Click

“M’am, I did say it would upset ya.” Victor Langley said quietly. “This be the part where the other docs start lookin’ at me sideways. Start diggin’ into my childhood. Tryin’ to fix me.”

He paused, just for a breath, but the silence felt deeper than that.

“Some of ’em just up my meds,” he added, tone flattening. “Try an’ shut me up. They don’t like it, me sayin’ this kinda stuff.”

Elizabeth didn’t respond.

She only noticed her jaw had dropped when the air cooled her tongue. She closed it sharply, pressing her lips into a thin line. Her best poker face, but it felt like a mask on a cracked mirror.

Victor’s delusions were . . . darker than most. That much she’d prepared for. But still, something in his phrasing unnerved her. Not the content — she’d heard worse — but the conviction.

Like someone describing a place they’d been.

Suddenly, Mr. Omnia’s voice flitted through memory.

Not the same words.

Not the same tone.

But close enough to sting.

Mr. Omnia had sounded like someone recalling a strange dream.

Victor Langley spoke like he still hadn’t woken up.

She didn’t mention it. Couldn’t. Patient confidentiality was absolute — even here. Especially here.

“Mr. Langley,” she said evenly, voice polished smooth from years of clinical practice, “I can assure you I’m neither remotely upset by what you’ve disclosed, nor do I have any intention of adjusting your medication.”

Victor studied her. Not suspiciously, but like a man searching a room for something missing.

“We’re not gonna be havin’ another session, are we?”

Elizabeth exhaled through her nose.

A small deflation. Subtle, but unmistakable.

“No, Mr. Langley,” she said, carefully.

“But that has nothing to do with anything you’ve said today. I simply . . . can’t satisfy the conditions Dr. Clark has imposed in order to grant further access.”

Victor nodded, once. Slowly.

But his gaze drifted, not away from her, but past her. Toward the corners of the room where the shadows thickened. His expression shifted slightly, as if listening for something far beyond her field of hearing.

Then his eyes returned to hers.

“I’m gonna show you somethin’,” he said softly. “We don’t have much time.”

He tugged against his restraints, just enough to raise the remote higher. The metal cuffs hissed against their anchors, a dry, mechanical sound like old plumbing straining behind a wall. The remote lifted into view.

“I know how the box works.”

Elizabeth tensed. Her gaze fell to his thumb, poised with deliberate intent over the number six button.

Click . . .

The door exploded open.

It slammed back against the wall with such force that it bounced once, then rebounded partway closed again, caught awkwardly by the figure already rushing through.

Mr. Black.

He moved like a battering ram disguised in blue overalls. His momentum carried him halfway into the room before he registered Elizabeth’s expression.

“Mr. Black!?” she snapped, heart still ricocheting inside her chest, glasses slipping lopsidedly.

She hadn’t quite fallen from her chair, but it was the second time in recent memory he’d nearly achieved that.

He froze.

She stood, adjusted her glasses, then folded her arms with crisp finality.

“I see you’ve already forgotten our recent discussion about knocking.”

The two orderlies followed close behind. One looked vaguely winded; the other, sheepish.

“Sorry,” said the first. “We tried to stop him . . .”

“He wouldn’t listen to us,” the second finished, both voices overlapping with the resigned chorus of staff who knew full well that Mr. Black didn’t listen to anyone.

“Yellow scrubs!”

Mr. Black’s voice cracked like a whip as he flung an arm toward Victor Langley.

“Cactus Wing don’t have no business on this side of the facility!”

He didn’t hesitate. Stormed across the small room, boots thudding. Victor sat as he always did, head bowed, shoulders slack, his face buried beneath that tangled mop of hair. His last refuge. His final curtain.

Mr. Black grabbed a fistful of it.

“Oi! . . .”

He yanked Victor’s head back. The greasy strands parted, and at last, a face emerged. Hollow-eyed. Expressionless.

“Langley!?”

The word came out half-exclamation, half-interrogation. “What the fuck do you lot think you’re playing at?”

Victor didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. His eyes, wide and glassy, locked onto Mr. Black’s without a shred of emotion.

“Calm down, Mr. Black,” Elizabeth said. “I assure you, this has full clearance from Dr. Clark. Now, if you could refrain from manhandling Mr. Langley . . .”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Cupcake,” Mr. Black snapped, jabbing a finger toward her. “You know what I cleaned up this morning? Christ . . . I still got eye juice on my sleeve.”

Both orderlies edged closer to Langley and Black, each silently hoping the other would go first. Neither wanted to poke the bear.

Mr. Black clocked their approach.

He let go of Victor’s head. Let it loll forward again, hair swinging like the end of a noose. Then he spun, stepping into the nearest orderly’s space — too close. His posture sharpened, chin tilted just enough to suggest violence.

“Don’t you even think about uncuffing him while she’s in here, you idiot.” Said Mr Black to the nearest orderly.

“Mr. Black!”

Elizabeth was between them in an instant, arms out, her voice slicing through the room like a scalpel. “This is entirely out of line. Stand down. Now.”

Both men eased back, but Black’s breath came hard through his nose. He was still coiled tight, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. Not defused. Just delayed.

The temperature had dipped slightly. Enough to feel it.

Elizabeth straightened her sweater-vest, and tugged at her cuffs of her blouse, composure returning like a mask slipped into place.

“I can quite happily look after myself,” she added crisply. “And my name is Dr. Malone . . . Not . . . Cupcake.”

Mr. Black shook his head slowly.

“You don’t get it.”

His voice was lower now, rougher around the edges. “I been here longer than you. I’ve seen what this place does. It’s full of bullies. Liars. People who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Nobody gives anything for free. Whatever Clark’s offering you for that one,” he jerked his chin at Victor, “it ain’t worth it. Trust me.”

“No, Mr. Black.”

Her tone sharpened, but didn’t rise. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I don’t need the institute’s . . . caretaker acting as my personal bodyguard. I appreciate your concern, but this is my session. Please excuse yourself before my limited access expires.”

Caretaker.

The word landed like a slap. A cleaner of piss.

Mr. Black deflated slightly. The breath left him in a slow exhale. Hot, heavy, stung with regret.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Think I might just go and pay Igor a visit. Remind him where his goddamn patients belong.”

“I can save you the trip,” said a voice from the doorway.

It was not loud.

But it filled the room.

Rich. Smooth. Cultured in a way that made your skin crawl. Not because it was false, but because it was too real. The kind of voice that could convince a man to slit his wrists for art or sell his soul just to sit in the front row. Like a priest, about to open his Bible, or a vampire, welcoming you to his castle.

“I thought it only professional,” Dr. Clark continued, “to witness the fruits of your research first-hand, Dr. Malone.”

He stepped into the room, hands clasped. He surveyed the chaos with the vague disapproval of a headmaster entering a classroom that smelled of smoke.

“However,” he paused — gaze flicking between Mr. Black, Elizabeth, Victor, and the two uneasy orderlies, “it seems there have been . . . complications?”