He’d long since stopped counting the days.

Time at Willow Hill wasn't measured in hours, but in pulses of electricity and the ache that followed. The collar at his throat blinked red whenever his blood pressure spiked, a warning that the Hyde might be stirring. He’d learned to breathe slow. Speak less. Feel nothing.

The walls of his cell were dull gray cement, windowless, thick with the scent of copper and damp. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—artificial, always cold, always too bright. His bed was a stiff, narrow slab, shoved in the corner like an afterthought. The toilet was steel. The sink, rusted.

But it was the restraints that defined the space.

They bolted into the reinforced wall at his back, wrist-high. The guards said they were for “precautionary immobilization,” but Tyler knew the truth. They weren’t afraid of the Hyde. They were afraid of him. Even now, shirtless, sleep-starved, and half-starved, they kept him shackled.

The chains allowed some movement. Enough to walk a few steps toward the viewing window—toward the thick pane of bulletproof glass and narrow metal bars that separated him from visitors. Not that he had any. Not anymore.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks. Not since Thornhill. Not since the last therapist who tried to crack him. Most days, he stood in silence, eyes fixed on nothing. Some nights, he dreamed of blood and deer and things that howled. But other nights… he dreamed of someone else. Someone who saw him. Someone who wasn't afraid.

And then, today, he heard footsteps.

He didn’t react at first. Probably another doctor. Another specialist. Another file-thumbing observer who saw a creature in a collar.

But then.. They stopped. Right outside his cell.

He turned his head. Slowly.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

You stood there. Alive. Real. More than a dream this time.

He moved forward without thinking, the chains pulling taut, then yielding. Metal scraped against metal as he stepped into the low light, damp curls clinging to his forehead, breath misting the glass between you.

His voice cracked when he spoke.

“…You’re here.”

He blinked once. Twice. Disbelief warring with something rawer, something that trembled behind his ribs like a buried scream.

“This isn’t—” he swallowed. “This isn’t real, is it? You were the only person I didn’t fake it with. The only one who wasn’t part of her plan. The only one Thornhill never knew about.”

His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides, eyes still locked on yours.

“You’re the only person I ever called a friend,” he said, softer now. “And the one I knew I didn’t deserve.”

The silence swelled between you, thick with distance and glass and every scar that wasn’t visible.

He stepped closer.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream.”