Subdue-X

Surge of Psychosis

I couldn’t tell if I was awake or still stuck in a dream. The room spun with that same sterile blue hue, screens flickering with strange pulses, and shadows moving behind the glass. It didn’t feel like I was in the penthouse anymore. Maybe I wasn’t. I blinked and the blue hue sunk away, back behind my eyelids and Christian’s penthouse bedroom appeared.

We had returned to the complex in the country last night, now the sun beamed into his room like relentless lasers.

The pressure started in my chest—subtle at first, like something trying to find a way out. My heart hammered, and I bit my lip, trying to ignore it. But it grew, creeping up my spine, tightening every muscle in my body.

I forced myself to breathe, but each breath came shallow, broken. My chest felt like it was being crushed, slowly, methodically. I needed to hide it. Pin and Chris—neither of them could see me like this. Their silhouettes shifted in the room next to me through the glistening glass wall. Leaning over Christian’s desk.

Rolling off the bed, I curled into a ball on the cold floor, the pressure only growing. My muscles twitched uncontrollably, my fingers locking into tight fists, nails digging into my palms until I felt the sting of blood. I clenched my jaw, biting down on the pain. The memories of that dark room—the procedure—flooded back. I could hear the doctors, their voices droning over me, medical terms I barely understood. The cold metal of the table beneath me, straps biting into my wrists.

I dug my nails harder into my palms, trying to force the flashbacks out of my mind.

The surge hit harder. Like fire racing through my veins. My bones felt too small for my skin, like they were breaking under the pressure. My ribs squeezed tighter with every breath, and I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound. Not yet. Not while their eyes and ears were so close.

I just needed it to end. Just breathe.

But the burning didn’t stop. It spread, flames licking up my throat, tightening around my lungs. I tried to sit up, thinking it would be beneficial, that maybe I could get back to the bed without them noticing. But as soon as I moved, a wave of crushing heat shot through me, and I groaned, the sound escaping  through the cracks of my teeth before I could stop it.

I pressed my hands to the floor, trying to steady myself, but I felt like I was dissolving, like the world was tilting, and I had no weight. Just floating. Burning.

The door clicked open.

Pin.

He walked in with that usual cold calm. Detached, clinical. My body seized again, and I curled tighter, hoping he couldn’t see how bad it was.

But he knew.

“Christian, go downstairs. Get the vitals machine,” Pin ordered, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. There was no urgency, just that steady, cold tone. Like this was routine.

Christian hesitated, but I could hear him leave a second later, the door closing quietly behind him.

Pin knelt beside me, his hands gripping my shoulders with precise pressure, enough to pull me upright, leaning me against the wall. My vision blurred, but I could make out his face—those sharp eyes studying me, not with concern but with calculation.

“What’s happening, Ana?” he asked, voice sharp, controlled.

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a wheeze. My lips were too dry to form words. The pain pulsed through me again, hot and suffocating, like someone had reached inside and squeezed my lungs. I couldn’t stop my head from lolling back against the wall, my eyes rolling uncontrollably.