Chapter 8
Micah
My room is stone and silence. It’s supposed to strip you of everything human, which suits a monster like me just fine. I know how to fill it with my own treasures, anyway.
I sit on the bed and open the bottom drawer of the metal desk. The guards think it’s empty—Bruce checks, Marcy checks—but they don’t look closely enough. Beneath the thin liner is a slit, one I carved years ago with a stolen blade. It’s my vault.
Inside are small things—a button. A broken pencil. A piece of elastic. To anyone else, it’s trash. To me, each one is proof of moments I owned, people I bent. Tokens of control.
I slide the hair inside, carefully and reverently. Dark thread coiled against the pale liner. It doesn’t belong with the others. It’s different. This one hums like it’s alive.
My pulse hammers as I close the drawer, my palm pressed against the cool metal. It’s a promise—a beginning.
The beginning of us.
Dinner fades into night, and night bleeds into morning. The schedule here is clockwork, but today I feel jagged and restless. My body is calm, but inside, I pace like a caged wolf.
I bide my time until the corridors fill again. When the shift changes, Bruce takes the floor. The other guards herd bodies to group therapy, to meds, and to the cafeteria.
That’s when I see her.
She walks between two patients, her gray clothes hanging loose, her hair pulled back now. The cinnamon scent still drifts, the smell faint, pulling me closer.
I step into the hallway as she passes, timing it so Bruce is turned, his keys jingling at his belt. Katana stiffens when she senses me.
“Morning, cinnamon,” I murmur.
Her head snaps up, her hazel eyes wide. By now, I’m certain she’s heard that I don’t speak. And while that’s true, for her, I make an exception.
She slows, like her body wants to stop, but her brain tells her to keep moving. That clash makes her even more beautiful.
“Don’t talk to me,” she whispers, her voice shaking.
I smirk. “You read the note.”
Her lips part, just slightly, her pupils flaring with fear and recognition. She doesn’t deny it.
The guard at the end of the hall barks at another patient, distraction ruining the moment. I lean closer, just enough for my shoulder to graze hers. I whisper in her ear, “There’s no escaping what’s already ours.”
She inhales sharply and jerks away like my words burn. She flees down the hallway, not looking back. But her rigid shoulders and uneven steps show I’ve already crawled under her skin.
I watch until she disappears into the cafeteria.
Then I smile.
She doesn’t understand yet.
But she will.