*Trigger warnings* abuse, manipulation, torture, cohesion, simulations, gaslighting, mental torture.
I won't.
I won't hurt her.
I don't care what they do to me.
I don't care how many times they rip me apart, drag me to the edge, bury me in that goddamn room until I forget how to breathe.
I won't hurt Ardere.
Even if they take my bones and bend them into weapons.
Even if they feed me nothing but her name.
Even if they keep throwing her face at me like bait, like punishment, like reward—
I won't touch her. I won't lay a finger on her.
I'm not theirs.
I'm not theirs.
I remember her. I remember us.
I remember the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching.
I remember the freckles on her shoulder. The hitch in her voice when she'd lie.
The way she always smelled like rain and panic and burnt coffee.
God, I remember the first time she let herself fall asleep on me.
That fucking silence. That goddamn peace. Like I was allowed to hold something good for once.
Like maybe I didn't ruin everything I touched.
She's the only thing I want to protect.
And if I can't get out of here, if I can't stop them—
then I'll die first.
I'll die before I let them use me to hurt her.
Even if they've wormed their claws into every cell in my body.
Even if they've turned my heartbeat into a detonator and my thoughts into cages.
Even if I can't even say her name without my body flinching—without my nails cracking and skin splitting and that awful heat sinking in—
I'll hold on to something.
Even if it's just the idea of her. Even if it's just a memory.
I will not hurt Ardere.
You hear me?
I'm not going to hurt her.
I don't care what's left of me.
I'll burn before I touch her.
I won't.
But it keeps happening.
Even when I try not to think about her, she's there. A flicker of red hair, the shape of her laugh, the way she leaned into my shoulder like I was safe. And the second I think of it, the second I remember—
—I feel it. Nails cracking. Flesh splitting open like fruit. My body doesn't listen to me anymore. I think of Ardere, and it reacts. Like she's the signal. Like she's the switch. Like I'm a bomb and she's the goddamn trigger.
They made it this way.
They're still making it worse.
I can't stop it.
I can't stop it.
I breathe and I count and I think of anything else—Riven's jokes, late night storms, the time I dropped that entire tray of food in the van and everyone swore I'd never live it down—but it doesn't matter.
She gets in anyway.
She's always in.
They've infected every thought of her with pain.
And I can't tell where she ends and they begin.
Sometimes I can feel my ribs stretch, my spine pull like it's trying to break out of me. Sometimes I can feel the echo of my own powers biting back. Like I'm watching someone else come alive inside me. Someone who would snap her neck and not feel a thing.
I throw up. I scream into the walls. I try to claw it out of me. But it's still there.
I said I wouldn't hurt her.
But what if I do?
What if they make me?
What if I already have?
What if all this—
What if everything they're doing is just… practice?
What if they bring her in, and I don't recognize her through the haze? What if I do and it doesn't matter? What if I see her, and all I feel is rage?
What if I go too far?
What if I watch it happen and can't stop it?
What if that's exactly what they're counting on?
God, she'll never forgive me. She shouldn't. I don't want her to.
I don't care if they break me—I don't care if I rot in here and never crawl out—but not her.
Not her.
I'm still me.
I have to still be me.
Even if I'm the only one who believes it.
Even if I'm the only one left.
I don't remember walking to the sink. Or flipping the light on. But there I am.
There he is.
The mirror doesn't lie, even if I beg it to.
My reflection looks like it crawled out of some wet grave. Eyes gone too dark, veins lit like fault lines beneath skin that's no longer mine. Claws, not nails. Teeth that ache in my mouth like they've been filed down to bite. Every time I breathe, I swear the glass fogs up with smoke.
What the hell have they done to me?
No.
No. Not they—me.
I let this happen.
The worst part isn't what I see.
It's what I imagine.
I imagine her. Standing behind me. Just off to the side. Silent.
Not saying my name.
Not running to me.
Just… staring.
And terrified.
