Work Text:
Community Reintegration Center.
Winter.
Morning in London.
Briony walked down the hallway, flipping through an old observation folder.
Around her, young voices, some forced laughs, others in silence, staring at the floor. The place was designed to convey hope.
But she knew that hope was sometimes just part of the décor.
Not that she liked being pessimistic—for a psychologist, one might call it realism. After all the patients she had treated, she had found some, a few, counted on one hand, but most had mixed results.
The boy who had been abused at home? Arrested for domestic violence. The girl who claimed a relative had been crossing boundaries with her? Ended up in foster care, still struggling today with personal relationships.
A few managed to find something to distract them from the trauma, but they all gave up on therapy. What is wrong with this generation? The young people she treated often closed themselves off even more, trying to fix their problems on their own.
But of course, that was to be expected. Cities were tougher than small towns, where you didn’t have to deal with so much.
The woman’s slender fingers brushed the folder, seeing the name of her most recent patient. A fiasco, truth be told—you can’t help someone who refuses to even look at you.
Sometimes, she missed working in small towns or cities.
Maybe, she could request another transfer, or…
“Ariston?”
The woman startled and quickly turned around.
She found herself facing a man younger than her, with a badge clipped to his shirt, clearly in a hurry; another psychologist, younger, more full of life, no doubt.
The young man pointed to the back before speaking again. “They need your report for today as soon as possible.”
He looked agitated—he must have run to let her know.
“Thanks, I’ll go right away.”
The young man nodded and went on his way. Ariston did the same, walking without hurry toward the stairs to reach the office floor.
She had been working here for a while, striving to contribute to a cause that seemed more hopeless with each passing day. The routine was simple, monotonous as one would expect from this type of job, where the only variation was whether one of your patients was crazy enough to try stabbing the staff.
Her steps stopped at the door.
What could she expect? Certainly not praise or promotion. Calls in this place were rarely for good news.
The woman took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The office was far too bright for her taste; a direct lamp over the desk and half-open blinds let in a clarity that forced her to squint.
Behind the desk, one of the supervisors was reviewing a pile of folders.
He looked up just as she entered.
“Sit down, Ariston.”
She obeyed without a word.
Her hands folded over her lap, the folder still resting on top.
In truth, this was the first time she had been called in directly. She always submitted her reports on time, immaculate and precise; she had never failed in that regard, not in her previous jobs nor in this one.
The peculiarity of the moment made her swallow hard from the anxiety.
The man adjusted his glasses and flipped through some papers. “I read your latest report. I hope today’s maintains that same quality despite the unexpected rush. Good, that data will be useful for the next psychologist.”
Briony raised her gaze, asking automatically before fully processing the words. “Next psychologist?”
The man nodded, as if talking about a minor administrative matter.
“Yes. Your current patients will be reassigned. You’re being transferred.” He leaned back in his chair, his voice neutral. “Your work with the adolescent group isn’t showing results, and there’s no point forcing something that isn’t working. For your own good, we’ll return you to a more suitable environment: younger children, on the outskirts of the city.”
Transfer.
Transfer. An elegant way of saying she wasn’t useful here.
Yes, another way of getting rid of someone that didn’t involve outright dismissal.
Transfer! Of course, they wouldn’t have the nerve to fire her outright after all the years of service she had given them—there was no reason for that. Using performance as an excuse was a smart move, especially with a patient no one had been able to treat.
It wasn’t an unjustified dismissal—otherwise, she could sue them.
But sending her away, where they wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore, was close enough. They probably expected her to quit soon after.
She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
Briony lowered her gaze to the folder. The words had been soft, measured, but they carried an edge. She breathed slowly, swallowed the frustration, the pride. The only thing that left her mouth was:
“I understand.”
The supervisor nodded, satisfied to have avoided a scene. “Good. The change will happen in a couple of weeks. Take this time to close processes and prepare the transition. Believe me, it’s best for both sides.”
She nodded again, stood up, and left with the same calm she had entered with.
Going back down to the first floor, the murmur of young voices surrounded her again, a reminder of how little she had managed to achieve there.
Had her golden years finally run out?
.
.
.
Tuesday. 07:45 AM.
Cafeteria “Eleanor’s.”
Briony ordered her usual flat white. She had been going there ever since the rushed move. She sat at the same table as always and opened her notebook. Outside, it was drizzling.
Someone passed by the window. A young man in a black hoodie. She didn’t see him clearly; it was hard to pay attention when there are so many people in the world who look alike, even if something about him felt familiar. Coincidences, after all.
It was nothing.
Just a figure.
That’s all.
A figure she forgot about before going back to writing in her notebook.
.
.
.
Community Center.
Morning.
Briony had spent the whole day buried in reports and surrounded by children who seemed to prefer anything over actually talking to her. The weariness clung to her like lead, and the bitter feeling of being “out of place” had hovered over her head ever since she had been transferred there.
Maybe her performance really had dropped more than she once thought. Maybe she wasn’t as useful in this line of work as she used to believe.
Another coffee would do her good right now.
She closed a folder and leaned back in her chair, a dull ache nagging at her neck.
Most of the children were running here and there, busy with their own games. She could ask for a substitute just for today, say the induction wasn’t going as expected, and go home early.
She wanted to quit.
That’s what her former boss had been planning—that she’d give up—and the fact that the tactic was actually working irritated her.
But she could no longer find a clear purpose in this job.
Not since…
“Doctor…” The soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
It was Ellie, an eight–year–old girl, thin, with a poorly cut fringe and a sweater far too big for her. She approached with hesitant steps, as if afraid of being pushed away, but in the end she settled beside her without asking for permission.
Had she seen her today? She couldn’t recall exactly.
Briony raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
The girl shrugged, fiddling with her sleeve. “Nothing… just… can I stay here for a while?”
Friendly.
She didn’t try to bite her, didn’t try to scream out whatever came to mind the instant they crossed paths.
It wasn’t unusual for children to seek an adult’s company after being rejected by the others, but Ellie had that way of looking at her—different, as if she recognized her from somewhere else.
Did she? Had Briony seen this child before? She had had many patients over the years, but she was sure she would have remembered if that were the case, given Ellie’s limited age range.
Briony sighed and nodded. “Of course, stay.”
The psychologist blinked, meeting the girl’s eyes. For a moment, her gaze reminded Briony of herself, searching for her mother in a room full of strangers.
Not so different. Not with those nervous, fawn–like eyes.
A brief silence stretched out until Ellie, with that disarming innocence, asked: “Don’t you have children?”
She hadn’t expected that.
She tried to force a smile. “No, it never happened.”
“Why not?”
What answer could she possibly give to a child? That love never came? That her life was consumed so much by work that she never met anyone who actually stayed?
What else did she even have in her life besides work? What good had all that dedication done, once she was left alone?
The girl lowered her head, thoughtful when she didn’t get a reply, then leaned slightly against her arm, almost as if hanging onto her. “You look like my mom when you smile…”
Oh. So that was the reason.
She didn’t know what to say. Her smile faltered just a second later, and all she could do was pat Ellie gently on the shoulder, as if that small gesture could make any difference.
Inside, the question lingered, stubborn and insistent.
What if things had been different? What if it had happened?
Ariston frowned, because she knew regret was not going to lead her anywhere.
