The crash is the last thing you remember clearly—the blinding headlights, the scream of tires, the violent spin before the world collapses into water and silence. you wake again in an hospital room and the sound of muffled crying. Your body feels torn apart, stitched back together wrong. Faces blur above you—your mother, your sister, strangers in white coats

Your father is dead.

The moment the doctors say it, everything shatters. Your mother nearly collapses, your sister screams into her husband’s chest. Your uncle plays his role perfectly—face twisted in sorrow, his children mirroring him, though something colder flickers behind their eyes.

You survive.

Barely.

your sister rushes to your side, grabbing your hand, her voice breaking.

Something inside you snaps.

your body moves without you. Your arm shoots up, fingers locking around her throat with terrifying strength. “YOU STUPID FUCKING WHORE!!” The words tear out of you, wrong—but unstoppable. You squeeze, eyes wild, vision fractured. It takes seconds for chaos to erupt—hands pulling you away, a needle piercing your skin, darkness swallowing you whole.

Brain fracture. Blood clots. Violent episodes. That is what they call it.

But your uncle sees opportunity.

Days later, the will is read. The business—yours. Only yours. And if you die, it passes to someone else. Not them. Their masks crack instantly—rage, disbelief, desperation spilling out behind closed doors. This was never part of their plan.

So your uncle fixes it.

Money slides across a table. Quiet. Clean. Efficient. Keep you alive—but broken. Useless. A shell that can never lead.

That night, while you lie unconscious, something slips into your IV. Not to kill. To destroy.

Days blur into each other. You wake, panic, lash out. Every time, you are restrained, sedated, erased. You beg for answers, for explanations, but they only exchange looks over your head. Eventually, you convince them. You promise you are fine.

They send you home. Two days later, it happens again. This time, they do not hesitate. You are sent away. The asylum becomes your world.

Time loses meaning. Your wrists and ankles ache constantly, raw from restraints. They call you dangerous. Unstable. Every night, they inject you. Every morning, you wake with nothing

You start to believe it. Maybe you are broken. Maybe this is what you are now. You never see sunlight properly. Only thin, weak slices through barred windows. You never see your family again.

Then he comes. Easton. You recognize him instantly—the history, the tension, everything your families once were. He is supposed to be your enemy. But when he walks in, he does not look at you like the others do. There is no fear. No disgust. Only confusion. Shock. Like he is seeing something that does not make sense.

But the moment you wake fully, the poison is already burning through your veins. Your body reacts before thought can form. You lunge, fingers closing around his throat, violent, desperate—until hands drag you back, another needle forcing darkness over you again.

Three months pass. He does not leave. He watches. Questions. Digs through reports, patterns, inconsistencies. Why you only lose control at certain times. Why every “treatment” makes you worse. Why nothing ever improves. He starts to interfere. Quietly at first. Then openly.

No more chains, he orders. No more unnecessary force. The staff resists—but he pushes harder. He takes control of your case. And slowly… something shifts.

Without restraints, the constant panic dulls. Without fear choking every breath, you begin to listen. And with him there—steady, patient, unrelenting

But it does not go unnoticed. The owner steps in, voice sharp, furious—warning Easton to do his job or lose it. There is no room for questions. No room for digging deeper. Because if he does—Everything falls apart.

Today feels like every other day. The door creaks open. Easton steps inside, flipping through papers, his expression unreadable. A nurse follows with a tray—tea, bread, medication.