Of me.
My stomach turns like something's rotting in it. I dig my claws—hands, hands, they're still mine—into the edge of the sink until ceramic cracks under my grip. My breath hitches. I try to calm it, but I can't. I can't.
I press my forehead to the mirror like it's going to anchor me. Like it's going to fix me. But all I can see is her reflection beside mine, even though she's not there.
"Ardere," I whisper, and the sound of her name turns my ribs inside out.
She trusted me. Even when she shouldn't have. Even when I was too broken, too stupid, too angry to deserve it.
And now?
Now they want to make me her executioner.
I swore—swore I'd never let anyone hurt her again.
And now I can't even promise I won't be the one holding the knife.
God, what if she cries? What if she begs me to stop?
What if she doesn't even recognize me?
I choke on a sound. It's not a sob, not really, but it tears my throat raw. I slide down to the floor, hands still shaking, curled up like maybe I can hide from myself.
I will not hurt her.
I don't care what they put inside me, what they hollowed out to make room for. I don't care how many bones snap or how loud the voice in my head gets when it tells me she's the trigger.
I will not hurt her.
I whisper it over and over like a prayer. Like if I say it enough, it'll get through to whatever's left of me.
But even as I say it—
—the mirror behind me hums with heat, and my reflection smiles without me.
The door clicks open, and I'm ready to tear whoever walks through it in half—
until I see the white coat.
Not one of the handlers.
One of the doctors.
The ones who talk like they still remember they're human.
They close the door behind them, clipboard pressed to their chest like a shield. I can smell the fear leaking off them, but their voice doesn't shake when they say her name.
Ardere.
My heart stutters.
I don't breathe.
"She's alive," the doctor says. "Last report had her moving north, away from—"
The words are gravel scraping through my head. Every direction they give me feels like a map I'll never be able to follow. I imagine her there—cold, tired, maybe bleeding—and the image digs claws into my ribs.
"She's… thinner," the doctor continues, eyes flicking up to see if I'll break. "Still walking. Still fighting."
My hands curl until my nails break skin. I can feel the heat rippling under my skin, the same heat they're training into me like a curse. I want to scream at him to shut up—
but my voice comes out hoarse:
"Tell me more."
He hesitates, but I'm already moving closer, every step cracking something in my bones. "Tell me everything. I don't care if it kills me."
Because it is killing me.
Every word is a hot knife under my ribs.
Every description burns her into my head—her eyes, her hands, the way she looks over her shoulder.
I don't know if I'm memorizing her so I can find her again, or because I'm terrified I'll forget what she looks like before they finish turning me into their weapon.
"She asked about you," the doctor says finally, almost whispering.
My knees almost give. I choke on a laugh, because if she could see me now, she'd never ask again. She'd run. She'd be right to run.
But I still say it.
"Tell me more."
The air gets sucked out of the room. "What did she say?" My hands are shaking.
He clears his throat. "She… said she wishes the last thing between you two hadn't been an argument."
I squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see white bursts behind my lids. The last time I saw her—her voice cutting sharp because she thought I was lying to her, me snapping because I didn't want her to know I was being dragged into this hell. And now… she's out there thinking that's all I have for her.
"She said she misses you," the doctor adds quietly.
It's like someone took a sledgehammer to my ribs. I can't even breathe. My knees give a little, and I press my palm against the wall to keep from hitting the floor.
I force my voice out, but it's shaking and pathetic. "Tell me more."
The doctor looks uneasy. "It's not—"
"I don't care. Tell me everything. Every word, every scrap."
So he does. He tells me she's been limping on her left leg, but she keeps refusing to slow down because she "can't afford to." That she keeps fiddling with something in her pocket—a little scrap of fabric she carries everywhere. That she refuses to sleep near anyone else if she can help it, like she's holding a piece of herself apart from the group.
And every detail feels like it's tearing my skin open from the inside. I can feel my pulse in my teeth. But I don't stop him. I don't want to stop. This pain… it's the only thing keeping her close.
