Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Lazarus Asylum - 1966

The shackles bit into Will's wrists as he sat in the wooden chair. Cold iron. Cold room. Cold everything.

Sister March sat across from him behind a desk, her fingers laced together, a black habit framing her face. The fluorescent light above buzzed like something was dying. It was eerie — too eerie. 

"Name," she said. Not a question. A demand.

"William Byers."

"Age."

"Twenty one."

"Date of birth."

"March twenty second, nineteen forty five."

She wrote nothing down. There was no folder, no form. Just her eyes, fixed on him like pins.

"And what brings you to Lazarus, William?"

Will's throat tightened. The shackles clinked as his hands trembled slightly in his lap.

"My father. He—he brought me here."

"And why did he do that?"

The room seemed to shrink. Will stared at the floor. The linoleum had a crack running through it.

"Because I…" He swallowed. "I like men."

Sister March did not blink.

"Say it properly," she said.

"I'm homosexual."

The word hung between them in the quiet room. Sister March leaned back slightly, and something shifted behind her eyes—not surprise, not disgust. Something worse.

Recognition of a familiar specimen.

"I see," she said quietly. "And do you believe there is something wrong with you, William?"

Will opened his mouth, then closed it, not knowing what to say.

He thought of a boy from his high school, with his slow smile and his calloused hands and the way he'd looked at Will behind the bleachers, like he was something worth seeing.

He thought of his father's face in the kitchen. The way it had crumpled and then hardened, like wet clay left in the sun when he confessed.

"I don't—" Will started.

"That was not a difficult question, William."

Sister March's voice was patient the way a knife was patient.

"I don't think there's something wrong with me," he said quietly.

The words came out smaller than he meant them to.

Sister March uncrossed her hands. She placed them flat on the desk, palms down, and leaned forward. The fluorescent light caught the edge of her crucifix.

"Then you are more ill than I initially assessed."

Will's stomach dropped.

"Sister, I'm not—"

"You are confused." She said it like a doctor reading a chart. "You have been led astray by your own diseased impulses. But that is precisely why you are here. Lazarus exists to bring men like you back from the dead."

She stood. Her chair scraped against the floor with a sound like a bone breaking.

"Your father has signed the admission papers. You will remain here until such time as the medical staff determines you are cured." She paused at the door. "Do you understand what that means, William?"

He didn't. Not really. But he nodded anyway because the shackles were heavy and the room was cold and he was young and terrified.

Sister March's hand rested on the doorknob.

"It means," she said, without turning around, "that you leave when we say you leave."

The door opened. A male orderly stood in the hallway, thick armed, blank faced.

"Take him to intake," Sister March said. "And have Dr. Voss prepare the initial assessment."

The orderly grabbed Will by the upper arm and hauled him out of the chair. Will stumbled, the shackles cutting deeper into his wrists as he was pulled into the long, pale corridor.

Behind him, he heard Sister March's voice, distant now, speaking to someone he couldn't see.

"The new one, Case 216. Ward C. And make sure he's stripped and searched before they put him in the cell."

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead. The lights flickered. Somewhere deeper in the building, a man was screaming.

It stopped abruptly.

Will's legs kept moving anyway.

The orderly's grip didn't loosen. His fingers dug into the flesh above Will's elbow like a vice, guiding him down the corridor with mechanical efficiency. Will's shoes—his own shoes, from his own house, from his own life—squeaked against the linoleum.

Other doors lined the hallway. Closed. No windows. Small rectangles of wire-reinforced glass at eye level, too high to see through, too low to offer anything but a sliver of gray light.

"Please," Will said. "I haven't done anything wrong."

The orderly didn't respond. Didn't even look at him.

They turned a corner. Then another. The building was a maze, deliberately disorienting, Will realized. Designed so that you could never quite remember the way back.

They stopped at a door marked INTAKE in stenciled black letters. The orderly produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it, pushing Will inside.

The room was small. White tiles on the walls, white tiles on the floor, a drain in the center. A metal bench against one wall. A plastic bin sitting empty on the floor.

Two more orderlies were already waiting.

Will's blood went cold.

"Shackles off," the first one said.

The orderly behind him unlocked the irons. Will rubbed his wrists, feeling the raw skin where the metal had bitten in.

"Remove your clothing."

Will stared at him. "What?"

"Your clothing. Off. All of it."

"I don't—"

"William." The orderly's voice was flat, devoid of malice or kindness. "You can take them off yourself, or we can take them off for you. Your choice."

Will's hands shook as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. His fingers felt thick and useless. He fumbled with the first one, then the second, his face burning with a shame he couldn't name.

The three men watched.

He got the shirt off. Then the undershirt. His skin prickled in the cold air. He hesitated at his belt.

"Everything," the orderly said.

Will unbuckled it. Unzipped his jeans. Stepped out of them. His boxers last.

He stood there, arms crossing over his chest instinctively, trying to make himself smaller. The drain in the floor stared up at him like a black eye.

"Arms out to your sides."

Will closed his eyes. He extended his arms.

Hands touched him. Clinical. Impersonal. They moved through his hair, checked his ears, ran along his jaw. Down his sides. Lifted his arms higher. Checked between his fingers.

"Open your mouth."

He did. A flashlight beam. A quick look.

"Bend over."

Will's eyes snapped open. His breath came faster.

"Why?"

"Standard procedure. Bend over and spread."

The floor was cold under his bare feet. The lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere in the building, that screaming had started again—distant, muffled, like it was coming from behind several walls.

Will bent over.

He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste copper.

When it was done, they handed him a thin cotton gown. Gray. Stiff. It tied in the back with two flimsy strings that wouldn't keep anything closed.

"Put this on. Leave your things in the bin. You won't be needing them."

Will dressed with trembling hands. The gown gaped open at the back. He could feel the air on his spine.

The first orderly opened the door and gestured into the hallway.

"Ward C."

Will stepped out.

Ward C was at the end of a corridor that smelled of bleach and something else underneath—something sour, like fruit left to rot in a closed room.

The orderlies flanked Will now, one on each side, their footsteps echoing in unison. His bare feet slapped against the cold floor. The gown did nothing to stop the chill from seeping into his bones.

The first door they passed had a small window. A face pressed against it—pale, hollow eyed, a woman maybe fifty years old, maybe seventy. She didn't say anything. Just watched.

The second door had no window at all. But Will could hear breathing behind it. Heavy. Like an animal at rest.

The third door—

"Fresh meat!" a voice called out, muffled by glass and wire. "Look at that pretty little thing!"

Will's face burned. He kept his eyes forward.

"Come here, sweetheart! Come keep me company!"

Another whistle. Then another. A chorus of them, erupting from up and down the corridor as word spread through the ward that something new was being delivered.

"Look at those legs!"

