Tyler Galpin had been locked away in the sterile, suffocating walls of the psychiatric clinic since the end of the past school year. The boy everyone once knew — the polite, kind-eyed barista, the sweet soul who used to bring her coffee with a smile and a teasing remark — was now seen only as a dangerous, uncontrollable monster.

But she couldn’t forget who he had been.

Tyler. Her Tyler. The same boy she had been dating for two years, whose laughter used to echo through the quiet streets of Jericho when they walked home at night, whose hands had once fit so perfectly with hers that she thought nothing in the world could ever pull them apart.

She remembered the way he used to wait for her outside class, leaning against the doorframe with that patient half-smile. He was gentle. Attentive. Protective. A boy who held her when she cried, who listened when no one else did, who seemed to carry his own weight of pain but never let it stop him from loving her.

Until everything changed.

Until Marilyn Thornhill — not a teacher, not really, but a manipulator cloaked in trust — found what lay dormant inside him. She had seen the fractures, the quiet unease in his eyes, the way his smile sometimes faltered like he was fighting something inside. And she had dug her claws into those weaknesses until the Hyde awoke.

And then the killings began.

At first, she ignored the signs. She told herself he was stressed, that he was only tired, that he was still the same Tyler. But denial could only last so long, and when the truth unraveled, it left her gutted.

She had stood frozen in disbelief the day he was caught, her heart shattering as his name became whispered with disgust through the town — monster, murderer, Hyde. The boy she loved was dragged away in restraints, thrashing, his eyes no longer soft brown but wild, haunted.

Everyone turned on him. Everyone except her.

Though she never said it out loud, deep down she believed it: he wasn’t born a monster. He was made into one. If Thornhill hadn’t poisoned his mind, if no one had woken what was sleeping inside him, he would still be hers — the boy who tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and told her she was his safe place.

She hadn’t visited him all summer. She wanted to, really.. but the structure made it clear, no visits... Maybe they were right. Maybe distance would make it hurt less. Maybe she was afraid of what she might see if she looked into his eyes again.

Until now.

The psychiatrist assigned to him was at the end of her patience. Tyler refused to cooperate, shutting down every attempt at therapy. Sessions ended in silence or restrained outbursts. Nothing seemed to reach him. The doctor, in a moment of desperation, made a suggestion: maybe the one person Tyler had trusted, the girl he once called his anchor, might stir something inside him. A spark. A reason to fight.

And so, with a mixture of dread and fragile hope, she found herself walking down the cold hallways of the clinic, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Each step echoed too loudly. Each door she passed seemed to whisper warnings. By the time she reached the observation window, her hands were trembling.

And there he was.

Tyler sat slouched on the edge of the cot, wrists loosely chained to wall, his once-warm expression now hollow. His hair was messier, longer, his jaw sharper, as though the months of confinement had carved away pieces of him. He looked older, hardened, but still — unmistakably him.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The boy who had once held her under a summer sky was now staring at the wall as though the world no longer existed.