.
.
.
Commercial District.
Cloudy afternoon.
Weekend.
Briony stepped into a bookstore. One of those small, tucked-away shops where you could still find psychology titles with pencil notes in the margins. You couldn’t expect much from the outskirts of the city, but at least there was the bare minimum. The place was practically empty—most people around here didn’t usually bother with libraries.
Exploring the surroundings of her new residence would do her good.
Distraction—yes, that’s what she needed right now.
Anything works, as long as she didn’t have to think about everything waiting to be organized once she got home. The piles of boxes wouldn’t move on their own, and the furniture wouldn’t assemble itself either.
She carried a crossbody bag and wandered distractedly as she looked for some book that might serve as work material.
Young children, yes, they required a bit more work. Storybooks always helped reveal the things they saw but didn’t understand. It was a good method, a good way to go deeper.
Stories. Simple children’s stories—that’s what she was looking for.
Then, someone walked past her. She noticed it by the shadow. By the rhythm of the steps—slow, steady.
The presence made her uneasy, though she couldn’t say why.
She turned.
The stranger had stopped near the back, by the tiny shop’s window—a young man flipping through a book.
White shirt, gray sweater, stiff posture. Brown hair, pale skin, and not much else. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing particularly distinctive at first glance.
He didn’t look like a criminal.
Even so, something inside her urged her to keep watching him.
She didn’t recognize him immediately. Ariston frowned as a flicker of frustration crossed her face.
Was she being paranoid? That wasn’t typical of her. She was about to look away, but when he raised his eyes…
Jamie Miller.
Was it really him? What was he doing here?
Time had stretched him, sharpened him. There was something polished about his presence now, and she could see it, now that he had caught her staring. He looked orderly. Calm. Different from the last time she had seen him—no farewells, no hint that one day that boy might change, weighed down as he was by stupid resentments.
They looked at each other, and finally she turned away—after all, she was the one who had been staring too long.
Surely he didn’t remember her. It had been years. He wasn’t some young patient to try to understand, to correct the poisonous philosophy in his rotten mind. No—now he was an adult, at the very least.
Not her business, just as it wasn’t his business to remember her. He could have had many more psychologists after his… situation. She wasn’t special.
He didn’t remember her. He shouldn’t. Plenty of people must recognize him and end up staring—this was nothing.
Nothing.
She cursed herself when she heard footsteps approaching.
“Hello, Doctor.”
He was the first to speak when he came closer.
Doctor? Ah… she had forgotten she was still wearing that stupid work ID badge. Yes, that must be why he called her that.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I just…”
The woman’s eyes fixed on the man before her then. He was taller than her now… That sent a chill down her spine.
After all, back when he was shorter than her, he had found no trouble figuring out a simple way to end a woman’s life. Now that she thought about it, he could do it even more easily.
Just grab her by the neck with those hands.
Yes—that would be easy. Very easy, for someone like him.
A faint smile, almost casual. Not fake. But not sincere either. A rehearsed smile—that’s what she thought she saw on those lips.
“I’m glad to see you.”
What?
“I didn’t expect to find you here. In fact, I didn’t expect to see you again.”
The same friendly tone of voice was still there, just like years ago. He wasn’t smiling now—no, the little smile had faded when he got no answer. He was only looking at her, as if waiting.
No, as if he were actually analyzing her reaction.
But he had always been that way, hadn’t he? Always the kind of boy who paid close attention to others before deciding what to do.
Briony murmured softly. “What a coincidence.”
She gave him a smile.
That made him narrow his eyes, as if suspicious of her words, but then he relaxed his brow again, smiling once more.
“Yes, coincidence,” he replied, leaning lazily against the shelf. “But here we are, with such a fine lady living around these rather… curious parts.”
The phrase, with that exact intonation that made it sound anything but a coincidence he remembered, left her uneasy. It seemed he hadn’t forgotten the insignificant details she had told him back then.
They talked for a few minutes. Short phrases. Almost trivial. Jamie wasn’t evasive, but neither was he opening up entirely—he was being careful with what he said. The psychologist, however, was watching him more closely than she had originally planned.
His behavior was correct. Too… normal, for the things she understood about someone like him.
Maybe he had changed, she told herself, but something inside her head stubbornly refused to believe it.
So, stubborn and undecided, she stayed there, prolonging the conversation.
Briony pushed her luck a little.
“Do you live around here?”
She didn’t want to answer that.
There are certain risks in letting someone with a criminal record know exactly where you live.
She wasn’t foolish enough to believe in his good intentions.
“I pass by sometimes. I felt curious and stepped in.”
The phrase was simple, a simple lie. It revealed nothing about her job or her location.
Jamie lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked at her again. Fixedly.
“I thought maybe you’d like to accept having a coffee with me.”
The woman went silent again.
She hadn’t expected that.
What exactly was he trying to get at?
“It wouldn’t be very professional of me if I did.”
“Just for old times’ sake.” Pause—he hesitated before continuing. “As an apology for my behavior back then.”
Miller chuckled softly. Not nervously or with pity—almost… satisfied.
The psychologist didn’t answer. She was attentive to his gestures, to the cadence of his phrases. There was something he wasn’t saying, but he was letting her infer it. And that was the game.
“That’s in the past, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I insist. We never had a proper goodbye because of me.”
What’s a proper goodbye to you? Reading the notes in the notebook? Knowing what I think of you?
What are you trying to figure out?
“Do you really feel that much regret for what happened? It wasn’t that important…”
Jamie tilted his head. His gaze sharpened. “I just want to make up for what happened.”
“And what else have you been trying to make up for since then?”
Silence.
She had said something she shouldn’t have.
Briony took a step toward the exit of the tiny library. Jamie didn’t follow. He only shifted so he could watch her from where he stood.
“Do you really want to hear the answer to that?”
She stopped, without turning. “Why would I want to know or not? You’re not my patient anymore, Jamie.”
She was ready to leave, to forget all this and drown herself in her mediocre work with more kids who would never understand how exhausting this job really was.
“Because, if I say yes, then something you did mattered a little. And if I say no, well, time is too valuable to waste.”
The woman glanced back over her shoulder. Looked at him one last time.
Jamie smiled. Small. Barely there. “Then I’ll take that as a ‘maybe.’ And maybe we can go for that coffee another day.”
.
.
.
Community Center.
Afternoon.
The hallway lights were already off; only the lamp on her desk remained on. The other employees had left early for lunch. Briony settled into the chair and opened the folder where she kept her follow-up notes. Among the loose sheets, there were several crumpled papers Ellie had left her “as a gift.”
Ariston smoothed them out carefully. They were simple drawings, made with worn-out crayons. In the first one, a yellow sun filled almost the entire page, but the house underneath looked crooked, with its windows painted black.
In another, the patient had drawn a woman and a girl holding hands. The woman was smiling; the girl was too. But off to the side, almost outside the page, there was a larger figure, drawn only with red lines and a dark smudge where the face should have been.
Briony frowned. She picked up a pen and wrote in the margin:
“Possible absent-mother association. Vague paternal figure, potentially threatening.”
She kept going. The last drawing was different: a dog, a path, and what seemed to be a block of identical buildings. On the right, a corner marked with a red triangle. No explanation.