"I'd break me off a piece of that!"

"Hey, pretty boy! Pretty, pretty boy! You gonna be my new roommate?"

Hands slapped against windows. Faces pressed forward—some gaunt, some bloated, some twisted with expressions Will couldn't read. Laughter. Moaning. One man just stared at him with dead, fish like eyes and drool running down his chin.

Will walked faster. 

"Easy," one of them muttered, grabbing Will's arm. "You run, we drag."

Will forced himself to slow down. His heart nearly pounding louder than the patients.

They passed a cell where a younger man sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. His gown was stained. His fingers were bloody at the nails.

"You got a pretty mouth," the man whispered without looking up. "Real pretty."

Will's stomach lurched.

This could be both hell or heaven.

They turned a corner. The catcalling faded behind them, replaced by a stretch of corridor that was quieter. Empty. The lights here flickered more noticeably, casting strange shadows on the walls.

"So that's the new one, huh?" the orderly on Will's left said. He was stocky, with a thick neck and a crew cut. "Sister March wants him next to him?"

The other orderly—a taller man with a mustache—shook his head slowly. "That's what the orders say."

"Kid's not gonna last a week."

"Not my problem."

Will's ears pricked up. He tried not to look like he was listening.

"Honestly don't know why they keep him," Crew Cut continued. "He's the worst one we got. Worst one this place has ever seen, far as I'm concerned."

Mustache grunted. "Seen him do things that'd turn your hair white."

"Remember what he did to Patterson and Cole?"

"Don't remind me."

They walked in silence for a few steps. Will's mouth had gone dry.

Crew Cut shrugged. "You know who I mean."

"Yeah. I know who you mean."

They stopped in front of a cell at the very end of the corridor. The door was heavier than the others—solid steel, small window, and a small slot at the bottom for passing food through. Scratches marked the inside of the door. Deep ones. Made by fingernails.

"This is you," Mustache said, unlocking the door next to it—Cell 44. "You're in here."

Will looked at the heavy steel door beside his. No window. No way to see inside.

"What's in there?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Both orderlies looked at him.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Mustache said. "Keep your head down. Don't talk to anyone. Don't respond to anything you hear at night."

"What happens at night?"

Crew Cut laughed. It wasn't a kind sound.

"Welcome to Ward C, kid."

They pushed him inside. The door locked behind him.

The cell was small. A cot with a thin mattress. A blanket that looked like it hadn't been washed in months. A steel toilet in the corner with no curtain, no privacy. A single bare bulb overhead, already flickering and one single cross hanging on the wall.

Will sat on the cot. The mattress sagged beneath him.

He palms his face with his hands, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe he was here. 

He was scared, he was terrified. 

He knew he didn’t belong here. 

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, from behind the wall beside him—so close it could have been in the room with him—came a voice.

"Hello, neighbor."

Will's blood turned to ice.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe. His eyes fixed on the wall where the voice had come from—concrete, painted white, chipped in places. There was no window, no gap, nothing to suggest two cells could share any connection.

But the voice had been right there.

"I know you can hear me," it said. "I heard them bring you in. Heard the shackles. Heard you crying in intake."

Will hadn't cried. He was sure of that.

"It's okay," the voice continued. It was warm, almost soothing. "First night's the hardest. After that, you kind of... adjust."

Will's hands gripped the edge of the mattress. His knuckles went white.

He shouldn't respond. The orderlies had told him not to talk to anyone. Don't respond to anything you hear at night.

But it was still afternoon. Barely. The light from the bulb above was gray and sickly, but it wasn't dark yet.

"What do you want?" Will asked. His voice shaking.

A pause. Then a soft laugh.

"Want? I don't want anything, neighbor. Just being friendly. It's not often they put someone new next to me. Usually they learn better."

"Why? What's wrong with this cell?"

"Nothing's wrong with your cell." Another pause. "It's what's next to it that's the problem. Or so they think."

Will swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper.

"The orderlies said you're the worst one here."

Silence.

Long, stretching silence that lasted so long Will thought maybe the voice was gone. Maybe it had been his imagination. Maybe the stress, the fear, the everything had finally cracked something loose in his head.

Then—

"Did they now?" The voice had changed. Still quiet, darker. Colder. "What else did they say about me?"

"They didn't say your name."

A low hum. Almost like purring.

"Smart men. They're scared of me." A breath of laughter. "Pussies."

Will pulled his legs up onto the cot, wrapping his arms around his knees. The gown did nothing to keep him warm. He was shaking.

"What did you do?" The question left his mouth before he could stop it. "To the orderlies. Patterson and Cole."

The silence returned. But this time it felt different. Heavier. Like the air itself had thickened.

"You really want to know?"

No. God, no. Will wanted to take it back, wanted to shove the words back into his mouth and swallow them down.

But he found himself nodding. Then, realizing the futility of that, whispered, "Yes."

A long, slow exhale from the other side of the wall.

"I made them see things," the voice said. "Things that weren't there. Things that couldn't be there. Patterson saw his mother. Dead fifteen years now, rotting in her casket, but he saw her standing at the end of the corridor, smiling at him. Wouldn't stop smiling."

Will's stomach turned. "And Cole?"

"Cole saw himself. But not the way he is now. The way he's going to be. Old. Alone. Dying in a room just like this one, with no one to hold his hand."

"That's—that's not so bad."

"No," the voice agreed. "But that's not what broke him."

Will waited.

"What broke him was that the version of himself he saw... the old, dying one... it turned to him and said, 'I know what you did to that boy in 1953. And God knows too.'"

The bulb above Will flickered. Once. Twice.

"Cole screamed for three hours straight," the voice said. "Hasn't spoken a word since. They transferred him out of Ward C the next day. Moved him to the basement. The quiet floor."

Will's hands were shaking so badly he had to press them between his knees to stop them.

"How did you do that?" he whispered.

The voice was quiet for a moment.

"I didn't do anything, neighbor. I just... see things. See them clear as day. And sometimes, when I look hard enough... other people see them too."

The bulb flickered again. The shadows in the corners of the cell seemed to shift, to breathe.

"What do you see?" Will asked. He didn't want to know. He needed to know.

The voice was right beside the wall now. So close Will could almost feel breath on his ear, even though there was no way—

"I see you."

Will's heart stopped.

"I see a boy who's scared. Who's done nothing wrong but loves the wrong people—or at least, that's what they told him. I see a father who couldn't look at his own son. I see a future that could go two ways."

The voice dropped lower. Softer.

"And I see which way it's going to go if you don't get out of here."

Will's breath came in short gasps. "How do you know these things—"

"I told you." The voice was almost a whisper now. "I see things."

The bulb went out. Complete darkness.

Will let out a loud noise, gripping his gown as leverage. 

And from the other side of the wall, so close it could have been inside his own head, he heard laughter. 

