Perhaps you'll be more forthcoming then."
After she leaves, I stand motionless, processing her words. I eat because I have to, even though my stomach is in knots. I force the yogurt and fruit down, ignoring the way they taste like nothing. My body is too pumped on adrenaline to register flavor, but I chew, swallow, and keep going.
No clocks. No windows. No way of knowing if it’s been an hour or five. I count seconds to stay anchored, but I keep losing track, starting over.
When the door opens again, it's the same guard from earlier, Reed.
"Checking in on our VIP." He smirks and steps inside, the heavy bolt engaging behind him with a sound that makes the room feel ten feet smaller. "Stefan's on break. Just you and me for a while, pretty girl."