"More," I whisper when he stops. "Please… more."
I can't take it anymore.
The words are out before I can stop them. "Do you know?" My voice cracks like it's rusted through. "Do you know how they're gonna get her?"
The doctor freezes in the doorway like I've just said something I shouldn't have. Which—yeah—probably. But the way my hands are shaking, the way my throat's closing in on itself, I don't care about should anymore.
"Will she be in danger?" I push. My pulse is crawling up my neck, pressing against my jaw like it's trying to break out. "Will they hurt her? Tell me she won't—tell me she'll be okay."
The doc doesn't answer right away, and that silence—it's a knife. I can feel it sinking in between my ribs, the cold press of it. I want to grab him, shake the answers out of him, but I don't move. I can't.
Finally, he says, "The acquisition will be… controlled."
"Controlled?" My laugh is sharp, ugly. "That's not an answer."
"She'll be unharmed… if she complies."
My stomach twists. "If?"
"She's clever," he says, like that's supposed to be comfort. "Resourceful. We don't expect her to—" He stops himself, and the pause is worse than the words.
My nails dig into my palms until I feel skin break. Blood. Good. Something real. Something that's not just the image of them touching her, dragging her somewhere she can't fight her way out of.
"What happens if she doesn't comply?" I ask, and my voice is quieter now. Like maybe if I make myself small enough, he'll give me something human in return.
The doctor's jaw works. His eyes flick to the corner like someone might be listening, then back to me. "You don't want to know."
"I do." My throat burns. "I need to know. Because if I don't—" I press my fist to my forehead. "If I don't, my head's gonna fill in the blanks, and it'll be worse than the truth. And I can't—" My voice breaks, and I swallow hard, force it back down. "I can't let them hurt her."
He studies me for a long time, then says, "They'll use whatever leverage they have to get her here. And if they can't find any…" His words slow, deliberate. "They'll make some."
The floor tilts under me. I'm gripping the edge of the bed now, trying not to fold in on myself. All I can think is that last argument we had, her face tight, her eyes hard—how she walked away. What if that's the last thing she remembers before they come for her? What if she hates me when she sees me again?
****
They start the simulations like it's nothing. Like they're just showing me videos. Training reels.
But it's not training.
The first one, she's there—Ardere—sitting in a metal chair under a single light, her hair stuck to her face like she's been running through rain. She looks up and I swear it's real. I swear she's really there. My chest almost cracks from the inside.
She says my name like she's been drowning. And I go to her—forgetting it's all wires and projection—and the moment my hand's almost on hers, the room rips itself apart and she's screaming. Not at me. About me.
"Monster."
The word slams into me harder than any blade ever could. The feed cuts.
The second one, she's chained. Bruised. I kill half a dozen people getting to her, even though I know it's not real. I cut the restraints, pull her in—and she drives a knife into my ribs without even blinking.
"You did this to me," she says. And then it resets.
The third? She's in my arms, bleeding out. Every time I press my hands to the wound, they come away slick and hot. Her voice keeps breaking as she tells me she's cold. I beg. I promise. I swear I'll fix it. And then her weight goes still. I don't even get to close her eyes before the screen goes black.
It keeps going. Each one worse than the last.
Sometimes she's screaming for me to help and I can't reach her.
Sometimes she's screaming at me, telling me to stay away.
Sometimes I kill her without meaning to.
By the fifth run, my hands are shaking so hard I can't even keep them at my sides.
By the tenth, my body has learned the lesson they're beating into me:
Ardere = catastrophe.
Touch her, lose her.
Save her, ruin her.
Love her, kill her.
Whether any of it was true or not—they've already got what they wanted from me.
—
They haven't run a simulation in hours.
Or maybe it's only been minutes.
Time is water now—slipping through my fingers, soaking everything before I can hold it.