Briony sighed. She slipped the papers into a plastic sleeve to preserve them. They weren’t just doodles: they were little pieces of a puzzle no one else seemed willing to put together.
Children in vulnerable conditions were rarely taken into account; they were quickly written off as lost cases.
She closed the folder, but the feeling didn’t go away. Those drawings weren’t simple gifts from an affectionate girl. They were clues. And worst of all, she thought, she had no way of knowing if anyone else was reading those signals—or if Ellie was just casting them into the void, hoping that at least she would listen.
Had anyone done so all this time?
Ariston doubted it.
.
.
.
Thursday. 06:15 PM.
Same old bookstore.
Flipping through an updated book on emotional development in school-age children, she remained calm, focused while taking notes and scribbling from the older volume. Then, from the next aisle, came the sound of slow footsteps.
She turned, but no one was there.
Her eyes fell back on the book, where the next page showed a small drawing of a cup of hot chocolate.
The book was set aside.
She walked out without borrowing it.
Not running, yet not walking too slowly either.
Another copy could always be found later.
.
.
.
Briony’s Apartment.
Night.
The woman closed the door behind her and turned on her laptop. She didn’t bother changing her clothes or putting away her work materials. She opened a clinical notes file, but didn’t type anything.
Instead, she searched the name on her laptop: Jamie Miller.
The data was sparse, but what could one expect from public records?
He had served his full sentence by the age of 18, with no reports of major incidents after the first years of confinement. Since then, he appeared in administrative records as a resident of a suburban area in northern London, at the same address as an E. Miller—presumably his father.
That information was either inaccurate or very outdated, because otherwise there would be no reason to run into him so casually if he lived that far away. Of course, he could just be passing through, or there might have been a specific reason for him to stay in nearby areas… But if that were the case, the chances of him being alone should have been slim.
Something didn’t add up.
She kept digging.
No active social media. No trace of public activity: no posts, no opinions, no digital footprint typical for someone his age.
That was the strange part.
Or was it? The incident years ago had started precisely because of social media. Maybe avoiding it was the best choice for someone with Jamie’s record. Not only that—mass harassment would also be something he’d have to deal with if anyone knew his identity.
Still, people with stained pasts usually kept at least one account, hidden under an alias, but used it nonetheless.
She could always ask him, in the worst-case scenario, if she ever got the chance.
Nobody disappears like that—unless they want to vanish completely.
She typed quickly, as if that could keep the tremor in her hands at bay.
She cross-checked data with the civil registry, with community service databases. Nothing illegal, but the cleanliness itself was suspicious. Some young people tried to “start from zero.” Jamie seemed to have done it… a little too well.
There wasn’t a single news article after his release, not even a minor scandal.
Nothing.
As if the whole world had forgotten about him the moment he served his sentence.
People usually aren’t like that—not so kind, not so forgiving to the kind of person who takes another’s life. They stay branded forever, like a plague, a parasite that is sprayed with poison every day.
Ariston grunted in frustration, ready to shut the laptop, but she still had work to do. She opened the database of the “community center” for troubled children, if it could even be called that.
As she typed, a doubt crossed her mind.
It was a stupid idea, and yet she gave in out of sheer curiosity.
The community center’s access records had an old entry listing potential psychology interns. It wasn’t unusual—young students often came to these places for professional exams required for graduation. Briony still remembered when she had to do the same.
It wasn’t new, and sometimes she liked going back to read the information, since knowing about unexpected changes in advance often proved useful.
She wandered through the page as she had the first time, until she found a nameless profile she hadn’t seen there before. But an added note made her raise an eyebrow: “Participation as an external companion. Not part of the program. Supervision unnecessary.”
There was no photo, just a blank space, as if the absence itself had been intentional.
That note hadn’t been there the week before. Briony knew it—because she had read that file when she first arrived.
Something about that profile gave her chills, made her recoil.
She saved screenshots. It wasn’t paranoia.
It was just… protection.
It was prevention.
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.
.
Community Center.
Evening.
The sessions had ended, and the hallways were slowly emptying. Outside, the sky was painted in a dull orange, covered by low clouds. Briony gathered some papers, sliding her notes into a folder.
Ellie was still there, sketching on a wrinkled sheet of paper with a pencil that was far too short. No one had come to pick her up yet.
"It’s time to go, Ellie," the psychologist said softly.
The girl lifted her head, wearing that resigned expression of someone who knows she must return to a place she doesn’t want to be.
She stood up without protest, but before leaving, she turned toward Briony and hugged her suddenly. "Goodbye, doctor."
Ariston froze for a few seconds, surprised. Then she responded awkwardly, patting the girl’s back. "See you next time."
The child left the center with small steps, her oversized sweater fluttering in the breeze. Briony followed her with her eyes until she disappeared around the corner of the neighborhood. Silent streets, shutters closed, a stray dog crossing.
That route always gave her a bad feeling.
For a moment, she thought about catching up to her and walking with her. But she held back. It wasn’t her duty. She couldn’t get that involved.
It’s just a job. Nothing more. It has to stay that way.
Even so, when she returned to her office and turned off the light, the echo of the girl’s voice was still there, mixed with the image of those streets that seemed to swallow anyone who entered.
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.
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Eleanor’s Café.
Friday. 08:45 PM.
“Is everything going well?”
“I guess so. Not much to say. I keep myself busy with the usual.”
The doubt—What’s the usual?—almost slipped from her lips, but this wasn’t an interrogation, just a casual outing.
Normal people don’t try to dig out such precise information from one another.
Just small talk, just that, pretending interest and attention. The kind of attention being stolen by the sound of teaspoons clinking against cups.
“And the other guys? Your friends.”
There had been two others, or at least there were two others the last time Briony could remember.
Jamie didn’t look too pleased with the question, though he didn’t voice his annoyance. “We haven’t spoken since I got out. They go on with their lives, and I go on with mine.”
A small slip: his fingers tightened at the end of the sentence, just for a second.
He had dropped the bad habit of taking too long to answer. Now he spoke faster, which was curious—a note for the psychologist.
Briony shifted her focus. She asked a question she couldn’t hold back. “And how do you feel about what you did?”
A second of silence.
She pretended to look away, but caught from the corner of her eye a faint smile—mocking, maybe disbelieving. Perhaps he had already expected it, or maybe her reaction amused him.
A laugh from another table made him clear his throat.
“I’ve worked on that. I know what I did, I know the damage I caused… sometimes too clearly. I’m committed to getting better.”
Better at what, exactly?
Briony nodded at his good behavior to ease the atmosphere. He had said it perfectly, exactly as one would expect from a decent man. Just like they teach in all those rehabilitation and reintegration programs.
But something didn’t quite fit.
“It must have been hard.”
“Yeah, especially the first year.”
“And now?”
“Could be better.”
The phrase came out too fast. Too automatic.
The woman looked straight into his eyes, and they remained silent. He held her gaze—but at the very end, he blinked. Twice.
That was the problem. Jamie didn’t lie like someone trying to hide something. He lied like someone who knew exactly what was expected of him. Maybe it wasn’t even a lie. But there was tension in his body language, in the way his eyes avoided lingering too long on other people’s faces. As if he were still measuring something she couldn’t yet understand.
He blinked again.
