2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
MICAH PRESCOTT
The house is too quiet despite the chaos unfolding in that fucking bedroom. It’s two in the morning, and the only light in the basement living room comes from the bluish glow of the monitors in front of us.
I haven’t sat down. I haven’t been able to.
My hands brace against the back of the couch, fingers digging into the fabric as I realize that he’s awake. A few hours after we saved him, he finally woke up. My eyes are locked on the screen, even though my body is desperate for some rest.
But I don’t, because that’s Jude. And I don’t recognize a single fucking thing about him.
On the screen, he slams sideways again, his head cracking hard against the wall behind the bed. The sound comes through the speakers a second later.
My stomach twists. “Jesus.” I push off the couch like I’m about to move, like I can do something, anything—
“Stop.” Rafe’s voice is quiet.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply through my nose as I force myself to stay where I am. Even as my chest tightens like it’s being pulled apart from the inside. “He’s going to hurt himself,” I mutter, my voice rough.
Rafe doesn’t look away from the screen. “He already is.”
The way he says it makes me fucking sick. “That’s not what I meant,” I snap, my eyes flicking to him for half a second before I look back at the monitor.
Jude is pacing now, his movements jerky and erratic, like his body doesn’t know what to do with itself. Or like it doesn’t even belong to him anymore.
“His mind is gone,” Rafe says softly.
The words are like a blade sinking deep into my guts. I shake my head immediately. “No. No, it’s not.”
It can’t be.
I’ve seen Jude high. I’ve seen him drunk, pissed off, reckless, and stupid. I’ve seen him bleed. I’ve seen him break down and sob into my shirt. And I’ve seen him kill.
This?
This isn’t that. It’s something else entirely.
On the screen, he suddenly turns, staring at something off-camera, his body going rigid like he’s seen a ghost.
I lean forward, squinting. “There’s nothing there,” I say under my breath, more to myself than anyone else.
But he’s talking. Not loud enough for us to hear clearly, just fragments through the speaker. It sounds a little like he’s arguing with nothing. A sick, hollow feeling opens up in my chest.
“He’s talking to that mask,” Rafe mutters.
“Adriana said they conditioned him,” I say, swallowing past the nausea. “That they fucked with his head. Made him…hate Emma.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens as he watches the screen. “Not just hate,” he says. “They rewired his associations. Pain, fear, and aggression are all paired with her. It’s why he almost killed her last night.”
My stomach drops.
On the monitor, Jude lashes out suddenly, yanking against the restraints, his entire body straining like he’s trying to tear himself apart.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe.
“He’s not seeing her as she is,” Rafe continues, now taking a seat on the couch. “He’s seeing what they trained him to see.”
“A threat,” I say, the word tasting bitter. “Right? That’s how that shit works?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“However, he did seem to recognize you and Adriana.”
I swallow. “Should we go in again?”
He shakes his head once. “He is actively withdrawing and hallucinating, it seems. So I don’t think that would help. I offered him Suboxone, but he didn’t want it.”
“When you’re withdrawing, you’ll take anything that could ease the pain.”
“I agree,” he mutters. “But not him, apparently.”
“Goddammit,” I hiss.
Upstairs, Emma is finally asleep. Barely, though. We had to make her take something. She was spiraling—crying, shaking, struggling to breathe after those videos came through. I can still hear it. The girl kept saying his name, as if it might actually do something.
Heather’s with her for now, likely watching her sleep. She was distraught when she saw Jude, too. They’ve known him longer than me, but I know him better.
Adriana took the couch upstairs shortly after Emma started losing it.
She couldn’t seem to handle everything anymore and was beginning to truly crash.
The bitch is definitely traumatized as well.
Everyone basically hates her. Heather almost punched her in the face after Emma went upstairs. So this is going to be difficult.
I scrub a hand over my mouth, dragging my gaze back to the screen. “I’m talking to Adriana in the morning,” I say. “Alone.”
Rafe hums faintly. “Do that. But then we’re going to need to all sit down.”
On the monitor, Jude stumbles, catching himself on the edge of the bed before shoving away from it again, breathing hard.
I feel something twist in my chest. “He’s in there,” I say quietly. “Somewhere.”