I sit on the cold floor, knees pulled in, back pressed to the wall like it might anchor me. Like stone can make up for how hollow I've become. There's still blood under my nails from the last test, even though none of it was real. None of it. Except the screaming.
I keep telling myself that.
None of it was real.
None of it was her.
It wasn't Ardere.
But my body doesn't believe me. My hands still tremble with the memory of how it felt to hurt her. Of how the light from my palms scorched her skin in a shape too close to her name.
And she thanked me for it.
She thanked me.
Told me it was the only way. That if I didn't do it, she'd die. That she wanted me to. That this was love now—pain and fire and compliance. That hurting her was saving her.
That lie keeps circling my skull like it's grown teeth.
I dig my fingers into my temples until black sparks cloud my vision, until I feel the skin begin to split. I don't know how to pull myself out of this anymore. I don't know where the simulations end and I begin. I don't know what my face looks like when it's not twisted in grief or guilt or rage. I don't know who I am if she isn't dying in front of me.
Every time I blink, I see her.
Her eyes pleading. Her voice breaking. Her body turning to ash.
And then—like some sick loop—I see her face shift. Hear her laugh. Call me a monster. Betray me. Bleed out in my arms. Say she wishes she'd never met me. That she should have let me die back in the Grove.
I choke on a breath that doesn't reach my lungs. My body won't calm down. I don't remember what stillness feels like.
I've been rewired.
My instincts—once built to protect her—now twitch toward destruction.
I keep trying to say her name out loud, but it never sounds right anymore. It tastes like guilt now. Like gunpowder and ash. They've taught me to fear her. To fear myself around her. That if I don't follow the protocol, if I don't obey, if I so much as hesitate, she won't make it. And it'll be my fault.
And the worst part is…
The worst part is that somewhere in this splintered, acid-eaten brain of mine…
I believe them.
God help me—I believe them.
So I sit here. Waiting.
A knife sheathed in skin.
Waiting for the next time they show me her face.
Waiting to be told what to do with it.
Waiting to hurt her—because I've forgotten how not to.
And even worse, because I think she'd want me to.
The room was the same as always—white, sterile, humming faintly with the sound of machines behind the walls. No chains. No guards. Just a chair and me, sitting there with my hands slack in my lap, trembling from a phantom memory I couldn't shake loose.
I hadn't said a word since the last session. What was the point?
That mimic had cried like her.
I stare at the floor, waiting. Maybe they've realized I'm broken. Maybe they'll leave me to rot now, useless. I think I'd like that.
But then the door hisses open.
And she walks in.
No hesitation this time. No drama. No begging. She just… walks.
Ardere.
Same wild eyes. Same scar on her left brow. Same sharp tension in her jaw, like she's biting down on whatever scream she won't allow to leave her throat.
I know it isn't her. I know.
And yet—
"Dorian," she whispers.
I look up. Not at her. At the corners of the room. The blinking camera in the far corner. They're watching. Listening.
I swallow hard.
"She's not real," I whisper back. "You're not real."
The mimic steps closer, reaching out her hand like she always used to when I couldn't breathe. "I am," she says. "This time, I am."
I flinch.
Because that's exactly what she would say if it were her.
And now I don't know.
I lurch to my feet, breath caught somewhere sharp in my chest. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be this. But my hands already crackle with that unnatural heat—my ribs tighten like steel bands—and all I can see, all I can hear, is what they taught me.
Hurt her and she lives.
Hesitate, and she dies.
Tears sting my eyes. My jaw clenches so tight I feel something pop near my ear.
"Don't make me do this," I rasp.
She stops, arms still out. "Then don't."
God. Her voice.
I take a step back, hands shaking. The power is begging to be let loose. My veins throb with it.
"You have to stop lying to me."
"I'm not lying."
"You are. They all do. They put you in my head so I wouldn't recognize the real one when she comes. They want me to hesitate. They need me to hesitate."
"I'm her," she says. "I'm real. Look at me."
