The morning air in the bedroom felt heavy, stagnant with the scent of Jason’s expensive cologne and the metallic tang of the previous night’s fear. I woke up early, the gray dawn light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. My jaw was a dull, localized throb, but the clarity in my mind was sharp as a razor.
I stayed perfectly still, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Jason’s chest beside me. For the first time, I didn't see a protector; I saw a jailer. Every memory that had flooded back—the coffee table, the snapping of my wrist, and that horrific, white-hot light—was a jagged piece of a puzzle that finally fit. They hadn't just been "stabilizing" me; they were using electro-shock therapy to force a memory reprocessing. They weren't healing my mind; they were rewriting it, scrub