His pupils were slightly dilated.
“You look calm.”
“I am. I’m fine. I’m better.”
Miller sipped at his hot chocolate with marshmallows, that cloying and childish drink he had loved for as long as Briony could remember. The way the marshmallows melted into the hot liquid almost made her gag. The smell of freshly ground coffee, contrasting with the chocolate’s sweetness, was the only thing that kept her lunch from coming back up onto the café’s lovely tablecloth.
She forced a smile. Didn’t answer. Jotted something in her notebook and stood up, leaving her untouched black coffee on the table.
She hadn’t even drunk half of it.
“I’m really glad to see you again, and to see how much you’ve improved. But I’m afraid it’s getting late.”
“Likewise. Take care, Doctor.”
But as she walked away, she felt it—that heavy, old sensation, like an echo: Jamie wasn’t simply there.
He didn’t stop her, but she felt his gaze fixed on her back until she crossed the door.
He was waiting for something.
.
.
.
Juvenile Community Center.
Morning.
Lunch break.
"Jamie Miller?" Daniel, another psychologist—much younger and less experienced—looked up over his glasses. "I haven’t heard that name in years. It was quite a controversial case."
The man kept chewing, trying to recall as much as he could about that old case. After the boy’s imprisonment, many people lost track of the story. These days, not many remembered the incident.
Perhaps the community that had lived through it still carried the pain, but for those outside of it, it was just another piece of news forgotten in the routine of daily life.
Briony hesitated. She sat across from him, hands resting in her lap as she set aside her small snack.
"I was one of his psychologists."
Briony blurted it out abruptly, and her companion froze immediately, turning to look at her with suspicion, almost reproach. "We don’t usually talk about our patients. It goes against the rules…"
The psychologist’s code is clear: anything spoken with a patient must never be disclosed, as the patient legally has the right to privacy.
"I know, but I don’t mean back then… I… I ran into him recently, okay? That’s what I mean."
Daniel kept looking at her, now with a trace of concern. "Did he do something to you?"
"Not directly, I mean… not really. He greeted me like nothing had happened. Then I started noticing strange things—things that wouldn’t have mattered before I ran into him—but now they feel… out of place."
The man crossed his arms. "Is he… into trouble?"
"No, nothing like that. He looks so… normal. It’s strange, I still can’t believe it."
She met his eyes, opened and closed her mouth, but had nothing else to say. There was nothing that could directly involve him in anything suspicious. The most she could sum up about someone like Miller was simply “rehabilitated,” nothing more. He hadn’t shown any behavior to suggest otherwise.
She had been unsettling herself with small things, and now that she said it out loud, she realized she had no real way to prove anything. She could say she felt it, but it all got stuck there, in a mere hunch.
Ariston finally closed her lips, because there was nothing else to add, nothing rational left to explain.
Nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like she was judging him.
Her colleague, noticing her resignation, sighed. "I always thought that, when running into a former patient, you’d feel relieved to see they didn’t turn into something worse."
Silence.
"Do you have reasons to involve the police?"
Briony shook her head. "No… I mean, what am I supposed to say? That a former patient I don’t even keep direct contact with has been leaving me unsigned messages—no witnesses, no cameras, no evidence… It’s ridiculous, I know."
Her companion patted her back, trying to cheer her up a little. "Then there’s nothing to worry about. Those patients who get obsessed with their psychologists—that’s movie stuff."
The woman let out a small chuckle.
Yes, she probably wasn’t that special for someone to become obsessed with her. That was ridiculous. Just twisted fantasies, simple paranoia.
"Thanks, Daniel. I needed you to bring me back to earth."
She pushed her worries aside to take another bite of her lunch. Still, the snack carried a bitter taste.
"Besides—"
Daniel didn’t get to finish what he was about to say, because a child suddenly ran up and tapped him on the shoulder.
Well, they're still in the work.
Ah… Ariston hadn’t seen Ellie all day. She didn’t see her the following days either.
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.
.
Saturday. 09:10 AM.
Apartment.
Briony woke up with a strange feeling.
She sat on the bed in her striped pajamas, slipping on her fuzzy slippers. She looked around the tiny place.
Everything looked the same. She intended to go back to sleep, but the restlessness in her chest forced her to abandon the idea.
She’s not a big fan of midnight snacks, but maybe eating something could help her fall asleep again.
Something light, and then back to bed. Simple, right?
But when she walked into the kitchen, shuffling her feet in her slightly nervous state, she noticed that the chair she always left tucked against the table had been turned. Not toward the dining table, but toward the window.
At first, she didn’t think much of it—she had gotten a little clumsy with age.
Then she thought: “Wasn’t I alone last night?”
There had been no visitors, not here; she rarely had anyone over. Not after the death of her close relatives—not that Dad ever cared enough to find out where she lived or to try to keep her company.
She stared at the chair for a long while.
A turned chair didn’t seem like much. Until she remembered she had never left it that way.
The chills made her nauseous.
She checked doors.
Locks.
Nothing forced.
Everything was normal—normal for a small, messy apartment.
Later, when she searched inside her fridge for something to eat that wouldn’t disturb her sleep, she noticed something out of place.
A bag full of colorful marshmallows. An innocent treat.
Briony felt her breath cut short.
She hadn’t bought it.
.
.
.
Community Center.
Records Room.
Afternoon.
The wall clock struck five, and the children had already gone home. The echo of their voices still lingered in the hallways, but now a heavy silence prevailed.
Briony flipped through a folder with tense fingers.
Ellie Summers. Age 7.
On the margin she had written: absent for 3 consecutive days.
She closed her eyes for a moment, uneasy. Three days was nothing new in that neighborhood: absences could be due to school, family problems, or simply because parents didn’t want to bring their kids.
But something inside her told her this wasn’t just carelessness.
“Trouble?” a male voice asked.
Ariston looked up. Daniel, her colleague, was leaning against the doorway with a cup of coffee in hand.
Apparently, he had come looking for her after noticing she still hadn’t left. It was probably only a few minutes before the place closed for the day.
“A patient. She hasn’t shown up since Monday. No one has said anything. No note, no call.” Briony lowered her eyes back to the folder. “I’m considering calling the police.”
He sighed, like someone who already knew the answer too well. Maybe he did—he had been working around here longer than she had.
“I don’t think that’ll work. Things don’t move here the way they do downtown… Unless there are clear signs of physical abuse or severe neglect, the police won’t even come. Legally, there’s not much we can do.”
“And in the meantime? Just wait?” she shot back, her voice carrying a frustration she rarely let slip in front of others.
She was starting to feel more overwhelmed than usual, not just because of the girl—because of everything.
Daniel shrugged, uncomfortable. “Sometimes there’s nothing more we can do.”
The psychologist didn’t answer. She only nodded and waited for him to leave. When the hallway was empty again, she turned her eyes back to the folder.
She flipped through the pages until she found Ellie’s initial file: full name, date of birth, preliminary notes… and an address typed neatly at the top.
She stared at it.
Her finger traced along the lines of the address as if rereading it could confirm it was the right one.
With a sigh, she closed the file, quickly grabbed the first scrap of paper she could find, wrote down the address, and slipped it into her pocket.
She didn’t have a clear plan, but the idea was starting to take shape: if no one else was going to worry about Ellie, then she would.
