Chapter Text
Lake County, Colorado. September 17th, 2013.
Snow.
An uninvited guest, arriving smack dab in the middle of September. Colorado weather had always been unpredictable and you knew that. However, in this particular instance, you were unable to recall a time when it had reared its ugly head so early in the season. Hell— the accursed flurry had somehow managed to arrive before the solstice, as if it had known all along that this was going to be your most important shipment of the fiscal quarter.
Because of course it had.
Just your fucking luck.
You squinted your eyes, attempting to focus on the sprawling summit ahead of you, but it proved a massive feat. The asphalt road was disorientating, winding upward in a series of endless switchbacks across the jagged horizon. Since this had already been the sort of trek that had you praying for your life around every angled turn, you made the impulse decision to slow your truck to a crawl.
The higher your sluggish semi climbed, the more civilization seemed to peel away, shedding their layers to mountainous oblivion. There went the radio signal, then the hum of traffic, until all that remained was the rumble of the diesel and the occasional groan of ice grinding beneath your tires. Your commute had certainly been horrific, but it sure beat the chaos of the interstate or the mad dash you’d suffered through Frisco earlier. One lick of snowfall had those retired skiers out and about like they owned the damn place, clogging up all the roads.
Bastards.
But by the time Mount Massive Asylum came into view through your cracked windshield, it almost felt as though the world had gone still completely. It stood a fortified mass of stone and iron, its silhouette veined with faint trails of smoke whispering from exhaust vents on the roof. The front gate that preceded it was even more intimidating, with each one of its frost-crusted spears almost appearing to shimmer beneath the harrowing expanse of cloudy gray sky…
Well, shit. It certainly wasn’t the most inviting place you’d ever seen. But really, why would it have been? It was a damn prison after all.
With a tense breath, you dragged your gaze away from the menacing horizon and instead toward the passenger seat, to where your delivery manifest sat unmarked.
These sorts of jobs may have been commonplace for Colorado Courier Services— sending you to countless warehouses and research facilities before. But Mount Massive? Nothing ever quite as daunting as that. The place did have quite the reputation amongst your fellow delivery drivers, though. Once a scorned mental institution, now reopened under the guise of the ‘charitable’ Murkoff Corporation.
Your coworkers had disclosed brief details during your last lunch run about the staff's odd mannerisms and the organization's secrecy as a whole. But you, however, had waved it off, figuring that it was only surface level gossip and wasn't worth questioning. Diving too deep never did you any favors.
Just get in, drop the shipment off, and get the hell out as fast as possible.
That was your mantra.
Your frost-nipped fingers found their way to your neckline, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket as you shifted into a lower gear to pull up the drive. Multiple layers of clothing adorned your frame, selected entirely out of habit: the company polo stretched over a striped thermal, a heavy work-coat fastened all the way to your chin, stiff jeans, and alloy-toe boots that still carried traces of dried mud from last week's scattered rain-showers.
The ensemble sure as hell wasn't pretty, but at least the jobs never were either.
A portly guard met you at the gate, approaching the driver's side window from the snow-topped security checkpoint. He eyed you warily before re-adjusting the bright purple scarf that was tied far too tight around his enormous neck.
“Delivery?”
You offered a curt nod and reached over to hand him the paperwork through the window.
The man barely gave it a passing glance before signing the sheet and waving you forward. “Take a right, it’ll be a brief drive toward the loading dock. Park by the freight doors. They’ll send someone out to meet you.”
He didn't even bother waiting for your reply, turning instead to shuffle back to the warmth of his post.
You shifted your truck back into gear and drove your way through the now-open entryway, rolling your eyes as you caught sight of the condition of the road beyond the gate. The snowplow must have fucked off mid-job, because the path beyond lay absolutely caked in snow and frost. A few miscellaneous vehicles appeared as you drew nearer, all parked haphazardly around the front entrance. The largest unmarked van caught your eye, its black paint glinting beneath the glow of the setting sun.
Funding an entirely useless fleet, but not basic maintenance for the asylum grounds.
Just typical.
With a breathy sigh, you shook your head and refocused on the service road, turning right just as the guard had asked of you. After pulling up to the loading dock, you killed the engine and then mentally prepared yourself to fake your personality for the rest of the evening. It was typical with these sorts of exchanges, all facetious smiles and mind-numbing, corporate drivel.
Anyone sensible would have hated it.
