Isaiah woke up to the annoying buzz of his alarm, the sound feeling far away and significant. Sunlight streamed through the thin blinds, cutting the floor into bars of light and shadow. He laid there, stuck, staring at a water stain on the ceiling he'd memorized for weeks. The silence was a physical thing, a heavy blanket pressing down on his chest. Just another day. But the thought of nine o'clock sat in his gut like a cold stone, making everything else feel flimsy and fake.
He finally rolled out of bed, limbs stiff with anxiety he couldn't quite name. The apartment held its breath. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth too hard, the mint a sharp shock, and splashed water on his face. It dripped down his neck, cold and startling. Breakfast? No. The idea of chewing anything, of putting in the effort to make toast or pour cereal, twisted his stomach. He could still feel the ghost of last night's meal the one he hadn't eaten a hollow, tight emptiness under his ribs.
The morning passed in a dull roar. Professors' voices were a distant hum. He scribbled notes that meant nothing, his hand moving on autopilot while his mind circled back, again and again, to the folded square of paper in his pocket. He didn't need to touch it. Nine o'clock was a drumbeat now, steady in his temples, keeping time with his pulse. He felt like he was watching a TV show with the sound turned off. Part of him ached to lean over, to join a conversation, to be normal. But the stone in his gut was heavier. What was the point? Not after last night.
The afternoon came by. His last class ended, but he didn't move. He lingered in the emptying hallway, leaning against the cold wall, listening to the last echoes of the day—a janitor's cart squealing. He then went home and waited. Watched the clock's red digital numbers flip. 8:00. 8:05. 8:17. He pulled out his phone. The screen was blank. No messages, no reminders. As if the world had already forgotten him, or was politely looking the other way.
At 8:45 exactly, he shouldered his backpack. It felt weightless, as if he were carrying ghosts. Each step off campus was deliberate, a countdown. The city was washing itself in evening gold, streetlights winking on, headlights painting streaks in the dusk. But the familiar route to the bus stop felt alien; every corner and storefront tilted slightly, seen through a new, warped lens.
The huge house in the hills wasn't what he'd pictured. It was modern, all sharp angles and dark glass, but the light from inside was warm. A security camera lens glinted like a beetle's eye from a corner eave. The man at the gate didn't speak, just nodded once, his eyes sliding over Isaiah and then away. That nod was worse than being stopped. It meant he was already in the system. Expected.
The air inside was still and cool, smelling faintly of lemons and old books. The mysterious man's office door was already open. The room was too perfect. A dark wood desk without a single paper out of place, books lined up by height, a single abstract painting that looked like a dark bruise on the wall. Zayne was writing, the scratch of his pen the only sound. He didn't look up.
Isaiah cleared his throat, the sound too loud. He hovered in the doorway, a fly caught in the web of the room's silence.
Finally, the pen was set down. Not with a click, but a soft finality. He looked up. His gaze wasn't hostile, or friendly. It was assessing, the way a mechanic might look at a car engine. He stood without a word and made a slight motion with his chin. Follow.
They walked to a dining room. A simple meal was laid out. Homey. Normal. It was the most terrifying thing Isaiah had seen all day.
The man sat and began to eat. No "sit down," no "help yourself." The silence stretched, thick and demanding. After a minute, Isaiah pulled out a chair, the legs scraping loudly. He picked up a fork. The meat was juicy, the potatoes buttery, but it all tasted like dust. Every bite felt like a transaction he didn't understand the terms of. He was being fed. He was being watched. He was, in this small, quiet way, agreeing to something.
"I'm Zayne Blackridge."
The voice was calm, conversational. Isaiah froze, his hands halfway to his mouth. The name didn't ring a bell—it settled in him. A deep, familiar dread, the kind you feel when you hear the name of a storm that's already on the horizon. He just nodded, the food turning to paste in his mouth.
He managed a few questions later, voice raspy. "How long?"
"As long as it takes."
"What if I… change my mind?"
A pause. Zayne took a sip of water. "You can leave tonight. Once you sign, you see it through."
The answers were clean, surgical. True, but with all the comforting parts carved out.
When the plates were cleared, Zayne led him down a hallway. They passed men moving with a quiet purpose. One was polishing a wooden banister, another carrying a toolbox. They glanced at Isaiah, their eyes flat and knowing, then looked away. No one smiled. No one threatened. The order here was absolute, a quiet machine he'd just stepped into.
A door at the end of the hall. Zayne opened it.
The room was bigger than Isaiah's entire apartment. A huge bed with a navy comforter, a bathroom with a shower big enough for three people, a closet with clothes already hanging—simple, dark, his size. It was pristine. It was a cell dressed up as a sanctuary.
On the made bed, centered perfectly on the pillow, lay a single sheet of paper and a heavy, black pen.
Zayne didn't speak. He just stepped back into the hallway. The door closed with a soft, final click. Not a slam. A seal.
Isaiah didn't move. The hum of the house was a low vibration through the floorboards. He finally sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing under him. He ran a finger along the edge of the paper. It was thick, expensive. He picked up the pen. It was cold, weighted.
He hadn't signed a thing. But sitting there, in the silent room prepared just for him, he understood. He'd already made every choice that led him here. The walk, the bus, the gate, the meal. Each one a quiet, irreversible yes.
Nine o'clock had come and gone. He was already on the other side.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time that day, his breath came easy. The dread was gone. In its place was a terrible, waiting calm.