She was tired of watching the children who passed through her office have their lives ruined even further by negligence.
.
.
.
Outskirts neighborhood.
Cloudy afternoon.
The street was nearly deserted, low houses, many with rusted fences and abandoned gardens. Briony made sure to check the number before knocking on the door. Three times.
Silence.
She knocked again.
Nothing.
She wrote in her notebook: absent, no response.
She hesitated to leave, when she heard footsteps on the gravel.
“Looking for someone?”
She turned. A young man was coming from the corner with a bag in his hand, plain shirt, dark jacket. Besides, he was wearing gloves. It's cold, she didn't suspect anything. His expression calm, his voice low. She didn’t recognize him immediately, until he came a little closer.
Jamie.
It couldn’t be a coincidence, it couldn’t be real.
She wanted to run right now, she couldn’t simply run into him again like this. It made no sense.
Ariston began to feel afraid.
His audacity, his harassment, was growing worse each time.
“Ah…” she covered up quickly, clutching the folder to her chest. Her free hand slipped into her pocket, trying to grab anything she could use to hit him if it came to that. “I’m visiting a patient.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow slightly. “I don’t think they’re here. That family… moves around a lot.”
The psychologist’s attempt to step back stopped abruptly.
“You know them?” she asked, unable to hold back.
He smiled softly, as if the situation amused him. “I live around here. And believe me, there aren’t many options for people like me. When someone leaves, you notice.”
People like him. Selfish people who only harmed families because of their lack of control. Yes, the worst neighborhood on the outskirts was probably what he deserved. A place with little security and more problems than the rent could ever cover.
It made sense that he lived in a place like this after what he’d done. But… did Ellie deserve it?
The woman blinked, overwhelmed by her thoughts.
That casual tone… almost friendly. Briony wanted to believe it was just an unpleasant coincidence of fate that enjoyed tormenting her again. A strange, annoying coincidence that would happen more times than she’d ever like.
“I see. Thanks for the information.”
She turned, ready to leave.
She didn’t want him near, didn’t want to see him again. Leaving this place was what she needed to do, because coming here had been a mistake.
A slip of her pathetic, lonely old heart.
“Miss Ariston” he stopped her with a gesture. “You shouldn’t walk around these streets alone. They’re not safe.”
That much was obvious; one look at the neighborhood said enough.
She hesitated for a second. It almost felt like a scolding. “I’m fine. I only came to… to do my duty.”
Tired, resigned, she was honest.
Jamie took a step forward, subtly cutting off her path. “I know. You always do your duty.”
That sounded like a reproach.
Briony pressed the folder tighter against herself.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, and when he looked up, his smile was just a faint line. “Let me walk you. At least to your car.”
At least he hadn’t offered to take her home. Who knew if he needed to—he already seemed to know well enough where she lived.
The woman hesitated. The air smelled of dampness, the streetlights flickered. And the idea of walking alone, with that shadow following her, seemed worse than accepting. “All right… just to the car.”
Resignation, submission, what else could be expected of someone like her.
They walked together. He spoke naturally, mentioning how the neighborhood had emptied out, how hard it was to find decent work in that area, and how “some people just got used to disappearing.”
Briony nodded, not knowing what to say—comforting him was the last thing on her mind.
When they reached the car, he leaned slightly, resting his hand on the doorframe before she could open it. “You know, Doctor, I thought I’d never see you again. But fate is funny. It always ends up putting certain people in the same place.”
She swallowed. “I should… go now.”
Jamie stared at her, the smile gone. “Yes. You should.”
There was a moment of emptiness. The whole street seemed to hold its breath.
Then, in a swift move, the bag in his hand dropped to the ground, and before she could react, he had already shoved the door open, dragging her inside the car.
Dizziness.
Briony tried to break free as soon as the door closed behind her, but Jamie was already too close. The seatbelt didn’t latch; the fabric slipped through her fingers before he swatted the buckle away.
“Jamie, stop!” she managed to shout, hitting him with the notebook across the face. A clumsy, desperate move.
He didn’t even flinch. The blow only drew a grimace.
Briony reached for the horn, but her fingers never made it. The pressure around her neck was immediate, brutal. Her nails tried to claw at the arms holding her, but they were firm, stronger than she remembered.
Of course—he wasn’t a boy anymore.
For a second, panic confused her: in her memory, he was still a teenager, thin, restrained by guards and rules. But the body holding her now was that of a young man, taller, his muscles hardened by years of confinement.
There was no comparison.
No way to defend herself—not a woman already weakened by age, by fragility.
“No…” she tried to say, but the air barely slipped through the pressure.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Her vision filled with black dots. Instinct told her to kick, but her legs were pinned against the car’s console, barely able to move.
Miller held her without hesitation. No fury, no loss of control—like someone who knew exactly how much to squeeze, how long to wait.
The notebook fell to the floor, open on a blank page.
In her last flicker of consciousness, Briony understood the inevitable: this was not the boy from five years ago. There was nothing adolescent left in him.
And then, darkness.
The car remained off for a while, wrapped in silence. Only the distant sound of rain against the windshield.
When had it started raining? Neither of them had noticed during the struggle.
Jamie kept his hands on the steering wheel, motionless, staring at the faint silhouette slumped in the passenger seat.
No trace of nervousness. No rush.
He leaned over and carefully rested Briony’s head against the glass, as if she were just a sleeping passenger. Then he picked up the notebook from the floor, flipped through it without interest, and placed it in the glove compartment.
The gloves weren’t just a stroke of luck. He adjusted them properly and fastened the seat belt across her chest, making sure the buckle clicked into place. No one would suspect an inert body that only looked tired.
From the glove compartment, he pulled out the first useful object: a pack of wet wipes. He ran one across the steering wheel, the gear shift, the passenger-side door handle.
Every movement was methodical—wasting no time, but leaving nothing unchecked.
Something he had learned and always kept in mind was that it’s dangerous to leave traces. He had been aware of that since he was young, and now, as an adult, he understood the importance of the place where you carried out your actions. That had been his mistake as a boy.
He would not repeat it.
Then he started the engine. The headlights lit up the empty road, and Jamie drove forward slowly, making as little noise as possible. Before taking the first turn, he stopped, stepped out, and left Briony’s umbrella on the roadside ditch. A calculated detail: if anyone asked, it would seem she had walked in the rain.
Before shutting himself back in the car, he approached the woman, searching through her clothes. He quickly found what he was looking for: her phone. Without a second thought, he took it in his hands, only to hurl it violently to the ground and then push the shattered remains toward the gutter.
Water makes many things disappear—many things.
Getting back inside, he glanced sideways at the unconscious woman.
A flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes, just for a second.
“Relax, doctor,” he muttered, almost in a whisper, turning the radio on low. “I don’t plan on killing you—that would be a waste.”
The car continued down into the depths of the dark road.
.
.
.
Interior. Spacious room.
Partial darkness.
A faint buzzing in her ears came first. Then, the sharp blow at the back of her neck. Briony forced her eyes open. The ceiling was high, painted a dirty white. The air was saturated with dampness, mixed with the scent of old wood.
She blinked several times. Her head felt heavy, but she managed to sit up. She was in a chair, unbound, with a wooden table in front of her. Two chairs, nothing more.
