Andrew had learned the institution’s rhythms the way other people learned weather. The doors sighed before they locked. The cameras hummed when they shifted. The staff footsteps changed pitch when they came in numbers instead of pairs. It had been a few months—long enough for the walls to stop feeling temporary and start feeling intentional.

He was twenty-five now. Legal. Old enough that no one could soften the language around what he’d done. Dangerous, they called it, even though the word still tasted wrong in his mouth. Self-defense never survived the paperwork. The judges had looked at the reports, at the photos, at the way he didn’t flinch or apologize, and decided prison wasn’t the right cage. So they sent him here instead. Recovery, they said. High-security mental hospital. A place for people who crossed lines and didn’t know how to step back over them.

Andrew knew exactly where the line was. He’d just stepped over it anyway.

Nicky had been bleeding when Andrew arrived. That detail mattered more to him than the number of men or the way the street had smelled like garbage and rain. Homophobic slurs, fists, boots—Andrew remembered the sound of bone more clearly than the words. He’d stopped when there was nothing left moving toward Nicky. That was the part no one liked. That was the part that got written up as excessive force and psychological instability.

Aaron, Nicky, and Renee visited when they could. Visiting hours were a privilege here, and Andrew had a talent for threatening his privileges into nonexistence. He told them not to come. He told them to stay away. Sometimes he meant it. Sometimes he just couldn’t stand the way the guards watched their faces, cataloging reactions like evidence. They’d visit more if it were allowed. They’d visit more if Andrew didn’t make it so damn hard.

The staff called his behavior “uncooperative.” The psychologists preferred “not showing progress.” Andrew called it boundaries.

He didn’t talk to them. Not really. He answered questions with silence or precision, gave nothing he couldn’t afford to lose. He hated their hands—the way nurses touched his arm to guide him, the way doctors leaned too close, the way psychologists tried to poke into his mind like it was a bruise they could press until it confessed. When provoked, he attacked. When cornered, he finished things. The other patients learned quickly. They didn’t mess with him. Staff came in groups when they had to handle him, voices clipped and rehearsed, hands hovering near restraints.

It worked. Mostly.

Today, though, the air felt different. New variables always did that.

Andrew had heard about the new psychologist a few days ago, picked up the information the way he picked up everything else—quietly, from half-finished conversations and careless mouths. Neil Josten. Twenty-four. Fresh out of university, which alone made Andrew suspicious. Five foot three, blue eyes, red hair. Not the usual type they sent into places like this. The rumors were more interesting than the file: old scars mapped across his face and body, the kind you didn’t get from accidents; a criminal record before he’d “turned his life around” for psychology.

Andrew didn’t believe in redemption arcs, but he did believe in patterns.

Most doctors came in armored with credentials and left with bruised egos. They thought a PhD meant insight, that a clipboard could substitute for listening. Stuck up and cowardly in equal measure, hiding behind policies and panic buttons. Andrew had no intention of making this easy for anyone, least of all some young psychologist who probably still believed in progress notes and breakthrough moments.

He stretched his fingers, feeling the faint ache where restraints had once bitten into his wrists. Entertaining or a pain in the ass, he decided. Those were the only two options.

Either way, Andrew wasn’t planning on letting Neil Josten in easily.