Fear

12

"People don't run out of fear. They run out of hope."
— Rick Yancey, The 5th Wave

This is what it means to break.
Not all at once.
Not with a scream or a snap.
But slowly.
Quietly.
Like a crack spreading across ice.

Act Two wasn't punishment.
It was his pleasure.
Torture masquerading as treatment.
But it was more like dismantling.
Piece by piece.
Stripping me down until I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Until I was no longer me.

I remember that moment.
The pain.
The scalpel.
The look in those deep, onyx eyes.
And what it cost me.

So if you're still here, turn the page.
But don't expect mercy.
Because I didn't get any.

—————————————————————

Something in him had shifted again.

Gone was the strangely gentle man who'd lingered at my bedside, who'd offered me a blanket and almost — almost — looked ashamed. That person, if he ever existed, had vanished. What stood before me now was a stranger wearing Tyler's face like a mask.

He stalked toward me, slow and methodical. I was already strapped down: wrists bound to the steel table, forearms turned outward again, ankles secured to the chair legs, tighter this time.

My mouth was sealed with surgical tape, thick and suffocating. I couldn't scream. Not that it would save me. I just glared at him.

"There's a rumour going around," he said, his voice flat and deep as the ocean. The words vibrated in my chest. He tilted his head, amused. "That I'm going soft for you."

Bracing his hands on the table, he leaned down until his face hovered inches from mine. His breath touched my skin, warm and sour. Onyx eyes stared into mine, unreadable as ever.

"They think I'm changing. Like you've done something to me," he smirked, lips curling into something amused.

A pause.

"Wouldn't that be pathetic?"

Breath against my ear, his head beside mine. Too close.

"Don't let it get to your head," he whispered, venomous. "You're not special."

But something was missing in his threat. A hollowness. Like he was putting on a performance — even if it was just for himself.

He straightened with a sharp breath, tension rippling through his shoulders. Pacing followed — restless, erratic, but slow. He moved like a caged animal hunting for an excuse to explode.

Then he stopped, abruptly, and chuckled.

"Isabel called."

The words hit like a bullet.

I jerked forward in my restraints, muffled cries tearing against the tape. Panic flared, immediate and blinding. I didn't care about pain. I needed to know.

His eyes locked onto mine, and he smiled, cold and wide. Cruel.
"Oh, don't worry," he said softly. "She's fine. For now."

His arms were folded across his chest, one hand absently tapping against his bicep, like he was waiting for something. No amusement this time. No grin. Just... observation.

He stepped closer, slowly, deliberately.

"But if you don't behave..." He caught my chin, tilted my head up — that common manipulative tactic. His voice trailed off, letting the threat settle between us. "Well. You understand, don't you?"