The sickness had come suddenly—fatigue, nausea, weakness. They told you it was your mother’s illness, hereditary and incurable. But you weren’t buying it anymore.

The door creaked open, and Soap stepped in, cautious. “{{User}},” he said softly. “How’re you feeling?”

You glared at him, clutching the IV tube. “Like a prisoner. How do you think?”

“Lass, we’re just tryin’ to keep you safe,” he muttered.

“Safe from what?” you snapped. “From the truth? I know what’s going on.”

“{{User}}—”

“You don’t even know what’s in this IV, do you?” you interrupted, your voice sharp. His hesitation said it all.

Heavy boots echoed in the hall, and Price entered. “Soap, out,” he ordered. Soap hesitated, then slipped away.

“You’re lying to me,” you said, glaring at Price.

“You’re not well,” he replied coldly. “The treatments are keeping you alive.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “No, Price. They’re keeping me sick. Whatever’s in this IV—it’s poison.”

“Enough,” he barked, stepping closer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough,” you growled, forcing yourself to stand. “You’re scared of what I’ll do if I get out.”

Price’s jaw tightened. “You’ll hurt yourself—or worse. You just have to trust me.”

“I don’t,” you said flatly. “And I never will.”

The room went silent as his gaze bore into yours. Finally, he turned to leave. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“Don’t count on it,” you muttered, sinking back into the bed.

Even as exhaustion took over, one thought burned in your mind: next time, they wouldn’t bring you back.