(Noa POV)
The worst part isn't that Elias threatened me.
It's that I believed him.
Not because he raised his voice or cornered me or lost control. He didn't need to. The threat lived in the certainty of his tone—in the way he spoke like the future had already happened and he was just informing me.
If you run… I'll let you remember everything.
The words sit in my chest like broken glass.
I sit on the floor long after he leaves the room, knees drawn to my chest, staring at the space where he stood. The apartment is quiet again. Too quiet. Like it's holding its breath.
I try to slow my breathing.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
It doesn't help.
My thoughts feel slippery, like they're coated in oil. Every time I reach for something solid—an emotion, a memory—it slides away or fractures into something else.
This is what he's done to me.
Not erased me all at once.
Just enough that I can never be sure which thoughts are mine.
I stand slowly, testing my balance. My legs feel weak, but I'm not dizzy. That's new. Usually fear makes the room tilt. Today it doesn't.
Today, I feel… sharp.
That scares me more.
I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection, searching for cracks. Signs. Something to tell me how much of me is still intact.
My eyes look too clear.
Too awake.
"Don't trust this," I whisper to myself. "Don't trust the calm."
Because calm is how he works.
I dry my face and turn away from the mirror, I stumble back into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, clutching my wrist.
My phone buzzes.
I flinch so hard I almost drop it.
A message from Dr. Keene.
Dr. Keene:
Elias says today was intense. I'd like to see you tomorrow.
My stomach twists.
Of course he's already called her.
Of course he's already controlling the narrative.
I type back with shaking fingers.
Me:
I'm fine.
The lie feels thin.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then:
Dr. Keene:
If you feel unsafe, you need to tell me.
Unsafe.
The word feels foreign.
I stare at the screen for a long time before replying.
Me:
I don't know how to tell the difference anymore.
There's no immediate response.
I imagine her reading that. Pausing. Deciding how much she's allowed to say.
Deciding whether she's protecting me—or him.
I toss the phone onto the bed like it burned me.
I need to think.
Not emotionally. Strategically.
Elias thinks I'm still trapped in reaction mode. Still too unstable to plan. He thinks fear will keep me predictable.
He's wrong.
Fear has always made me quiet.
Quiet people survive longer.
I move through the apartment slowly, touching things as I pass them. The couch. The table. The bookshelf. Grounding myself in what's real.
I make a mental list.
What I know:
Elias has altered my memory more than once.
He has help.
He's prepared for me to run.
He's kept evidence—then destroyed it when necessary.
He believes control is love.
What I don't know:
How much I've already remembered and lost again.
How far he's willing to go if I resist.
Whether anyone else knows the truth.
And then there's the question I can't stop circling.
Why hasn't he erased this part yet?
Why let me remember now?
Unless…
Unless this is intentional.
Unless this is the stage where I'm supposed to break.
The thought makes my hands shake.
I go back to the bedroom and sit on the floor, back against the bed, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
Think like him.
If I were Elias, what would I expect me to do?
Cry.
Freeze.
Beg.
Submit.
He'd expect fear.
So I can't give him that.
I pull my knees closer and lower my voice, even though I'm alone.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
If I can't leave yet, I prepare.
First: information.
I retrieve the burner phone again, hands steadier this time. I don't turn it on immediately. I just hold it, feeling its weight.
Then I power it on.
No new messages.
I scroll carefully, reading slower this time. Looking for patterns. Names. Anything that feels like a thread.
There's a recurring initial.
R.
Short messages. Efficient. Clinical.
She's destabilizing faster than expected.
We should slow the cycle.
You're too close to the subject.
Subject.
That's what they call me.
My throat tightens.
There's a photo attachment I didn't notice before.
I open it.
It's me.
Sitting on this bed.
Asleep.
The timestamp is from last month.
My heart starts racing.
I swipe.
Another photo.
Me in the shower, steam fogging the glass.
I feel violated in a way that's so quiet it almost doesn't register as pain.
He's been documenting me.
Not for desire.
For data.
I shut the phone off, trembling.
This isn't just about what I did.
It's about what I am.
A variable.
A risk.
A project.
I hear the front door open.
I scramble, shoving the phone back into the wall and sliding the panel closed just as footsteps approach the bedroom.
Elias appears in the doorway.
He studies me.
The floor. My posture. My face.
"You're sitting differently," he says.
I force myself to relax my shoulders. "I was tired."
He nods, accepting the explanation too easily.
"I brought food," he says, holding up a bag. "You forgot to eat."
"I wasn't hungry."
"I know."
That word again.
I watch him set the bag down, his movements unhurried. Controlled. Like nothing significant happened earlier.
"You scared me," I say quietly.
He looks at me then, really looks.
"That wasn't my intention," he says.
"But it happened."
"Yes."
He doesn't apologize.
He sits beside me on the bed, close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"I don't enjoy this part," he says. "But instability requires boundaries."
I turn to him, forcing my voice to stay soft. "And what happens if I don't stay inside them?"
He meets my gaze.
"Then we reintroduce structure."
My stomach twists.
I lower my eyes, nodding slightly.
Submission.
I feel his fingers brush my hair.
"There," he murmurs. "That's better."
I swallow hard.
He stands. "Rest. Tomorrow will be easier."
I wait until he leaves the room again.
Then I let the mask slip.
My hands shake violently now. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
This is the moment.
The one where I decide what kind of ending I'm heading toward.
Because Elias is right about one thing.
If I run unprepared, he'll destroy me with the truth.
So I won't run yet.
I'll stay.
I'll learn.
I'll remember.
And when I leave—
I won't do it quietly.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and make myself a promise.
If he's been erasing me…
I'll make sure the version of me that escapes is the one he's most afraid of.