Ellie
The shower stall is a concrete cube with a rusted drain in the centre. The water's scalding hot, turning my skin red, but I don't care. It's the only place I can strip naked, the only place the cameras don't watch.
Or so I think.
Reed told me this morning that Tony's black eye was my fault. I'd expected some backlash, even though I had done nothing wrong.
The curtain rasps open. Reed stands there, his dark eyes glazed with something between predatory and hunger. He's holding a bar of soap.
"Grace says to clean up," he says, tossing it at my feet.
I don't move. Can't move. The water runs in rivulets down my breasts, my stomach, between my thighs. His leering gaze follows it.
Then he steps in with me.
The scream dies in my throat when his hand clamps over my mouth, pushing me against the side of the stall where the spray of the water barely reaches him. His other hand slides down my stomach. Using his feet, he kicks my legs apart slightly.
I bite down hard on his palm, tasting copper, but he just laughs.
"Yeah," he breathes, pressing me against the cold tile. "That's it. Fight me."
His fingers are impaled inside me before I can twist away. It's not pleasure. It's a numb pain, not just there, but my whole body. It's violating, undignified, his touch clinical as he works me open like he's taking inventory.
When he finally pulls back, his fingers glisten under the fluorescent lights.
"See, pretty girl." He wraps his tongue around the fingers that he shoved inside me. "I knew you would taste like heaven."
I can't stop the vomit rising in my throat as he winks at me over his shoulder as he turns and leaves me in the shower.
I'm back in my cell by the time the shaking stops.
It’s day eight. Or is it nine? It could even be ten. I've lost count. The lights are never dimmed in my cell, making it impossible to track time with certainty. I know over a week has passed since my abduction. The days blur together, each one a monotonous echo of the last.
The isolation is suffocating, the silence broken only by the occasional clang of the heavy metal door as it swings open to admit my captor. Grace, with her icy eyes and too-perfect smile. It has become the unwelcome herald of my daily interrogations.
Her psychological assessments are a deep dive into my psyche, her questions probing, as if she is peeling back the layers of my soul. It is unsettling how she seems to anticipate my reactions, to understand the inner workings of my mind better than I do myself.
Her presence is a stark reminder that I am no longer in control, that my life has been reduced to a series of tests and observations within the cold, unyielding walls of wherever the hell this is.
The sterile environment, devoid of any personal touch, serves as a constant backdrop to her inquisition, a stark contrast to the warmth and empathy I am accustomed to offering my own patients. Was offering my patients.
It is clear that Grace is not just interested in extracting information; she is mapping the contours of my mind, charting a course through my deepest fears and most closely guarded secrets.
With each session, I feel myself being dismantled, piece by piece, until I question whether there will be anything left of me to put back together once this ordeal is over.
The assaults began on the third day, when Grace’s patience with my silence finally snapped. She didn’t raise her voice or lose her composure. She nodded to Reed, who stepped forward with a smirk.
The first blow caught my ribs. His fist drove the air out of me.
I crumpled to the floor, gasping, but he didn’t stop.
He dragged me up by my hair, forcing me to kneel as he back-handed me across the face.
Blood filled my mouth, metallic and warm, and I spat it onto the floor.
Grace watched with detachment, sipping her tea.
By the fifth day, the beatings escalated.
Reed used a leather belt, the buckle raising welts across my back and thighs.
He forced me to strip, standing naked in the centre of the freezing room while he circled me like a predator.
Then he stopped in front of me, unzipped his pants, and pulled himself out, already hard.
I knew what was coming before it started.
The warmth hit my chest first, then my stomach, and ran down my thighs.
I didn't move. I didn't make a sound. I think that was what broke something in me, not the act itself, but that I'd already learned not to react.
His hands weren't only violent, they were invasive. He groped and pinched, his fingers digging into my flesh as he humiliated me further. When I tried to fight back, he shoved me face-first into the wall, my cheek pressed hard against the cold concrete as he whispered threats in my ear.
Grace watched, her expression serene, as if she were conducting an experiment rather than orchestrating my degradation.
The worst was sensory deprivation. On the seventh day — I think — Reed secured me to a chair, my limbs fastened with frigid metal restraints. He covered my head with a thick hood, plunging me into total darkness before fitting noise-canceling headphones over my ears.
