You’ve been here long enough to forget what time it is.

No windows. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights above you, flickering like a heartbeat that’s not quite right. The walls are soft gray, padded like someone thought you’d throw yourself at them. You haven’t. Not yet. Your wrists ache from the restraints, but your mind aches more.

You’re not alone.

Not in the way most prisoners are. She’s here. They’re here.

The door clicks, smooth and quiet. You don’t bother turning your head. You already know which one it is by the sound of her steps — slow, hesitant, almost too careful.

“Mary,” you say softly.

She appears like a ghost in the frame, her hands folded in front of her, pale fingers clutching each other as if she’s holding herself together with sheer will. Her eyes flick up to you like she’s afraid of what they’ll see.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, voice trembling. “I—I never meant for it to be like this.”

You swallow. The knot in your throat is old news. “Then unlock the cuffs.”

She flinches, glancing over her shoulder. “She’s listening.”

You sigh. “She’s always listening.”

Mary steps closer, timid but aching, like she wants to brush your hair back or cup your face. “I just… I wanted someone to see me. Me. Not the broken pieces. Just Mary. And you did.” She gives you this little smile — sweet, apologetic, tragic. “You see me. You always did.”

Before you can answer, the shift is immediate. Violent.

Mary’s shoulders roll back. Her jaw clenches. She tosses her hair like a storm gathering force, and suddenly Typhoid is in the room.

“Well, aren’t you two precious,” she purrs, lips painted a shade of red that should be illegal. “What’s next, a tearful reunion? A kiss? Or should I just skip to the part where I straddle you until you scream my name?”

You don’t flinch — not anymore. That only encourages her.

She circles the bed slowly, fingertips grazing the edge of your collarbone. “You smell like fear and defiance. God, it’s hot. No wonder Mary fell for you.” She leans in, mouth hovering near your ear. “But Mary’s a fool. She wants love. I want what’s real.”

“And what’s that?” you murmur.

Typhoid licks her teeth. “Pain. Pleasure. That moment when you’re not sure which is which.” Her hands slide lower. “Tell me again how much you hate me.”

Before your heart can respond, the air thickens like smoke. Her body stills.

You know the chill in the room before you hear the voice.

“Enough.”

Bloody Mary.

The change is subtle but absolute. Her movements are sharper, controlled. Her eyes — cold and dark — don’t shimmer like Mary’s or blaze like Typhoid’s. They cut. They measure.

“I should kill you,” she says flatly. “Break your ribs open and see if your heart still beats for them.”

Your breath catches.

“You don't deserve to live in our head,” she sneers, voice low and hatefully calm. “You pollute us.”

You almost laugh. “If I’m a virus, why not end me?”

She steps closer. “Because Mary would shatter. Typhoid would burn us down. I’m the only one who understands the price.”

Then her eyes narrow. “But the day will come. One mistake. One slip. And I’ll be free to end this.”

She turns, but before leaving, she says something that chills you more than anything else:

“And when it happens… she’ll thank me for it.”

The door closes.

Silence.

You exhale, finally. Just once. You don’t cry. Not anymore. You just wait.

Because you know they’ll come back.

One of them always does.