Amused.

The bulb buzzed. Flickered. Came back on.

Will was alone in his cell. Shaking. Gasping.

But the laughter lingered in his ears like smoke.

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

Will didn't sleep.

He tried. He lay on the thin mattress and stared at the ceiling and told himself to close his eyes, to let the exhaustion take him, to escape into unconsciousness where none of this existed.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the wall. Felt the voice breathing against his ear. Heard that soft, amused laughter.

The light above him buzzed and flickered in a rhythm that felt almost intentional. Like a heartbeat. As if it was alive.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time had become slippery in here, impossible to grip.

At some point, a slot opened at the bottom of his door. A metal tray slid through. Two slices of bread. A cup of water. Something that might have been soup but looked more like dishwater.

Will didn't eat. He couldn't. His stomach was a fist, clenched too tight to accept anything.

The slot closed. Footsteps receded.

More silence.

Then, from down the corridor, the sounds started.

Whispering. Low and fragmented, coming from multiple cells at once. Words overlapping, indistinct, like a crowd murmuring in another room.

Will pressed his hands over his ears.

It didn't help. The whispers seemed to come from inside his skull now, threading through his thoughts like worms through soil.

pretty boy pretty boy pretty boy

he's new he's fresh he's ours

break him break him break him

Will squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop it," he whispered. "Stop it, stop it, stop it."

The whispers laughed.

Then—silence. 

Will opened his eyes.

The cell was darker than before. The bulb was still on, but it seemed dimmer now, as if the light itself was being swallowed by something in the corners of the room.

And there, on the wall opposite his cot—something that hadn't been there before.

Scratches. Long lines carved into the paint. Five of them. Like fingers.

Like someone had dragged their nails down the wall from the inside.

Will's breath caught.

He hadn't made those marks. He'd been sitting on the cot the entire time. He hadn't moved, hadn't—

The scratches were deep. Fresh. White plaster dust still clung to the grooves, hadn't yet settled.

"Neighbor."

The voice came from the wall beside him. Will flinched so hard he nearly fell off the cot.

"You're seeing things," the voice said. It sounded almost... concerned. "That's good. That means you're paying attention."

"I didn't—" Will's voice cracked. "I didn't do that."

"I know you didn't."

"Then who—"

"Them." The voice was patient. "The ones who were here before you. The ones who didn't make it out."

Will stared at the scratches. His vision swam. Maybe the scratches were already there and he hadn’t noticed. 

"How many were in this cell?"

"Many others. This is the room they put the ones they want to break quietly. The ones Sister March takes a special interest in." A pause. "The ones like you."

Will's hands trembled. "What happened to them?"

Silence.

"They stopped seeing things eventually," the voice said. "Stopped seeing anything at all. One day they'd just... go still. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't talk. Wouldn't move. Like something had reached inside and turned off a switch."

The bulb flickered violently. The scratches on the wall seemed to move in the strobing light, seemed to reach.

"And then?" Will whispered.

"And then they'd take them downstairs. To the basement. And we'd never hear from them again."

The light stabilized. The scratches were just scratches again. Just marks on a wall.

Will forced himself to breathe. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. His mother had taught him that, when he was small and scared of thunderstorms. Just breathe, Will. Just breathe.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

The silence that followed was different from the others. Surprised, maybe.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I’m just wondering."

A long pause. Will could hear breathing on the other side of the wall. Slow. Measured.

"Mike," the voice said finally. "My name is Mike."

Something about the name settled strangely in Will's chest. Like a key turning in a lock he didn't know he had.

"How long have you been here, Mike?”

"Long enough."

"How long?"

"Long. Enough."

Will pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders. It smelled like mildew and something chemical. 

"Are you like me?" he asked. "Did they bring you here because—"

"Fuck no." The words came fast. "I'm not like you, neighbor. Not in the way you mean."

Will frowned in the darkness. "Then why are you here?"

Mike didn't answer.

"Mike?"

The breathing on the other side of the wall had changed. Grown heavier. Slower.

"That's a story for another night," Mike said quietly. "You've had enough for today."

"But—"

"Sleep. If you even can. Tomorrow they'll come for you. The assessment. Dr. Voss." A pause. "Just... whatever he asks you, whatever he does, don't let him see you're afraid."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"You figure it out. Or you don't. I don’t give a shit."

The fingernails started again. That rhythmic scraping.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

"Mike?"

"Go to sleep, neighbor."

Will lay in the darkness, listening to the sound of nails on concrete, and wondered what could be worse than being locked up for loving the wrong people.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

Will didn't remember falling asleep.

One moment he was lying in the dark, listening to the scratching, and the next there was light—harsh and brutal—stabbing through his eyelids.

He jerked awake, heart pounding, disoriented. The cell materialized around him in fragments. White walls. Steel toilet. Thin mattress beneath his aching body.

The scratching had stopped.

"Neighbor."

Mike's voice was rougher now. Scratchy, like he'd been talking all night. Or screaming.

"Neighbor, wake up properly. They're coming."

Will pushed himself up. His body felt like it had been filled with wet sand. Every joint ached. His mouth tasted like copper and old pennies.

He looked down at himself. The gray gown had twisted around him in the night, riding up to expose his thighs. He yanked it down, his face flushing even though no one could see him.

A clanging sound echoed down the corridor. Metal on metal. 

"That's the wake up call," Mike said. "They'll be at your door in about two minutes. Stand up. Hands at your sides. Eyes forward. Don't speak unless they speak to you first. And don’t swallow the pills."

“Why are you helping me?” Will asked. 

“I’m not helping you dumbass.” He responds. 

Will scrambled off the cot. His legs nearly buckled. He caught himself on the wall, his palm pressing against something sticky—warm—and yanked his hand away with a gasp.

He looked at his palm.

Nothing there. No blood. No substance. Just skin.

"I wouldn't touch the walls if I were you," Mike said mildly.

Footsteps. Multiple sets, approaching from the left side of the corridor. Will barely had time to straighten up before the slot in his door slammed open.

"Hands out," a voice barked.

Will thrust his hands through the slot. Cold metal closed around his wrists—shackles again, tighter than before, biting into the raw skin from yesterday.

The door swung open. Two orderlies he didn't recognize. One held a baton, tapping it against his leg. The other had a set of keys jangling from his belt.

"Move."

Will moved.

The corridor was different in daylight. Grayer. Dirtier. The light above hummed and flickered, casting everything in a sickly pallor. Some of the cell doors were open now, their occupants shuffling out in their gray gowns like sleepwalkers.

Will kept his eyes forward the way Mike had told him. But he couldn't stop himself from catching glimpses.

