Noa POV
I don't sleep.
I lie still and pretend I do.
There's a difference.
Sleep would mean drifting, letting my thoughts loosen. I can't afford that anymore. Every time my mind slips, something leaks through—stairs, shadows, a scream that feels like it came from my own mouth but doesn't belong to me.
So I stay awake.
I count my breaths. I listen to the apartment settle. I memorize the rhythm of Elias moving through the space like it's an extension of his body.
Because it is.
This place was never mine.
The realization doesn't come with panic. It comes with clarity, sharp and cold and terrifyingly calm.
Elias doesn't pace. He doesn't slam doors. He doesn't hover outside my room like a villain in a cheap thriller.
He does worse.
He acts normal.
I hear him in the kitchen, rinsing a mug. The sound is careful, unhurried. He hums softly under his breath—something familiar. Something he knows calms me.
I don't flinch.
I don't cry.
I stare at the ceiling and think one thought over and over again:
If I act normal, he won't escalate.
The idea arrives fully formed, like it's been waiting for me.
That's when it hits me.
This isn't the first time I've thought this.
The realization lands wrong in my chest, like a memory trying to surface without permission. My pulse stutters.
How many times have I already survived him?
My door opens quietly.
I don't move.
I hear his footsteps pause, feel his attention settle on me like weight. I keep my breathing slow, even. Practice makes perfect.
"Are you awake?" Elias asks gently.
I wait two beats before answering. Not too fast. Not too slow.
"No," I murmur.
A lie.
He knows.
But he accepts it anyway.
The mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed. I feel his presence without looking at him. That's the worst part — how familiar it still feels. How my body hasn't caught up with my fear.
"You did well today," he says.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
"Well," I repeat softly.
"You didn't spiral," he continues. "You stayed grounded. That's progress."
I swallow.
He reaches out and brushes my hair back from my face. The touch is light, almost reverent.
I don't pull away.
Inside, something screams.
"You're safe," he murmurs. "Nothing bad is going to happen tonight."
Tonight.
The word lodges itself in my brain.
"Okay," I whisper.
He studies me in the dim light. I can feel his gaze like a scalpel, precise and invasive.
"You don't believe me," he says.
I force myself to meet his eyes.
"I do."
Another lie.
This one sticks.
He smiles faintly, like I've passed a test.
"That's good," he says. "Because tomorrow is going to be difficult."
My stomach tightens.
He stands, adjusts the blanket around my shoulders with careful hands, then turns toward the door.
"Sleep," he says. "You'll need the rest."
The door clicks shut.
I don't move for a long time.
When I finally do, it's slow. Controlled. I sit up and scan the room like I'm seeing it for the first time — because maybe I am.
The window is locked.
The dresser drawers are too neat.
My phone is on the nightstand, face down.
I pick it up.
No signal.
Of course.
I laugh silently, pressing my hand over my mouth to keep the sound from escaping. It comes out wrong anyway — shaky, broken.
He thought of everything.
No.
He thought of me.
That's the part that makes my hands tremble.
I slide out of bed and move quietly, bare feet memorizing the floor like it's enemy territory. I try the door.
Unlocked.
That's deliberate.
Unlocked doors make you feel trusted. Free. Like escape is possible.
It's not.
I move into the hallway, heart hammering now despite my efforts. The office door is still there. Still closed. Still hiding the absence of my life.
I press my palm against it.
Nothing.
No memory. No spark.
Just emptiness.
I lean my forehead against the wood and breathe through the nausea.
Think.
I force myself to slow down. Panic will get me killed — or worse, institutionalized. Elias already planted that seed. All he'd have to do is water it.
I need leverage.
I need proof.
Or I need time.
Footsteps.
I freeze.
Elias's voice drifts down the hallway. "Noa?"
I straighten instantly.
"In the bathroom," I call.
There's a pause.
Then: "Don't lock the door."
"I won't," I say, and I mean it.
Locks provoke him. I don't know how I know that, but my body reacts like it's fact.
He passes by a moment later, heading back to the bedroom.
I wait until his door closes.
Then I slide into the bathroom and lock it anyway.
My hands shake violently as soon as the click sounds.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
I don't recognize the woman looking back.
Her eyes are too alert. Too calculating. Like prey that's learned the pattern of its hunter.
"Okay," I whisper to my reflection. "Okay."
I grip the sink and breathe.
Something catches my eye.
A faint bruise on my wrist.
Old. Yellowed. Almost gone.
My heart stutters.
I lift my sleeve higher.
There are more.
Finger-shaped.
Careful. Controlled.
Not violent.
Restraining.
The room tilts.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no—"
The memory doesn't come fully. Just impressions. Pressure. His voice close to my ear.
Stay with me.
Breathe.
Don't fight me.
My stomach lurches.
I sink to the floor, pressing my back against the tub, trying to stay quiet as my breathing goes ragged.
He didn't just erase memories.
He replaced them with behavior.
Compliance.
I wipe my face hard, smearing tears I didn't even feel fall.
Act normal.
That's the rule.
So when I unlock the door and step back into the hallway, my face is calm.
When I return to bed, I pull the blanket up and turn onto my side like everything is fine.
When Elias slides in beside me later, his arm wrapping around my waist, I don't flinch.
I let him hold me.
I let my body remember what my mind can't.
And as his breathing evens out, as sleep finally claims him—
I open my eyes.
Wide.
Clear.
He thinks he erased the truth.
But he didn't erase my instincts.
And somewhere inside me, buried deep beneath the fear and the fragments, something sharp is waking up.
Something that remembers how to survive.
Something that knows—
If I don't get out,
this man will finish what he started.
And next time,
there won't be an accident to hide behind.