what if Lucy gets kidnapped again?

The shadows within

Lucy awoke to the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the faint smell of antiseptic. For a brief, blissful moment, she forgot where she was, thinking she was simply waking up from a rough shift at work. But as soon as she shifted in the bed, the pain in her bruised ribs brought everything back in a rush—the warehouse, the escape, and the overwhelming fear.

She forced herself to take slow, measured breaths, grounding herself in the present. The hospital room was bathed in the soft light of early morning, the pale rays filtering through the blinds. She turned her head slightly and saw Tim slumped in a chair by her bedside, his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted to one side as he slept.

He had stayed. A small part of her had feared he might leave during the night, that she would wake up alone again. But Tim had kept his word. That thought brought her a measure of comfort, but it was fleeting. The memories of what had happened, of what he had done to her, still clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake.

As if sensing her wakefulness, Tim stirred, blinking awake and rubbing his eyes. When he saw that she was awake, he straightened up, his concern evident in the lines etched into his face.

"Hey," he said softly, leaning forward. "How are you feeling?"

Lucy swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat. How was she feeling? She wasn't sure she could put it into words. Physically, she was sore, her body aching from the abuse it had endured. But mentally, emotionally—she felt fractured, like a mirror that had been shattered into a thousand pieces. She wasn't sure how to start picking them up.

"I don't know," she finally whispered, her voice hoarse. "I don't know how to feel."

Tim nodded, his expression one of understanding. "That's okay. You don't have to have all the answers right now. Just take it one step at a time."

Lucy appreciated his words, but they didn't do much to quiet the storm inside her. She didn't know how to move forward from this. The memories were too vivid, the fear too real. She felt like she was drowning, trapped in a sea of terror that threatened to pull her under at any moment.

Tim seemed to sense her inner turmoil. He reached out and took her hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Lucy, you don't have to go through this alone. We're all here for you—me, Angela, Jackson. We're not going to let you fall."

Lucy squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his presence. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that she could rely on her friends to help her through this. But there was a part of her, a dark, insidious part, that whispered that they wouldn't understand. How could they? They hadn't been there. They hadn't felt his hands on them, hadn't heard his voice taunting them. They didn't know the depths of her fear.

And then there was the shame—the deep, gnawing shame that made her want to curl up and disappear. She had fought so hard, tried so desperately to escape, but in the end, she had been overpowered. She had been violated in the worst way possible, and no matter how much she told herself it wasn't her fault, that she had done everything she could to survive, the shame remained.

She looked away from Tim, unable to meet his gaze. "I just... I feel so... dirty," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Tim's grip on her hand tightened slightly. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Lucy. You survived. You're here because you fought back, because you didn't give up. None of this is your fault."

Lucy knew he was right, logically, but it didn't make the feeling go away. She felt like she was tainted, like a part of her had been irreparably damaged. How could she go back to work, to her life, knowing what had happened? How could she face her friends, her colleagues, without feeling like they were all looking at her differently?