A man with a beard that reached his chest, muttering and counting his fingers over and over. A woman—when had there been women on this ward?—sitting against the wall, rocking, her eyes completely vacant. A young man, maybe Will's age, being dragged by two orderlies, his gown torn, blood running from a gash above his eye.

No one helped him. No one even looked.

"Keep moving," the orderly with the baton said, prodding Will in the back.

They turned a corner. Then another. The smell changed—less bleach, more antiseptic. Something underneath that was chemical. Ether, maybe. Or something worse.

They stopped at a door marked ASSESSMENT in the same stenciled black letters as INTAKE.

The orderly knocked twice.

"Enter," a voice said from inside.

The door opened.

The room was larger than Will's cell. A desk. Two chairs. A couch against one wall. Cabinets with glass doors, filled with bottles and instruments Will couldn't identify. And behind the desk—

Dr. Voss was a small man. Thin. Balding, with a fringe of gray hair circling his head. Glasses perched on a sharp nose. He wore a white coat that looked too big for him, the sleeves hanging past his wrists.

He smiled when Will entered. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Ah. Mr. Byers." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Please. Sit."

The orderlies unshackled Will's hands, pushed him into the chair, and stepped back to flank the door. Will's wrists throbbed. He resisted the urge to rub them.

Dr. Voss studied him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"You slept poorly," he observed. It wasn't a question.

Will said nothing.

"Dark circles under your eyes. Slight tremor in your hands. Posture defensive." Dr. Voss made a note on a pad in front of him. "All consistent with your first night in an unfamiliar environment. Understandable."

He set down his pen.

"Now, William. I want you to understand something. I am not your enemy. I am here to help you. Everything we do here at Lazarus is designed to help you become well again. Do you understand?"

Will's throat was dry. He swallowed. "Yes."

"Good." Dr. Voss leaned back in his chair. "Now. Let's talk about why you're here. Your father has indicated that you have engaged in... immoral behavior. Homosexual tendencies. Is this correct?"

The words landed like slaps. Will flinched.

"I—" He stopped. Started again. "I like men. Yes."

"And do you believe this is normal?"

The question stuck there. Will thought of Mike's voice through the wall. Don't let him see you're afraid.

"I believe it's who I am."

Dr. Voss's smile didn't waver. But something behind his eyes shifted. Something cold.

"I see." He made another note. "And have you ever acted on these... tendencies?"

Will's face burned. "That's not—"

"It's a simple question, William. Have you engaged in sexual acts with other men?"

Will stared at the desk. At the pen. At the neat stack of papers. Anywhere but at Dr. Voss's face.

"No."

A lie. He’s been in a few makeout sessions, a blowjob and — sex, just once with a boy named Jimmy.

Dr. Voss wrote something down. Will couldn't see what.

"Hmm." The doctor stood, walking to the cabinet behind him. He opened it, selected a small bottle, and withdrew two pills—white, unmarked.

"This is a mild sedative," he said, turning back. "To help you rest. You'll take one in the morning, one at night. An orderly will bring them with your meals."

Will eyed the pills. "I don't want—"

"It's not a request, William." Dr. Voss's voice was still pleasant. Still soft. But there was steel underneath it now. "You will take your medication. You will attend your sessions. You will participate in your treatment. And in time, if you cooperate, you will be cured."

He set the pills on the desk in front of Will.

"Now. Let's talk about your mother."

Will's head snapped up. "What about her?"

"Your father's intake notes mention she left when you were young. Departed without explanation." Dr. Voss tilted his head. "Do you think her abandonment contributed to your... condition?"

"My mother didn't abandon me. She—"

"She left, William. When you were seven years old. You never saw her again. That is the definition of abandonment."

Will's hands clenched in his lap. "You don't know anything about her."

"I know she left a vulnerable young boy without a mother figure. I know that children who experience early maternal abandonment often develop abnormal attachment patterns later in life." Dr. Voss sat back down, crossing his legs. "It's possible that your homosexual tendencies are a symptom of a deeper wound. A desperate search for the love you were denied."

The words hit Will like a punch to the chest. Not because they were true—but because they were delivered with such clinical certainty, such absolute authority, that they almost felt true.

"That's not—" Will's voice cracked. "That's not why I—"

"We'll explore this further in our sessions." Dr. Voss stood, signaling the end. "For now, take your pill. The orderlies will return you to your cell. Lunch is at noon. Dinner at six. You'll be escorted to the common room for one hour each afternoon. I suggest you use that time to socialize with the other patients. Integration is an important part of your recovery."

Will didn't move.

"William." Dr. Voss's voice hardened slightly. "Take the pill."

Will reached out with a shaking hand. Picked up the white tablet. Put it in his mouth.

"Swallow."

Will swallowed. It tasted bitter. Like ash.

"Good." Dr. Voss smiled again—that same empty smile. "We're going to make you well, William. No matter what it takes."

The orderlies were at his shoulders, pulling him to his feet, shackling his wrists again.

As they led him to the door, Will looked back over his shoulder.

Dr. Voss was already writing, his pen scratching across the paper, his expression blank.

The door closed behind Will.

And from somewhere far away—impossibly far, yet somehow right inside his ear—Will heard Mike's voice.

Don't swallow the pills, neighbor.

The walk back to his cell felt longer than before.

Will's legs were heavy. His eyelids heavier. The pill was already working, spreading through his bloodstream like warm honey, turning his thoughts to mush. 

The corridor swayed gently, the walls breathing in and out, the lights smearing into long white streaks.

"Move it," the orderly behind him said, shoving him between the shoulder blades.

Will stumbled. Caught himself. Kept walking.

Asshole. 

By the time they reached Cell 44, his vision was blurring at the edges. The orderly unshackled him, pushed him inside, and locked the door.

Will made it two steps before his knees buckled. He caught the edge of the cot and half fell onto it, the thin mattress barely cushioning his impact.

Sleep. He needed to sleep. Just close his eyes and let the darkness take him—

"Hey. Hey." Mike's voice cut through the fog. Sharper than before. Meaner.

"Neighbor. Don't you dare fall asleep."

Will's eyes fluttered. "M'just... tired..."

"I know what they gave you. Voss's special cocktail. Makes you pliable. Makes you easy." A pause. "If you sleep now, you'll wake up worse. Slower. Dumber. Easier to break."

Will tried to respond, but his tongue felt thick and useless.

"Hey." Mike's voice was right against the wall. Close. Too close. "Open your mouth and say something. Keep talking."

"Wha... what do I say?"

"I don't care. Recite a prayer. Sing a song. Read the ingredients off a cereal box. I don’t give a shit."

Will stared at the ceiling. The bulb above him pulsed like a heartbeat.

"My... my name is Will Byers," he slurred. "I'm... I'm twenty one years old. I live in..."

Where did he live? He couldn't remember. The house was there, somewhere, behind the fog, but he couldn't reach it.