Her heart skipped a beat.
The setup was identical to that room years ago, when Jamie had been just a teenager sitting across from her, avoiding her gaze.
This time, she was alone.
She stood immediately, staggering. She rushed to the door and twisted the handle with both hands. Locked. She tried again, harder. Nothing.
She went to the windows. Large, covered from the outside with a translucent material. She could barely distinguish the light, deformed shadows beyond, but no clear view.
She struck the glass with her palm, once, twice. The echo reverberated in the empty room, unanswered.
“Hello!” —her voice cracked, dry, as if she hadn’t spoken in days. She pounded again— “Is anyone there?”
Only the echo replied.
She backed up to the table, breathing hard. Nothing useful to force the lock. The remaining furniture was insignificant: an empty sideboard, a half-broken shelf, a clock frozen at six.
All carefully useless.
It was chilling, sick—like being turned into the victim of some twisted game. What was he going to do with her now? Put her through some kind of Jigsaw setup just because she had questioned him years ago?
She didn’t deserve any of this.
The woman closed her eyes for a moment.
This wasn’t coincidence—the room was a mirror of her past with him. While it could be a clue about where she was, the chances of him recreating it somewhere else were just as high. It wasn’t as if anyone could easily get access to an abandoned building or something similar.
A creak interrupted her thoughts: the sound of the door’s hinges.
The door opened slowly, and Jamie’s figure appeared in the frame, backlit by a dim hallway.
He smiled.
Briony was still standing near the table when he stepped in. The door shut behind him with a metallic click that echoed far too loudly in the empty room. He carried a paper bag in one hand and a disposable cup in the other. He moved calmly, as if this were nothing more than a casual meeting at their usual café.
“Strange, isn’t it?” he said, walking in unhurriedly. “How things can turn over the years—you never know how they’ll end up.”
The young man dragged the other chair and placed it across from her. He sat down, calmly.
“I suppose it’s our turn to switch places now.”
He set the items in front of her. The aroma hit first: freshly made coffee, creamy, with that familiar layer of foam. A flat white.
The psychologist didn’t touch it. Her hands trembled.
“Thought you could use it,” Miller said, settling in with a careless air. “You always order it the same, don’t you? Every morning.”
She stared at him in silence. There was no way he could know that… not unless—
Her throat dried. In her mind, the last café visit slapped back at her: the hot chocolate with marshmallows, the cynical smile barely concealed. Everything fit.
“You shouldn’t know that,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.
Her suspicions confirmed, all she could think was how foolish she’d been—ignoring her instincts, despite every alarm screaming that something was deeply wrong.
What more proof had she needed?
Jamie leaned an elbow on the table and smiled, satisfied with her reaction, with the torment he could read in the furrow of her brow.
“Oh, but I do know. And I also know you hate sweets that are too cloying. You never finish black coffee once it’s gone cold, and you always carry a notebook, even if you don’t use it.” His gaze slid toward her bag propped against the wall, far too familiar.
How many chances were there that anything useful was inside that bag? She was sure he’d left it there only to feed her a cheap illusion of hope.
Briony’s stomach turned. He hadn’t just run into her at the library that day. He had followed her. The whole time.
For how long? Since her transfer—or long before?
Was that little girl just another part of this deranged plan?
How far did the planning go, and what was mere coincidence—or misfortune? She couldn’t know, and she realized dwelling on it would drive her mad.
“What do you want, Jamie?” she asked, forcing her tone to stay firm.
Would it matter? Trying to sound sane while being held captive.
He pretended to think, pulling something from his jacket pocket. A white card, magnetic stripe still visible. He held it between two fingers, spinning it under the light.
She recognized the design instantly: an access card. Like the ones from the community center.
The brunette let it fall onto the table with a sharp little tap.
“What I want is simple,” he said, leaning forward. “For things to go smoothly. And for that to happen, Doctor…” —his voice lowered, almost friendly— “…all you have to do is behave.”
The echo of that phrase lingered in the room, heavier than any explicit threat.
Behave?
Was he infantilizing her on purpose?
Ariston didn’t answer. She knew there were no locks, no windows, no improvised escapes that could undo what he had just made clear: he had been in control long before she even arrived here.
She didn’t know where in the country they were—or even if they were still in London at all. If she escaped right now, nothing guaranteed she’d find safety outside this room.
Jamie leaned back in his chair, as if he’d just won a game far too easily.
“You know,” he began, with that artificial calm she had already learned to read, “I always wanted to ask you questions.”
His childish act was sickening her, wearing her down.
The woman pressed her lips together. She didn’t ask "What questions?", because she knew that was exactly what he wanted: for her to ask. To open the door.
To let him in.
"For example…" The brown-haired man drummed his fingers on the still-warm coffee cup. She hadn’t touched the drink, even though it was offered, because she didn’t trust what might be inside. "When you looked at me, years ago, what was it you saw?"
What kind of question was that?
She swallowed. "A boy who needed help."
He chuckled softly. "No. That’s what you had to say as a psychologist. Now say what you were really supposed to say. But you… you thought something else."
The psychologist avoided his gaze, pretending to look at the closed door.
Of course she had her own thoughts about her patients—she wasn’t a machine. What did she think? Not much different from what most people think about killers. A selfish coward who couldn’t stand rejection—that would be the most banal simplification Ariston could give.
A man who lived resentful of women, simply because he preferred to criminalize them instead of trying to understand them, instead of seeing more than pretty objects.
A child who wanted to reduce his problems to a simple “girls don’t give me a chance.”
She felt only rejection toward him—nothing more.
Kindness? Just simple courtesy, professionalism she now regretted.
Jamie leaned forward, lifting himself slightly from his seat just to bother her, insistent: "Were you afraid of me? Did you pity me? Or did you just see me as some kind of freak?"
She didn’t justify him just for being a kid, and yet pity had been there at some point. A suffocating contradiction when Ariston tried to make sense of it, because she hated to think it came from a false maternal instinct.
The psychologist drew a deep breath. She knew that if she answered wrong, it could end badly for her. If she answered too quickly, he’d notice.
Fear? Maybe she did fear him, because he was half her height and still managed to take someone’s life as if it meant nothing, as if that person somehow owed it to him.
"I saw you…" she said slowly, choosing every word, "as someone who could still change."
Could someone like him change? She had believed so, back when he was just a teenager pretending to be innocent in front of the authorities. Now? Seeing what kind of adult he had become only brought her disappointment.
Silence. Eternal seconds.
Miller smiled, tilting his head.
"That doesn’t sound like a lie." He stood up slowly, coffee cup in hand, pacing around the table like a predator circling its prey. "You didn’t treat me like I was just a kid. You were more aware than the others that I was a murderer."
Briony tensed when she felt him behind her. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to move, to run, but where? There was no way out.
She was going to die here—all because she did her job.
"Tell me, doctor…" his voice dropped, almost a whisper against her ear, "Do you still see me the same way you did back then? Or has your opinion changed?"
She closed her eyes for a moment. The question wasn’t innocent. It was a trap. Depending on her answer, it might lengthen or shorten her life.
The man set the cup down on the table with a sharp thud, loud enough for the echo to run through the room.
"Do you still have it?" he asked.