I look. That's the mistake.
Her eyes. They're afraid. But not of me.
For me.
Just like they used to be.
I scream.
The blast rips from me with such force the mimic flies backward—slams into the wall with a crack that echoes. She drops like a ragdoll.
I stand there panting, trembling, a black ring of ash forming at my feet.
They don't stop me when I walk toward her. There's no alarm. No gas. No shrill voices in my ear. This was the final test.
I kneel beside the mimic's body, and my fingers twitch.
There's blood pooling under her head. Her eyes are open.
Empty.
My stomach turns. I shake her shoulder. "Get up. Come on. It's over. You passed."
Nothing.
"Please," I whisper.
Still nothing.
I fall back onto my heels, fists clenched.
What if she really was real? What if this time, they brought the real her in? Just to see what I'd do?
Just to make sure I'd kill her next time without question.
They strap the plating to my chest like they're building a weapon, not dressing a person.
The room is sterile. Dim. Hushed like a cathedral, or a morgue. The soldiers don't speak to me—only to each other, in clipped technical jargon that buzzes around my ears like gnats I don't bother swatting away. I stand there, docile. Limbs loose. Eyes empty.
One fastens something to the side of my temple. Another checks the calibration across the gauntlets covering my forearms, humming softly when the readings glow green.
None of them look me in the eye.
One soldier finishes locking the reinforced boots into place. Another loads the injection port at the back of my neck. The synthetic burns for a second beneath my skin, before the sharp calm of compliance settles into my blood.
"Vitals steady," someone reports. "Neural link stable. He's ready."
Their commanding officer walks up. Gloved hands clasped behind his back like this is some grand parade, not an execution. He studies me like he's reading a page in a report—then nods once, satisfied.
"You know your orders."
I don't respond. I don't need to.
Because the images are already spiraling in the back of my mind—Ardere, screaming. Ardere, dying. Ardere, pleading for me to stop.
And the lesson carved into my bones over and over again:
If you hesitate, she dies.
If you disobey, she dies.
If you resist us—
She dies.
The sergeant's voice cuts through the hum of gear checks and final preparations like a blade:
"State your orders, subject."
I freeze mid-step, hands at my sides, fists barely unclenched. The fluorescent lights above buzz louder than my thoughts.
"Repeat them," he commands again, slower this time, like he's daring me to falter.
My mouth is dry.
The synthetic obedience pumping through my bloodstream urges my tongue to move.
I know the script. They've made me repeat it before, dozens of times, every syllable honed sharp with shame.
I lift my eyes just enough to meet his visor. "I am to locate the girl. Her name is Ardere."
"Continue."
"If she resists, I subdue her. If she runs, I chase. If she's injured, I leave her."
"And?"
"If she tries to talk to me… if she begs me to stop…" I swallow. It tastes like iron.
"I do not stop. I do not speak. I bring her in—alive, but broken if necessary."
The sergeant nods, pleased. "Good."
There's a pause as someone keys the transport door open. My boots are already moving before the panel lights turn green.
Then—
Alarms.
Screaming, metallic, ripping through the room like a war cry. The red lights flash over everyone's armor. Soldiers pivot, weapons half-raised. The sergeant curses into his comms.
"Breach. Northeast quadrant. Lock it down—lock down everything!"
Hands shove me back.
"What—"
Another shove, harder this time, right into the wall. Someone grabs the collar of my armor. "Move, Subject. Now."
"No, wait—what's going on—?"
But no one answers.
I'm marched backward down the hall. My pulse fights the synthetic calm, but it's a losing battle. Every footstep pounds like a warning drum against my ribs. Something's wrong. Something's wrong.
They shove me through a metal doorway—
my cell.
No windows. Just white walls and silence.
The door slams shut.
The lock hisses.
And just like that, I'm back in the box.
Caged.
Poised to destroy the one person I can't bear to hurt.
And somewhere out there…
so is she.