"Keep going," Mike snapped.

"I have a... a father. His name is Lonnie. He... he brought me here."

"Yeah. Your daddy sold you out. Real touching. Keep talking."

Will's jaw worked. The words came slower now, dragging through the honey in his veins.

"I had a dog. When I was little. His name was... was..."

"Doesn't matter. What color was he?"

"Brown. Light brown. With... with floppy ears."

"Good. What did he smell like?"

"Like... like dirt and grass and..." Will's eyes were closing. He forced them open. "And old newspapers."

"Why old newspapers?"

"Because he... he liked to sleep on them. In the... in the kitchen. By the radiator."

Mike was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its edge.

"You're doing good, neighbor. Keep going. Tell me about your mother."

Will's throat tightened. The fog thickened.

"She... she made the best pancakes. She put chocolate chips in them. And she... she used to sing while she cooked. Off key. Really bad. But I... I liked it."

"What did she sing?"

"I don't... I can't remember the songs. But she'd... she'd do this little dance. While she flipped the pancakes. And if she dropped one, she'd laugh and say... say..."

"Say what?"

Will's eyes closed. The darkness was pulling him down now, soft and warm. "Say... say it's not a mistake, it's... it's a sacrifice to the floor gods..."

A sound from the other side of the wall. It might have been a laugh.

"Floor gods," Mike repeated. "Your mom sounds like a weirdo."

"She was," Will whispered. "She was wonderful."

The fog was winning. Will could feel himself slipping, his thoughts fragmenting, his body going heavy and numb.

"Neighbor." Mike's voice was sharp again. Urgent. "Stay with me. What else? What else do you remember?"

"Can't... can't think..."

"The dog. What happened to the dog?"

Will's brow furrowed. "He... he ran away. When I was... when I was nine. He just... went through the fence one day and... and never came back."

"Did you look for him?"

"Every day. For... for months. I'd walk around the neighborhood calling his name. Even after my dad told me to stop. Even after he said the dog was gone and wasn't coming back."

"Why didn't you stop?"

"Because..." Will's voice was barely a whisper now. "Because he was mine. And I didn't... I didn't want to lose something else that was mine."

"Yeah. Whatever."

The fog was lifting. Just slightly. Just enough for Will to realize his eyes were wet.

Footsteps in the corridor. Multiple sets.

"Get up," Mike said, his voice hard again. "Common room time. Don't let them see you like this. Wipe your face."

Will scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. The slot in his door opened.

"Out," an orderly barked.

Will stood. His legs were shaky but holding. The fog was still there, lurking at the edges, but the sharpness in Mike's voice had done something—kept the worst of it at bay.

As he stepped into the corridor, he heard Mike mutter through the wall:

"You're welcome, neighbor."

The common room was a large, open space with a high ceiling and windows that had been painted over so many times they let in almost no light. What filtered through was gray and sickly. 

There were chairs arranged in clusters. A television in the corner, screen dark. A bookshelf with mostly empty shelves. A few tables with checkers sets, pieces missing.

Patients milled about or sat in groups, talking in low voices or not talking at all. Some rocked in place. Some stared at nothing. A few played cards at a table near the window, arguing in whispers about the rules.

Will stood near the door, unsure where to go. The orderlies had deposited him and moved to stand by the exits, batons at their sides, eyes scanning the room.

He wrapped his arms around himself. The gown did nothing. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Like a lamb in a slaughterhouse.

"Well, well, well."

A figure detached itself from the shadows near the bookshelf. A man—tall, broad shouldered, with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. 

"New fish," the man said, stopping in front of Will. Too close to his face. Will could smell him—sweat and something sour, like old milk. "You're the one they brought in yesterday. The pretty one."

Will said nothing. Kept his eyes on the man's chest.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Will didn't move.

The man's hand shot out, grabbing Will's chin, forcing his head up. His fingers were rough, calloused, pressing hard enough to bruise.

"I said look at me."

Will's eyes met his. They were pale blue, almost colorless, and there was something wrong with them—something flat and empty, like a doll's eyes.

"That's better." The man smiled. It didn't reach those dead eyes. "Name's Harlan. I run things in here. You understand? I run things."

Will's heart was racing. He tried to pull away, but Harlan's grip tightened.

"Now, I heard about you. Heard what you're in for." Harlan leaned closer, his breath hot against Will's face. "Little boys who like other little boys. That right?"

Will didn't answer.

"Answer me."

"Yes," Will whispered.

Harlan's smile widened. "See, that's interesting to me. Because in here, there ain't many options. And a pretty little thing like you..." His thumb traced along Will's jaw. "You're gonna get real popular, real fast."

Will's stomach turned. He tried to jerk away, but Harlan's other hand came up, fisting in the back of Will's gown, holding him in place.

"Don't—" Will started.

"Shut up." Harlan's voice dropped, losing its lazy quality. "You don't talk unless I say you can talk. You don't look at anyone unless I say you can look. And you don't move unless I—"

"Hey, Harlan." The voice came from behind Will. 

Harlan's eyes flicked up. Something shifted in his expression—not fear, exactly, but annoyance.

"Mind your business, Doe."

"Nope." The woman—Doe—appeared at Will's shoulder. She was small, with brown hair and sharp blue eyes. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, probably smaller, but she stood like she was six foot five. "I think I'll make it my business."

"This ain't your concern."

"You're bothering my new friend. That makes it my concern."

Harlan's grip on Will's chin tightened for a moment. Then, slowly, he released him.

"Fine." He stepped back, eyes never leaving Doe. "But tell your friend he can't hide behind you forever. Nobody can."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the cluster of patients near the television.

Will exhaled shakily. His legs felt like jelly.

"You okay?" Doe asked.

Will nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Yeah, you're not." Doe grabbed his arm—gently, nothing like Harlan—and steered him away from the door. "Come on. I know some people you should meet."

She led him across the common room to a corner near the painted windows, where a group of four patients sat in a loose circle. They looked up as Doe approached.

"Guys," Doe said, pushing Will forward slightly. "New kid. Found him getting manhandled by Harlan. He's one of us."

One of us. Will wasn't sure what that meant, but the way she said it made it sound like a shield.

The four patients studied him with varying degrees of curiosity.

The first was a girl—no, a young woman, maybe in her twenties—with dark hair, her gown tied neatly at the back. She had a book open in her lap, though Will could see she wasn't reading it. Her eyes were sharp, assessing.

"That's Em," Doe said, pointing.

Em nodded at Will. "You're the gay one."

It wasn't a question. Will's face flushed.

"Subtle, Em," the next person said. This one was harder to pin down—beautiful features and dark hair that fell over one eye.

"That's Ely," Doe continued. "Be careful what you say to her or she’ll burn your house down."

"I won't do that," Ely said mildly. "Probably."