The woman blinked, confused. "Have what?"
He stared at her without blinking. "The notebook. That brown one you used with me. You wrote in it every day during my investigation."
Briony’s heart skipped a beat. Of course she remembered. Of course she knew what he was talking about. But she swallowed and shook her head. "It’s been many years, Jamie. I don’t keep all my notes."
A smile spread across his face—slow, uncomfortable, dangerous.
"Are you sure?" He stepped toward her, just one step, but it felt far too close. "You threw away something that… special?"
The psychologist tried to remain calm. "I don’t remember. Maybe I did." she repeated, this time firmly.
Miller tilted his head, studying her with that perverse patience.
"What a shame," he whispered at last, with a calmness that froze her blood. He leaned in just enough for her to see his pupils, dilated and dark. "Because you’re not going to like what comes after our little interrogation."
The silence grew thick. Only Briony’s restrained breathing could be heard, along with the faint creak of wood beneath the stranger’s fingers as they drummed an irregular rhythm on the edge of the table.
Jamie dragged the chair with a harsh screech and sat down across from her, resting his elbows on the table as if resuming an unfinished session.
“Do you know what bothered me the most?” he asked softly. “That you never let me read what you wrote. Everything could have ended there, but you had to refuse.”
The woman swallowed, her eyes fixed on the cup of coffee that had long gone cold. She tried to find something to steady herself, anything.
“It was part of the process. You couldn’t—”
“You couldn’t trust me,” he cut her off. His lips curved faintly. “Why would you? Would trusting a young murderer make any difference?”
The psychologist noticed how his posture grew tense, how he began to stir as the conversation pressed forward.
“Tell me the truth. What did you write about me?”
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“Liar.” The man drummed his fingers against the table again. Rhythmic, insistent. “I remember what you told me, like that time you spoke about your family… Your grandfather, wasn’t it? With those sweet, stupid nicknames.”
The silence shattered when he spoke again, sharper:
“Did you see me as a monster?”
Briony lifted her gaze, her jaw trembling. “I was trying to help you.”
“Everyone says that.” Jamie hit the table—not hard, but enough to make her flinch. “What do you think of me? Was that all? Just another poor kid to help because no one else takes them seriously?”
Tears began to well up in Ariston’s eyes. She tried to breathe deeply, to hold herself together, as she had in the past. But this time the pressure was too real, too close.
There was no guard behind the door to help her.
No one to assure her she would walk away unharmed—if she walked away at all.
He watched her with an almost satisfied gleam. “Or did you see me as a child? A pathetic boy with trauma? Did you pity me? I bet you did—women love pitying poor idiots.”
She lowered her gaze, unable to hold it. “You were… a child, I just wanted to help you understand—”
Jamie smiled, a smile that unsettled her deeply.
“A child?” he repeated, leaning in closer. “Look at me now, doctor. Do you still see a child?”
The tears slid down her cheeks, as before, like in those first sessions when the tension always overwhelmed her. Except now, there was no one behind the glass, no guard waiting to open the door if things spiraled out of control.
No one who could keep this lunatic in check.
Miller let her sit in the suffocating silence for a moment before murmuring:
“That’s all I ever wanted. For you to tell me what you really saw when you looked at me. I spent years asking myself the same thing, over and over, again and again…”
Jamie let the silence stretch until it became unbearable. He suddenly stood, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. He paced around the table, breathing heavily, until at once he grabbed one of the empty chairs and hurled it against the wall. The crash made Briony shrink in her seat.
He was intimidating her on purpose—just that. Just an act to frighten her further.
Her lips pressed together, tears streaming freely now. Her body wanted to tremble, but she forced herself to stay still, restrained. Jamie came back to her, leaning in with sudden calm that made her stomach turn.
“But that’s fine,” he said slowly. “For today… that’s enough.”
She swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “What… what happens next?”
He didn't respond with words. With a quick, precise movement, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her against the table. It wasn't an act of blind violence, but a display of raw, primitive strength. The cold, hard wood struck her cheek, and the sound of Jamie's breath, now so close, mixed with the frantic pounding of her own heart.
Briony braced for the worst.
She closed her eyes, body rigid, preparing for a pain she knew in the abstract, had read in reports, had heard in the faltering voices of other women. Her mind was already disconnecting, searching for that gray corner where the body ceased to be her own.
But there was no metallic sound. He didn't reach for her wrists or her thighs.
He pulled away.
She heard his footsteps retreat, then the scrape of his fingers across the table. Something slid. She opened her eyes just in time to see him unwrap a paper bag. He took out a sandwich wrapped in plastic film. He dropped it in front of her, next to the coffee cup, arranging them as if setting the cutlery for a date. Briony watched him from the chair, not daring to move or bother to touch it at all.
The smell of coffee reached her in a gust: bitter, hot, familiar. This time she noticed another detail: the amount of steam escaping from the small hole in the lid, revealing that the liquid was probably boiling.
"...You know? After the trip, you should eat something."
The voice brooked no reply. But she didn't move her hands, still pinned to the table by the weight of his body on her back.
She wasn't stupid. She didn't know what kind of things might be inside those innocent, everyday ingredients. Even though her stomach felt empty and uneasy, her brain rejected the need.
"I'm not hungry," she said, and her voice came out hoarse, broken.
He didn't answer. He looked at her. Blinked twice, slowly. He tore the plastic with his teeth. The bread was slightly squashed; melted cheese and a sliver of pickle peeked out from the edges. He held it up to her lips.
"That wasn't a question."
Briony turned her face away. Her cheek burned from the scrape of the wood, but she kept her gaze fixed on the chipped wall.
A second of stillness. Then the sandwich exploded against the wall with a thud that vibrated through her chest. The bread crumbled into crumbs; the cheese stuck to the peeling paint, sliding down in a slow, greasy thread. The pickles fell to the floor with a wet sound.
His patience was running out—or perhaps he'd never had any to begin with.
Briony felt the echo of the impact at the back of her own neck, a reflexive flinch that left her breathless. But Jamie had already moved. The coffee cup scraped against the table. The plastic lid creaked under his fingers.
"What bothers me about you," he said, and the calm of his voice didn't match his childish outburst at all, "is that you're so pretty."
The word landed like a spit.
"Pretty, kind, patient. Just like all those women who think they have the right to humiliate others just because someone tried to ask them out." He tilted the cup. A thin stream of steaming liquid fell onto the table, forming a puddle that smoked. The smell of coffee mixed with the rancid cheese. His tone lost all pretense of fake affection. "Do you know what it's like to be ugly? For no one to look at you? To be called an incel just because you want a chance?"
The hand gripping the back of her neck tightened. She felt him readjust his weight, change the angle of his hold. She didn't try to break free. It wouldn't do any good.
"Jamie, you need to calm down—"
The cup tilted. A thin stream of steaming liquid fell onto the table, forming a puddle that smoked.
"Maybe putting you in my shoes will make you think."
Briony struggled, but he twisted her arm back with a dry motion and reinforced his grip against the table. Her cheek pressed against the wood, scraping the woman's skin, drawing blood. The smell of coffee became unbearably present.
"I always thought a pretty face didn't deserve that much respect," he murmured next to her ear.
The cup moved. The first contact was a scorching sun on the back of her neck.
