The ward was silence sharpened into a weapon. Nurses moved like ghosts through the halls, their keys jingling, their shoes whispering against the tile.
Ty stayed awake at night, not because of fear, but because he refused to let the ward swallow him whole. Sleep was surrender. And Ty never surrendered.
But even his defiance felt thinner these days. His anger sputtered instead of roaring. His threats cracked in his throat.
And the reflection watched.
It wasn't a perfect mimic anymore. Sometimes its expression softened when his scowl deepened. Sometimes its gaze flickered with—God forbid—compassion.
One night, Ty pressed his hand against the glass. The other boy pressed back.
Not with power. With patience.
For the first time in his life, Ty felt something he didn't recognize.
Fear.