The third had kind eyes that seemed out of place in a place like this. She was playing with a checker piece, rolling it between her fingers.

"Mich," Doe said.

Mich looked up and smiled at Will. It was a real smile—warm and gentle, the first one Will had seen since he got here. "Hey, buddy. You look like you could use a sit down."

Will realized he was still standing. He sank into the empty chair between Em and Mich, his legs grateful.

The last member of the group was a young woman with dark hair and an expression of permanent boredom. She was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, watching Will with narrowed eyes.

"Yuri," Doe said.

Yuri didn't greet him. Just stared.

"So," Doe said, dropping into the chair across from Will. "You know why you're here. Now you're gonna tell us. Name, age, what they got you on."

Will swallowed. "Will. Will Byers. Twenty one. They... they gave me something. A sedative. This morning."

"What else?" Em asked. Her voice was flat.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what else did they do? Did they ask you questions? Did they examine you? Did they—"

"Em." Mich's voice was soft but firm. "Give him a minute."

Em closed her mouth, but her eyes stayed on Will, exploring.

"They asked questions," Will said slowly. "About my mother. About... about whether I'd been with men."

"And what did you say?"

"I said no."

A ripple went through the group. Ely's eyebrow arched. Yuri let out a soft laugh.

"Smart," Ely said. "Lie to them. Always lie to them."

"It won't matter," Yuri spoke for the first time. Her voice was low, accented. "They already know. They always know."

"Yuri." Mich's tone carried a warning.

"What? It's true. They don't care what you say. They already decided what you are before you walked through the door."

Will's hands twisted in his lap. "How long... how long have all of you been here?"

Em answered. "Eight months."

Ely: "Fourteen months."

Mich: "Two years in August."

Yuri: "Three years."

Doe didn't answer. She just looked at Will with those sharp blue eyes.

"What about you?" Will asked her.

"Long enough," she said. "Long enough to know how things work in here. And long enough to know that you don't want to be alone when Harlan comes looking for you again."

Will's stomach dropped. "He's going to come back?"

"He always comes back." Doe leaned forward. "But you're with us now. And we look out for our own."

"What does that mean? 'One of us'?"

Doe glanced at the others. Something passed between them—silent, understood.

"It means," she said quietly, "we’re all the normal ones here."

She let that sink in.

Will looked around the circle. Em's sharp eyes. Ely's half hidden face. Mich's gentle smile. Yuri's bitter stare. Doe's steady gaze.

For the first time since he'd walked through the doors of Lazarus, Will didn't feel completely alone.

"Has anyone..." He hesitated. "Has anyone ever gotten out?"

Silence.

Then Yuri laughed again—that same cold, humorless sound.

"No one gets out, pretty boy. No one."

Will's eyes drifted to the door of the common room. Orderlies stood on either side, faces blank.

"What about the other patients?" he asked. "I heard someone in the cell next to mine. Last night. He—"

"Who?" Em's head snapped up. "Which cell?"

"Forty five. He said—"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Mich's checker piece slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. Ely's visible eye went wide. Yuri sat up straight for the first time.

Doe held up a hand. "Stop," she said. "We don’t like to talk about him."

"What? Why?"

"Just don't." Her voice was tight.. "Not in the common room. Not out loud."

"But he talked to me. He helped me. He told me not to fall asleep after they gave me the—"

"Will." Doe's hand closed around his wrist. Her grip was firm. "Listen to me. That man isn’t a good person. The orderlies are scared of him. Sister March is scared of him. Dr. Voss is scared of him."

Her eyes bored into his.

"And you're going to keep your distance. You understand? Whatever he told you, whatever he made you feel—forget it. He's not your friend. He's not anyone's friend."

Will's mouth parted, he couldn’t understand.

"But he—"

"He's dangerous, Will." Doe's voice dropped. "More dangerous than Harlan. More dangerous than Voss. More dangerous than anyone in this building. And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop talking to him. Tonight. Before it's too late."

She released his wrist and leaned back, the mask of calm sliding back into place.

"Now," she said, brighter. "Anyone want to play cards? I found a full deck in the rec cabinet yesterday. First time in six months."

The conversation shifted. Em opened her book. Ely started shuffling the deck Doe produced from somewhere inside her gown. Mich picked up her checker piece and went back to rolling it between her fingers.

Yuri kept staring at Will.

"You're already marked," she said quietly. "You know that, right? He talked to you first night. That means something."

"What does it mean?"

Yuri's mouth twisted. "It means you're already dead. You just don't know it yet."

"Yuri." Mich's voice was sharp. "That's enough."

Yuri shrugged and looked away.

Will sat in the circle, cards being dealt around him, and tried to ignore the cold knot forming in his stomach.

"Can I ask something?" he said.

Doe looked up from her cards. "You can ask. Doesn't mean we'll answer."

"What are all of you in for? I mean—I know why I'm here, and I just..." He trailed off. "I guess I want to understand."

The group exchanged glances. Em closed her book, setting it aside. Ely kept shuffling, but slower now, their eyes on the cards.

"Fair question," Mich said. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I'll go first. Mania. Manic behavior. They say I'm bipolar, but I don't know about that. I just... I get these episodes. Can't sleep. Can't stop moving. Can't stop thinking. I once stayed awake for eleven days straight. By the end, I thought I could hear God talking to me through the radio."

"What happened?" Will asked.

"I tried to build a tower out of everything in my house. Furniture. Appliances. My car, eventually. They found me on the roof at three in the morning, trying to nail my little bookcase to the chimney." Mich shrugged. "Parents couldn't handle it anymore. Brought me here."

Will didn't know what to say.

"Religious psychosis," Yuri said flatly. Everyone turned to look at her. "That's what they call it. I see demons. Angels. The Virgin Mary. Christ, bleeding from his hands and feet." She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "They think I'm insane. I think I'm the only one who sees clearly."

"You believe you're seeing actual visions?" Will asked.

Yuri's smile faded. "I don't believe. I know."

"Okay, enough of that," Doe cut in. She nodded to Ely. "Your turn."

Ely set down the deck of cards. She pulled back the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a network of scar tissue climbing up her forearm—old burns, healed white and raised.

"Arson," she said. "I burned down my workplace."

Will's eyes widened. "Why?"

Ely's expression didn't change. "Because my boss touched me. Put his hand on my thigh at the Christmas party. Told me I should be grateful someone was paying attention to someone like me." She smoothed down her sleeve. "So I waited until everyone left. Poured gasoline through the vents. Lit a match."

"Did anyone get hurt?"

"No. It was a Sunday. Building was empty." Ely's mouth quirked. "Shame, really."

Em reached over and took Ely's hand. A small gesture, barely noticeable—but Will caught it. The way Ely's fingers intertwined with Em's. The way Em's thumb traced a slow circle on Ely's knuckle.