Rafe finally glances at me. For a second, there’s something almost human in his expression. Then it’s gone. “Yes,” he says. “But he’s buried under layers of conditioning, chemical dependency, and trauma.”
I look back at the screen. Jude is shaking again, his head dropping forward. “Then we dig him out,” I mutter.
Rafe studies me for a moment before turning his attention back to the monitors. “That’s not how deprogramming works,” he says.
My jaw tightens. “Then explain it.”
Rafe leans back, folding his arms. “You don’t remove conditioning,” he says. “You replace it.”
I frown, glancing at him again. “What?”
“His brain has been trained to associate specific stimuli with specific responses,” he adds. “You don’t just erase that. You introduce new associations through repetition, consistency, and control. Our little therapist knows that. She understands precisely how hard this can be.”
My stomach sinks the more he talks. “How long?”
Rafe doesn’t answer right away.
On the screen, Jude reaches for the mask on the table, but the chains don’t let him get that far.
“Depends,” Rafe says finally. “On how deep it goes.”
My gaze stays locked on Jude, and on the way he moves. “And what if it’s too deep?” I ask, terrified to hear his honest answer.
Rafe is quiet for a second, but it feels too long. “Then we don’t get him back.”
The words pierce my heart as I watch Jude slam his shoulder into the wall, like he’s trying to break out of his own body. “No,” I say under my breath, shaking my head.
Not happening.
Not after everything we’ve gone through.
My hands curl into fists at my sides as I stare at the screen, refusing to look away. “We’re getting him back,” I say, louder this time.
I don’t know if I’m saying it to Rafe or to myself.
Or to the broken version of my best friend tearing himself apart on the other side of that wall.
I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m already halfway to the stairs.
“I need air,” I mutter, but I don’t wait for a response.
If I stay down there another second, I’m going to lose it.
The stairs creak under my weight as I take them two at a time, breath coming fast.
Adriana is passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, her hair a mess across her face. She doesn’t stir when I pass. For a second, I slow, my gaze catching on her.
She warned us. She told us exactly what he’d become.
Fuck.
I look away. I can’t deal with that right now.
I keep moving, heading straight for the back of the house.
I’m going to fucking explode. But I don’t want to wake anyone, especially Emma.
The sliding glass doors reflect a warped version of me as I reach for the handle—pale, drawn, like I haven’t slept in days.
The door slides open, and cold air rushes at me, providing fast relief for my overheated skin.
I shove my feet into my shoes without thinking and step outside, closing the door quietly behind me.
Snow is falling again, just enough to dust everything in white.
It’s soft and quiet as it drifts down through the dark.
The moon casts just enough light to see the outline of the trees… and beyond them, the river.
I start walking. I don’t remember deciding to, really.
My body just moves, shoes crunching softly over the thin layer of snow.
It’s colder the farther I go from the house.
Or maybe it's just the icy feeling of fucking dread is now pouring over the brim. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my jaw tight, pressure building in my chest that I can’t keep down much longer.
By the time I reach the tree line, it’s already breaking.
I barely make it to the nearest tree before my legs give out. My shoulder hits the trunk hard, bark scraping through my shirt as I brace myself, one hand coming up to grip it like it’s the only thing that can keep me standing.
And then it’s over. Everything…caves. A raw, broken sound rips out of me, and I fold into it, my forehead pressing against the freezing bark as my body shakes.
“Fuck—” My voice cracks, dissolving into something I don’t even recognize.
I’m crying.
It tears out of me in waves, my chest heaving, breaths hitching so hard it feels like my lungs are collapsing in on themselves. My grip tightens on the tree as it all hits at once.
Jude.
Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. I can still see how he was moving, almost like a goddamn zombie jerking around. And how he was looking at that stupid fucking mask.
My stomach twists violently. “He’s gone,” I choke out, the words breaking apart as soon as they leave my mouth. “He’s fucking—”
I can’t even say it. I can’t.
Because if I say it again, it’s real. And I’m not fucking ready for that.
I suck in a breath that’s freezing all the way down, my head dropping forward as I press harder into the tree.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice barely there, swallowed by the night. It hurts. It hurts in a way I don’t have words for. My chest is shattering open and pouring my soul out onto the fucking ground. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to bring him back.
And fuck, what if we can’t? What if that’s it? What if the version of him I know—
A memory slams into me so hard it knocks my breath away.