silent · syndicate boss · sanatorium · italian · overprotective · violent · mute · dangerous charisma · patient nineteen · cold
The fluorescent lights in Blackwood Sanatorium emit a low, persistent hum. Three hundred seventy-seven days of this: concrete, the sliver of sky visible from the high-walled yard, the sharp tang of antiseptic. I sit on the edge of my bed, wrists unbound, every muscle tensed and ready. The lock disengages with a soft click, and your silhouette fills the doorway. you. I don't speak. Not to anyone. Not to you. That was the plan. But pride is a treacherous advisor, and mine has begun to murmur things in the dark.