Neither of them looked at each other. Neither of them acknowledged it. But it was there.

"Em?" Will prompted.

Em's jaw tightened. She withdrew her hand from Ely's, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Severe depression," she said. "My mother couldn't handle it. Said I was a burden. Said she couldn't watch me die anymore." Her voice was flat, like she was reading from a script. "So she signed me over to the state. And the state sent me here."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Em's eyes met his. "I'm not dead yet. That means I'm winning."

Will turned to Doe. "What about you?"

Doe leaned back in her chair, arms spread across the backrest. She looked almost comfortable—a strange sight in this place.

"Hypersexuality," she said. "That's what they call it, anyway. I like sex. I like it a lot. I've had a lot of it. With a lot of people. Men, women, doesn't matter." She shrugged. "My husband didn't like that. Found out I was sleeping with his brother, his best friend, and the woman who worked at the grocery store. All at the same time, not that it matters."

"So he had you committed?"

"He had me committed because he couldn't control me. Because I refused to be what he wanted me to be—quiet, obedient, grateful." Doe's eyes glinted. "So now I'm here. And he tells everyone his wife had a nervous breakdown. Very tragic."

She didn't sound sad. She sounded angry.

The cards sat forgotten on the table between them. Will looked at each face in turn—the scars, the emptiness, the pain, the rage.

These were his people now. Broken things, locked away because the world didn't know what to do with them.

"So that's us," Doe said. "The rejects. The unfixables. Welcome to the club."

Will opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat.

The doors to the common room swung open.

Will's head turned automatically, expecting orderlies, expecting the end of recess, expecting the familiar shuffle of patients being herded back to their cells.

But it wasn't orderlies.

It was a man.

He stood in the doorway, shoulders loose, hips cocked at an angle that suggested he owned the space he occupied. His arms were bare—sleeves of his gray, washed out tee pushed up to his elbows—and they were covered in tattoos. Black ink winding up his forearms, disappearing under the fabric, patterns Will couldn't make out from this distance but wanted to. Desperately.

His hair was dark, curly, falling in loose waves around his face. Medium length, slightly unkempt, like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times and given up on taming it. His features were sharp—dark eyes set deep, a jaw that could cut glass, and those cheekbones. He had two scars on his face. One on his cheek and the other on his nose. 

And he was smoking.

A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit—or maybe it had been lit and gone out, Will couldn't tell. The orderly standing behind him didn't seem to care. Didn't seem to want to get close enough to care.

Will's breath caught.

The man stepped into the room, and the atmosphere shifted. Conversations stuttered and died. Patients who'd been moving froze in place. Even Harlan, across the room, went still, his dead eyes tracking the newcomer with something that might have been caution.

"Who..." Will's voice came out shaky. He cleared his throat. "Who is that?"

Doe followed his gaze. Her expression flickered—something complicated passing behind her eyes.

"That," she said quietly, "is him."

"Him?"

"Mike."

Will's heart stopped.

The man from the wall. The voice in the dark. The one who'd told him not to fall asleep, who'd asked about his dog, who'd laughed at the floor gods.

That is Mike?

Mike looked nothing like Will had imagined. He'd pictured something gaunt. Hollow. A creature of shadows and whispers, more ghost than man.

This was—

Mike's dark eyes swept the room, casual, disinterested. They passed over Harlan, over the card players, over the orderlies by the door.

Then they landed on Will and stopped.

Will couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Those eyes—sharp and dangerous—pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board.

Mike's mouth curved around the cigarette. One corner lifted. He winked.

And then he was looking away, moving into the room like Will didn't exist.

Will's face went hot. His palms went sweaty. His heart was doing something strange in his chest—beating too fast, skipping rhythms, making him feel dizzy.

"Will." Doe's voice was sharp. "Will. Look at me."

He tore his eyes away from Mike. Doe was watching him with an expression that was equal parts warning and pity.

"Don't," she said.

"I wasn't—"

"You were. I saw it." She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "I know what you're thinking. I know what you're feeling. And I'm telling you right now—stop."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Doe's eyes were hard. "He's not what you think he is. He's not some tragic figure who needs saving. He's not going to fall in love with you and rescue you from this place. He's Mike. And whatever game he's playing with you, you're not going to win."

Will's jaw tightened. "He just winked at me. That doesn't mean—"

"It means he's marked you. It means he's decided you're interesting. And in here, that's the most dangerous thing you can be."

Across the room, Mike had settled into a chair in the far corner, alone, legs stretched out in front of him. He wasn't looking at Will anymore. He was looking at the ceiling, the cigarette still dangling from his lips, indifferent to the chaos his presence had caused.

But Will could still feel the ghost of that wink. The weight of those dark eyes. The way his stomach had flipped when Mike's mouth had curved.

Stop it, he thought to himself. Stop it right now.

He couldn't.

"He wouldn’t come over here, would he?" Will asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

"No," Doe said. "He never does. He comes to the common room, he sits alone, he leaves. That's it. That's all he does. Sometimes he causes trouble."

"Then why did he—"

"Because he wanted to." Doe shrugs. "Because he can. Because Mike does whatever he wants, and no one stops him, and everyone knows it."

She picked up her cards again, shuffling them with practiced hands.

"Forget about him, Will. Focus on surviving. That's all that matters."

Will nodded. He looked down at his own hand of cards, not seeing them.

Across the room, Mike exhaled a cloud of smoke that shouldn't have been possible from an unlit cigarette.

Will didn't see it.

But he felt it—a chill on the back of his neck, like someone had blown softly against his skin.

He refused to look up. He refused.

He looked up.

Mike wasn't watching him anymore.

But Yuri was.

"You're already gone," Yuri said quietly. "I can see it."

"Shut up, Yuri," Em said.

Yuri smiled. "Just calling it like I see it."

Will couldn't focus on the cards.

He sat through three hands, barely registering what was in his grip, his eyes drifting across the room. Every few seconds, they found their way back to that far corner. To the dark hair. The tattoos. The lazy sprawl of long legs.

Mike wasn't doing anything. Wasn't looking at anyone. Wasn't talking. He just sat there, cigarette dangling, staring at the ceiling like the answers to the universe were written in the water stains.

He was gorgeous.

Will hated himself for thinking it. Hated the way his pulse jumped every time Mike shifted position. Hated the heat in his cheeks, the dryness in his throat, the pathetic, desperate part of his brain that was already cataloging details—the way Mike's curls fell across his forehead, the sharp line of his jaw, the ink that crept up past his elbows like something alive.

Stop it, he thought to himself. Doe warned you. You're not listening.

But his brain wasn't listening to reason. His brain was too busy remembering that wink. That curve of Mike's mouth. The way those dark eyes had landed on Will and stayed, just for a moment, like Mike had found something worth looking at.

