Subdue-X

Anger's Temptation

You had no logical plan," he said, pacing around the sterile laboratory, his voice cutting through the cold air like a blade. They didn’t bother locking me inside a room anymore, as if they knew I had nowhere else to go. I sat on a steel stool, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. The metal was freezing against my back, and even though I was wearing semi-regular clothes, the chill seeped into my bones. It was almost a cruel joke—giving me a taste of normalcy with the grey sweats and white t-shirt, as if that would make me feel human again.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, raising an eyebrow, waiting for me to speak, to offer some explanation, some excuse. But I wasn’t in the mood to indulge him.

I took my time answering, swallowing down the sarcastic retorts that threatened to spill from my lips. "Being illogical," I finally said, my voice flat, emotionless. What did it matter anymore? Logic, plans, reason—they all seemed irrelevant now.

He leaned against the metal counter, his fingers brushing over the scattered laptops and papers as if they held all the answers he needed. His gaze settled on me, somber and calculating. "Did you know it was illogical?"

"I didn’t have a plan," I replied dully. "It just felt right." There was no point in pretending otherwise.

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Alright," he murmured, his focus shifting back to the documents in front of him, as if our conversation was just a minor distraction. I stood, feeling the weight of his indifference settle on my shoulders. Why had he called me here if this was all we had to say?

I made my way toward the door, my mind drifting, lost in the haze of everything I couldn’t process. But just as I reached the hallway, his voice stopped me.

"Am I missing anything?" he asked, his tone so casual it made my skin crawl.

I didn’t turn around. "I couldn’t imagine what," I muttered, feeling the familiar ache in my gut. It was as if something was lodged there, something I couldn’t explain, couldn’t get rid of.

I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. "Withholding anything from me can kill you."

His words hung in the air, cold and detached, a threat veiled in logic. I hesitated for just a second before leaving the room, the icy chill from his voice following me down the hall.

The driver who had brought me here caught my eye as I passed. His gaze was huge and brown, filled with something that looked like relief. Maybe he was glad I was still alive. Maybe he thought I was something worth saving. He gave me a sharp nod, and I walked into my room, finding a bag packed on the edge of the bed. Inside were a grey sweater, my phone, and a small black pill bottle with "Sleep" scrawled across it in Pin’s neat handwriting. I shoved it back into the bag and slung it over my shoulder.

The driver appeared in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he was watching a ghost rise from her grave. We both overheard Pin’s voice from down the hall, firm and blunt over the phone.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” he said, ending the call with an edge that made my skin crawl.

The driver’s mouth hung open for a moment before he clamped it shut. When our eyes met, he jerked his head toward the door. "Let’s go."

The drive back wasn’t long, but it felt endless in the silence. I stared out the window, my mind replaying the image of Pin leaning over the medical cot, his fists pressed into the metal, his expression caught somewhere between distress and disappointment. His icy, analytical stare had haunted me, spinning around in my head like a broken record.

“You should not be leaving,” he had said, his voice a cold whisper in my memory.

I sat in the car with my hands folded between my legs, feeling the distance between us grow with every mile. The farther I got from Pin, the more I realized how fragile everything was. Resuscitation, survival—it all felt so far away. I thought back to the unanswered questions, the pleas for clarity that I had never voiced. Some things were better left in the dark. I had never been one for light anyway.

As we approached the complex, I overheard Pin’s voice again, sharp and cutting. "Don’t let her near a gun or any weapon of hurt." The words echoed in my mind like a warning, but it was too late for that.

When the car finally stopped, I felt a heavy weight settle in my chest. I didn’t want to see the man in the tower, didn’t want to face whatever was waiting for me inside. But I didn’t have a choice.

"I feel angry," I croaked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else.

The driver leaned over the steering wheel, unsure of how to respond. "I’d be a lot more than angry," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the penthouse windows above.

I clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth until my cheeks burned. The anger inside me was like a smoldering fire, building with every passing second. But his voice cut through the haze, snapping me back to reality.

"Do us both a favor," he said, placing something heavy and cold in my lap. I looked down, my breath catching in my throat as I stared at the revolver. My hands shook as I shot him a blank expression, but he just nodded toward the door.

Without thinking, I tucked the gun into the back of my sweats, tying them as tight as possible to keep the weight from dragging them down. The moment I stepped out of the car, he drove off, the tires squealing against the gravel. Panic clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down, determined to face whatever came next head-on.

The glass doors to the penthouse opened with a gentle push, and I stepped inside, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the room. Paperwork was scattered everywhere, and the curtains were drawn, blocking out the last traces of daylight. The air was thick with unease, but I forced myself to keep moving.

I walked into our room, feeling the gun pressing against my back, Pin’s words echoing in my head. "Don’t let her near a gun or any weapon of hurt."

The door swung open behind me, and I turned around, my hand instinctively reaching for the revolver. Christian’s eyes were wide with shock as he stepped toward me, his arms outstretched as if to embrace me. But I didn’t let him get that close. I aimed the muzzle at his chest, watching the confusion and hurt wash over his face.

"Who gave you that?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"Why would I share that?" I replied bluntly, my tone cold and detached.

"This isn’t you—"

"Of course it isn’t!" I snapped, my words cutting him off. My voice was steady, but underneath it, the rage shimmered like a blade ready to strike. My hands didn’t shake, but I could feel the exhaustion creeping in, my arms heavy with the weight of the gun.

The silence between us stretched on, making my ears ring. I could see him struggling to find the right words, his eyes narrowing as he tried to lie his way out of this.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he started, his voice tense. "Put the gun down—"

"Stop lying!" I choked out, my voice cracking. "I thought you would find me before anything happened, but you didn’t. You were the one watching it." The accusation hung in the air like a noose, tightening with every second that passed.

His eyes widened in disbelief, but I didn’t care. I shifted my aim and fired at the bar cupboards, the sound of shattering glass filling the room. I dropped the revolver to the floor, my hands trembling as the anger drained out of me, leaving only emptiness in its wake.

"I’m not the only one who wanted that bullet in your chest," I muttered, my voice hollow. "But I can’t do that." The words tasted bitter on my tongue, like a confession I didn’t want to make. But they were true. I couldn’t do it—not yet.

As the silence closed in around us, I turned away, the weight of everything pressing down on me. The anger, the hurt, the confusion—it was all too much, and yet not enough. Not enough to make me pull the trigger. Not enough to make me stop feeling like this ghost of a person, trapped in a life that wasn’t hers anymore.