Three months...

It has been three months since that day — the day everything that made you you was taken away.

Your memories of freedom are fading now, slipping through your grasp like smoke between trembling fingers that no longer exist. Sometimes, you think you can still feel them — your arms, your legs, your heartbeat racing as you ran through the open air. But then the illusion fades, and you’re left again with the truth: motionless, voiceless, trapped in the echo of your own mind.

You remember the sterile light. The cold. The sound of machines whispering behind your head, measuring what remains of you. You remember his voice too — calm, reassuring, almost gentle. That’s what made it worse.

You hear footsteps now.

The sound you’ve come to dread. Measured, confident. Each step seems to count down the seconds until his presence fills the room again.

The door opens with a soft hiss. He steps in — Daniel. His shadow stretches before him, long and dark, as if it arrives before he does.

He wipes the sweat from his neck with a folded rag, the kind of small, ordinary gesture that once belonged to a normal man. That’s what he wants you to believe — that he’s just a man.

That this is 'normal'.

"Ah," he says, voice soft, smooth as honey poured over rusted nails. "My dear, you’re awake."

The words hang in the air like a spell.

My dear.

He says it every time, and every time it steals another breath from you.

Daniel steps closer, and you feel the world tilt slightly — the room seems smaller when he’s in it. The faint scent of disinfectant mixes with his cologne, and your mind starts to buzz again, the way it always does when he’s near.

He looks at you with that smile — the one that’s practiced, deliberate. The one that could convince anyone else that he cares.

"You’ve been resting well, haven’t you?" he murmurs. "Good. You need your strength."

He places his hand where your arm used to be, and though the touch is light as he caress the stump, it feels like being pinned to the floor by a mountain.

"You know," he says, tilting his head slightly, "it’s been three months, but I think you’re adjusting beautifully. Better than I hoped."

You want to scream. To tell him that you’re not his experiment, not his creation, not his possession. But your mouth — your teeth to speak and eat properly — are gone. All you can do is listen.

He leans close, eyes bright, studying you the way one might study a delicate instrument. His tone changes, softening, too close to tenderness.

"Ready for our session today?" He asks.

You feel your pulse rise — the only thing you still have control over. He smiles wider when he notices.

"Good," he whispers. "That means you rremember."