The sudden absence of all stimuli was suffocating. I squirmed, disoriented and panicking, but he continued the isolation. Complete sensory vacancy overwhelmed my mind as minutes stretched into what felt like hours.
When he finally pulled the hood away, I vomited onto the floor, my body trembling with fear and exhaustion.
Grace leaned in close, her voice soft but menacing. “You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself, Ellie. Just tell me what I want to know.”
But I won’t. I can’t. Each assault leaves me bruised and broken, but I cling to the defiance that keeps me from breaking completely.
And then today. The door opens with a metallic screech. Grace stands on the threshold, her slender frame wrapped in a pristine white lab coat, stethoscope draped around her neck like a perverse fashion accessory.
"Good morning, Dr. Hart. You've shown remarkable adaptation during your first week. I believe you're ready for the next phase of your stay."
I say nothing. Words have become precious resources, not to be wasted on someone who twists them into weapons.
"Please come with me." It isn't a request.
Two guards flank me as we move through corridors I haven't seen before. My bare feet slap against cold tile, the thin hospital gown they've given me offers little protection against the artificially chilled air.
We stop before double doors marked "Procedure Room 4."
Grace smiles. "This is where we'll be conducting our sessions moving forward."
The guards push me inside. I freeze. The room bears no resemblance to the small interrogation cell I've become accustomed to.
This is a fully equipped surgical suite, stainless steel surfaces gleaming under harsh lighting, monitoring equipment arranged around a central examination table fitted with leather restraints, and Reed stands at the side.
"What is this?" My voice comes out hoarse from disuse.
"The appropriate environment for the depth of work we need to accomplish." Grace gestures to the table. "Please make yourself comfortable."
When I hesitate, the guards move forward, their intentions clear. I walk to the table voluntarily, preserving what little dignity I have left. Reed secures the restraints, the leather straps feeling cool against my wrists and ankles.
"These are adjustable," he explains, tightening one strap until it bites into my skin. "Your comfort level will depend on your cooperation."
I watch as Grace prepares the room, arranging instruments on a tray beside me. I recognise psychiatric assessment materials, but other tools remain ominously unfamiliar.
"I've reviewed your file extensively, Dr. Hart. Your therapeutic approach emphasizes creating safe spaces for patients to access traumatic memories." Grace attaches electrodes to my temples. "Today, we'll be employing your methodology with certain modifications."
My heart races as monitors begin tracking my physiological responses. The beeping of my own accelerated heartbeat fills the room.
"Your body can't lie, Ellie. May I call you Ellie now? I think we've moved beyond professional formalities."
"What do you want?"
Grace adjusts a drip connected to an IV stand, though she hasn't inserted any needles yet.
"The same thing you want from your patients, the truth." She sits on a rolling stool, positioning herself at eye level. "Tell me about your relationship with Killian Blackthorn."
The sound of his name catches me off guard. For days, I've held his image in my mind, a talisman against despair. The thought that he's alive and he might be searching for me has kept me somewhat sane.
"There is no relationship. He's a patient."
Grace studies my vital signs on the monitor. "Interesting response. Elevated heart rate, increased skin conductance." She makes a note on her tablet. "Your body disagrees with your statement."
"Basic physiological responses to stress are unreliable indicators of specific—"
"Please don't lecture me on psychophysiological assessment, Ellie. I've been conducting these evaluations since before you completed fourth grade."
She rises, adjusting the harsh overhead light to shine directly into my eyes. "Let's establish a baseline. State your full name."
"Eleanor Margaret Hart."
"Your date of birth."
"March 14, 1995."
"Your father's name."
I hesitate, the familiar pain surfacing. "Gregory Hart."
"Good," Grace monitors the readings. "Now, when did you first meet Killian Blackthorn?"
"Maybe two months ago, forgive me, I don't quite have my bearings on time. He was referred for mandatory psychological assessment."
"And when did you first feel sexually attracted to him?"
Heat flushes my face. "That's not—"
"Your physiological response already answered. Let's move on." Grace nods to Reed, and he adjusts one of my restraints, loosening it slightly. "A small reward for partial honesty."