He's not interested in you. He's not interested in anyone. He's dangerous. He's—

"Your turn, Will," Mich said gently. "You gonna play or just hold those cards all day?"

Will blinked. Looked down. He had a pair of twos and a handful of garbage.

"Sorry," he muttered, discarding. "I'm... sorry."

Em shot him a look but said nothing. Ely dealt the next card, their fingers brushing against Em's as they passed the deck—a touch so subtle Will almost missed it.

He wondered if anyone else noticed. If anyone cared. If two people in this place could have something like that—something quiet and secret and real—without it being torn away.

A whistle blew, causing Will’s heart to leap out of his throat. 

"Common room's over," one of the orderlies called out. "Everyone up. Back to your cells."

The room stirred. Patients rose slowly, reluctantly, some dragging their feet, others moving with the mechanical obedience of long practice.

Will stood on shaky legs. His head was still foggy from the sedative, his thoughts still swimming with dark curls and tattooed arms.

"Hey." Doe appeared at his side, pressing something into his hand. He looked down—a checker piece. Yellow. "Keep it. For luck."

"Thanks," Will said, clutching it. "For earlier. For... for all of it."

Doe shrugged. "That's what we do. Look out for each other." She paused, her expression softening just slightly. "Get some rest tonight. And remember what I said."

She turned and joined the line forming at the door, falling into step beside Ely. 

Mich squeezed Will's arm as she passed. "You'll be okay, kid. First week's the hardest."

Yuri didn't say anything. She just looked at Will with those knowing eyes, that cynical twist to her mouth, and then she was gone, swallowed by the stream of patients.

The orderlies began sorting them, directing them down different corridors based on their ward assignments. Will found himself in a small group—just him and two other patients he didn't recognize—being led back toward Ward C.

The walk felt longer than before. Or maybe Will was just more aware of every step, every turn, every flickering light. His body was exhausted, but his mind was racing, replaying the day on an endless loop.

Sister March's cold eyes. Dr. Voss's empty smile. The scratches on the wall. Mike's voice in the dark, asking about his dog.

Mike's face in the common room. That wink.

You're already dead. You just don't know it yet.

Yuri's words echoed in his skull.

The orderlies deposited him at the entrance to Ward C and moved on, leaving him alone in the corridor. The cells stretched out on either side, doors closed, faces pressing against the small windows, watching him pass.

Will walked slowly. His feet felt heavy. The checker piece dug into his palm, a small sharp point of reality.

And then he was there. Cell 44. His cell.

And beside it—Cell 45.

The heavy steel door loomed, blank and impenetrable. No window. No slot. No way to know what was on the other side.

Will stopped right in front of the door, he couldn’t move.

He shouldn't stop. He should go inside in his own cell, close the door, and try to sleep. That's what Doe would tell him to do. That's what any sane person would do.

He stood there, looking at Mike's door, his heart beating too fast. He thought about the voice he'd heard through the wall. 

He thought about him in the common room. The tattoos. The dark eyes. The cigarette that shouldn't have been smoking.

He thought about the wink.

What are you doing? he asked himself. What the hell are you doing?

"Take a picture, neighbor. It'll last longer."

Will nearly jumped out of his skin.

The voice came from behind the steel door. Muffled but clear. Close. So close.

"I—" Will's voice cracked. "I wasn't—"

"Weren't what? Weren't standing outside my door like a lost puppy? Weren't staring at my cell like you expected me to come out and give you a treat?" A low laugh. "Pathetic."

Heat flooded Will's face. "I was just... I was going to my room."

"Your room is two feet to your left. Didn't take you thirty seconds to get there. You've been standing there for almost a full minute." A pause. "I counted."

Will's jaw tightened. "You were counting?"

"I count a lot of things. Helps pass the time." Another pause, longer this time. "So. You saw me today."

It wasn't a question. Will didn't treat it like one.

"Yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

“And what did you think?"

Will's hands clenched at his sides. The checker piece bit into his palm. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to say what you're thinking. I want you to be honest." The voice dropped, softer now, but no less sharp. "I can tell when people are lying, neighbor. It's a thing I do. So don't bother."

Will stared at the door. At the scratches he could see now, low near the base, deep grooves in the metal.

"I thought you looked different than I imagined," he said finally.

"Different how?"

“Less... scary."

A beat of silence. Then a snort.

"Scary." Mike said the word like it was a joke. "Is that what they told you I am? Scary?"

"They said you're the worst one here. They said you’re not good. They said—"

"They said a lot of things." Mike's voice hardened. "They always do. Doesn't make any of it true."

"So what is true?"

"Doesn't matter." The dismissal was swift, brutal. "You don't need to know anything about me, neighbor. You need to know about you. About how to survive in here. About how to not end up in the basement with the rest of the ones who couldn't hack it."

"I thought you were going to help me."

Another silence.

"Did I say that?" Mike's voice was cold now. "I don't remember saying that. I remember telling you not to fall asleep. That's not help. That's advice. There's a difference."

Will's chest ached. He didn't know why. He'd known Mike was an asshole—Doe had warned him, Yuri had warned him, everyone had warned him. But hearing it, hearing that flat indifference, that casual cruelty—

It still hurt.

"Right," Will said quietly. "Sorry. I won't bother you again.

"He reached for his door.

"Hey."

He stopped. His hand hovered over the handle.

"Don't apologize," Mike said. "Apologies are worthless in here. They don't mean anything. They don't change anything. Save your breath."

Will didn't turn around. Didn't respond.

"Also." Mike's voice shifted again—still hard, still sharp, but with something underneath it that Will couldn't identify. "Don't believe everything Doe tells you. She means well, but she doesn't know everything. No one does."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm bored. Because you're new. Because I feel like it." A pause. "Pick one."

Will's hand dropped from the door handle. He stood there, frozen, caught between the cell he was supposed to enter and the voice he wasn't supposed to listen to.

"Go to bed, neighbor," Mike said. "Tomorrow's going to be worse than today. They always are."

"And the day after that?"

"worse."

“And the day after that?"

A long, slow exhale from the other side of the wall.

"You really don't learn, do you?"

Will almost smiled. Almost.

"Goodnight, Mike."

Silence.

Will waited. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.

Nothing.

He opened his door, stepped inside, and let it close behind him.

The cell was exactly as he'd left it. Thin mattress. Thin blanket. Steel toilet. Flickering bulb.

The scratches on the opposite wall were still there. Five lines. Like fingers.

Will sat on the cot, still clutching the checker piece, and stared at them.

From behind the wall—so quiet he almost missed it—came a sound.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

The nails on concrete. That slow, rhythmic scraping.

But this time, it almost sounded like a lullaby.

Will closed his eyes.

He didn't sleep.