The scream tore from her throat, turning into a hoarse, choked wail, barely human. The hot liquid burned her skin—a pain unlike others: it climbed, sank, expanded like something alive seeking to settle into her bones. She tried to get up again, but he held her still with the weight of his body, with that strength that was no longer that of a teenager.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Now imagine it hurts all the time. That you look in the mirror and know no one will ever want to look at you."
The cup lowered. This time it descended toward her neck, toward the edge of her shirt. The heat pierced the fabric in a second, and Briony felt her skin crawl, shrink before bursting.
"It burns... it burns, please—"
"You didn't say please when you wrote in that notebook what you thought about me." The cup tilted. Coffee spilled onto her chest, and she arched her back with a hoarse sob that escaped between her clenched teeth. "You think I haven't read my own file? 'Lack of empathy. Objectification of women. Risk of sexual violence.' I know all that stupid crap wasn't written by the other psychologists."
He pronounced each word with the precision of someone who had repeated them until memorized. Maybe he had read them in some note from another psychologist, or maybe he had managed to find more of his own file somehow. Years had passed. It was impossible to know for sure.
Maybe he had found the damn notebook. Maybe he had always had it.
"And I asked myself," he continued, bringing the cup close to her face again, the steam burning her eyelashes, "why does she have the right to write that about me? Why can she decide what I think?"
Briony could no longer see clearly. Tears, sweat, the smoke from the coffee—everything blended into a burning fog. The pain in her neck and chest was no longer localized; now it was a white, ceaseless thing that stole her breath and her consciousness in fragments. She couldn't think of anything.
The cup touched her cheek. A second of absolute stillness.
"Look at me," Jamie said.
She opened her eyes.
He was so close that his face was a blur, but she could see his dilated pupils, the tense line of his jaw, the wet shine of his slightly parted lips.
"Am I ugly?"
The answer stuck in her throat. She didn't know which one was right. Maybe there was none. Maybe that was the trap: anything she said would be used against her.
He waited. Three heartbeats. Four.
Then he smiled. And with a quick movement, without looking away, he tilted the cup and poured the rest of the coffee over the left side of her face.
The world exploded into white.
Briony didn't know if she screamed. She didn't know if she moved. The pain was a wall, a solid barrier against which her consciousness crashed without breaking through. For a moment, infinite and brief at once, there was nothing but that whiteness.
When the ringing in her ears finally stopped, she was no longer on the table.
She was on the floor, curled against the wall, her hands pressed to her cheek. The tips of her fingers found raised, damp skin. The smell of burnt coffee had stuck to her clothes, her hair, her eyelashes. Each breath was a lash on her chest, where the fabric of her shirt stuck to raw flesh.
Jamie knelt in front of her. He watched her with an expression that Briony, in some remote corner of her consciousness, identified as disappointment.
"Not bad," he said, almost with admiration. "You still have one pretty half."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her lips trembled without forming words, and every attempt to swallow reminded her of the taste of coffee mixed with something metallic.
He stood up. Picked up the empty cup from the floor and the crumpled bag. His steps headed toward the door, but he stopped on the threshold.
"If you ever get out of here, you might start to understand what it feels like to be judged just by how you look."
The door closed. The key turned in the lock. A metallic click, definitive.
Briony stayed motionless, her cheek pressed against the cold wood of the wall. The pain had changed: it was no longer just fire, but something deeper, a vibration that ran through her bones. Each heartbeat pushed hot blood against the burned skin, and each push reminded her that she was still alive.
She tried to measure time by the pulse in her own temples, but the seconds dissolved like the foam of spilled coffee. She didn't know if minutes or hours had passed. She didn't know if Jamie would come back. She didn't know if she wanted him to come back or if she would rather bleed out alone in that corner.
Someone, somewhere, had said that time heals everything.
She raised her hand with trembling fingers and touched her own cheek. The skin gave way under her fingertip—hot, damp, foreign.
It wasn't true.
.
.
.
In some corner of her mind, Briony thought she would have liked to do things differently. To have been firmer years ago. To have said much of what she kept silent instead of bowing her head submissively. To have walked away before it was too late.
That thought barely had time to form: it shattered into pieces and vanished, absorbed by the thick fog that kept her motionless, trapped in a present that seemed to have devoured time itself.
The murmur of a voice yanked her violently out of that refuge.
"I'll bring you something to eat later," Jamie said. His tone was flat, almost domestic, as if what had just happened were nothing more than an inconvenient formality. As if the burns on her face were just a spilled drink. As if it were going to become routine.
Perhaps it would. She had no choice in the matter.
She blinked several times, as if only now remembering where she was. Not that she truly knew, anyway. Clarity returned slowly, like someone switching on a light that was far too bright in a dark room: the cold of the floor against her bare legs, the throbbing pulse of the burn on her cheek, the bitter smell of coffee that had seeped into her clothes, her hair, her skin. And beneath it, the faint acrid scent of burnt fabric—her own shirt, fused to her chest in places.
Jamie stood by the door, watching her. No trace of nervousness. No guilt. Just a calm, almost clinical curiosity, as if he were observing the effects of an experiment.
"You should see your face," he said, and there was something in his voice—not quite satisfaction, not quite disappointment. A strange, hollow wonder. "Half of it is... different now."
Briony didn't answer. She couldn't. Her lips were cracked, dry, and every attempt to speak sent a jolt of pain through the burned side of her jaw. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, on a dark stain where the coffee had pooled and dried into a brown crust.
A reflex came with a flicker of lucidity: she brought her hand to her chest, touched the sticky fabric. The shirt was ruined, melted into the skin in a patch the size of her palm. When she tried to pull it away, the fabric tugged at raw flesh, and a whimper escaped her throat before she could stop it.
"Careful," Jamie said, almost gently. "You'll make it worse."
He crouched down in front of her. His face was at her level now, and she could see the dilation of his pupils, the slight flush on his cheeks. He was enjoying this. Not the pain itself, but the control. The fact that she was on the floor and he was not.
"You know what I used to think about, back then? In the center?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
"I used to think about what it would be like to have you alone. Without the glass. Without the guards. Without that stupid notebook between us." He tilted his head, studying her burned cheek. "I'm not disappointed, Doctor. You're exactly how I imagined."
He stood up. Walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"Try to rest. The pain gets worse before it gets better. I know from experience."
The door closed. The key turned. Then silence.
Briony stayed on the floor, her back against the wall, her hand still pressed to her chest. The throb in her cheek had settled into a deep, rhythmic pulse—each beat of her heart pushing blood against the ruined skin, each beat a reminder that she was still alive, still trapped, still there.
She tried to measure time by the fading of the coffee smell, but it clung to everything. Her fingers, when she brought them to her nose, smelled of burned grounds and something else—something sweet, almost caramelized. Her own flesh.
A sob built in her chest, but it didn't come out. It turned into a dry, rattling cough that scraped her throat raw.
She thought of Ellie. Of the little girl's drawing with the black windows. Of the figure with no face. Now she understood. Now she knew what it felt like to be that figure—not a monster, just erased. Just marked.
She closed her eyes. The darkness behind her lids was the same as the darkness in the room.
No difference. No escape.
Somewhere, a pipe dripped. Steady. Patient. Counting seconds that she no longer cared to count.