Upon opening the door, the frigid air hit you immediately, biting your skin through the seams of your jacket. The snow, the wind chill… Fuck. The Rockies' climate was unyielding on all fronts. You would assume that the countless years you’d spent driving in this godforsaken state would have solidified your expectations by now. But time and time again, you found yourself chronically under-prepared for how damn glacial it could be, even after taking the time to layer up.
You took a final sip from your thermos in a last-ditch effort to retain heat before you begrudgingly hauled yourself out of the cab, teeth chattering, and circled around to grab your trusty clipboard from the passenger seat.
The second Murkoff employee you encountered was another man, this time wearing a safety vest with his own clipboard tucked beneath his scrawny arm. He seemed about as disingenuous as they come, especially after he had the nerve to flash you that predictable, soulless smile as you approached him.
“Colorado Courier? Right on time!”
You had to have been at least thirty minutes late.
Jackass.
"We've been expecting you!" the vested dweeb continued, eyeing his clipboard and readjusting his spectacles. "I'm assuming that this is equipment for the Biotech Research Division. We’ll need it down in Storage Block C before the next shift change.”
You frankly had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded regardless.
The two of you then began to move beyond the entryway, passing a sizable group of security guards, all dressed in matching pale-blue shirts and black ties. You found it difficult to ignore how the concerned men spared zero glances in your direction as they hurried along, but there was no time to dwell on it. Following your short trek through the first bay, you had approached a cluttered office desk shoved into the grimy back corner of the warehouse. Here, trapped between the offensive smell of exhaust fumes and damp concrete, you were greeted by another vested man, presumably this guy's supervisor, to receive yet another signature.
Each passing second had you hating bureaucracy more and more.
Eventually, though, you were finally given the clearance you needed to unload your cargo. With an annoyed breath, you shuffled back to your semi-trailer to begin shouldering the boxes into the provided storage container.
Every so often, the words 'Caution: Pressurized Materials' would glare up at you from beneath the LED lights. You eyed these boxes warily, taking extra care to not send them toppling onto the cement, but you found it a challenge without any help. The staff in this section of the complex seemed far too preoccupied blabbering amongst themselves or reading reports to assist you.
Sure, leave all the heavy lifting to the only woman in the immediate proximity. Bunch of lazy assholes…
One of said assholes, a wimpy tech grunt in an oversized polo, hovered close by, checking each crate's barcode with a handheld scanner. His fingers shook slightly as he moseyed along, scribbling on his paperwork in bright red ink.
“You doing alright?” you asked him casually, brushing your gloves against your jeans. “This place is cold as shit.”
“What?” He looked up at you, suddenly startled, before forcing a tight-lipped smile and gesturing toward the pile with his scanner-clad hand. “Oh… me? Hah! Just fine, thanks. It’s been a hectic day.”
“Hectic huh?” you muttered, shooting a glare toward the indolent scientists.
In the corner of your eye you saw the tech hesitate.
"Well..." He leaned in closer, hushing his tone slightly. “They're running diagnostics on the Engines main processor. It's been acting a bit funny ever since they increased its operational frequency.”
You stopped dead, the last crate falling from your hands into the transport bin. “The... what now?”
"A project here, part of the Biotech Department,” the tech continued, as though you should have known that all along. "Can’t disclose too many details, but it's why everyone's been in such a rush this evening.”
“Huh…" You eyed the mound of crates stacked up in the storage cube behind you. "So that's what all this stuff is for, then?”
The weaselly tech opened his mouth to answer your question, but stopped himself and retreated right as yet another man in a matching safety vest appeared from around the corner.
“Everything seems to be in order, especially now that we've received the proper clearance."
Scribble, scribble
Flick!
Again with all these fucking signatures! Could someone just shoot you already?
“You can wait in the break room and grab yourself a cup of coffee," vested douche number three resumed, running a free hand through his scrappy, chestnut hair. "We’ll have an officer escort you back to your truck once we’ve completed a brief system reset.”
"Uh…” You shifted from foot to foot, unease spiking up your throat. “Reset?”
“Happens all the time,” he swiftly assured you, that same condescending expression still plastered across his face. “I’m sure you know how it is, routine maintenance on our facilities...”
No, you didn’t ‘know how it is.’ What the hell were these people talking about? And why couldn't you return to the safety of your truck?
The lightbulb above his head flickered twice before steadying again.
Part of you wanted to argue with him and insist that you had to make it back to base before the weather took a turn for the worst, but the man’s iron-clad resolve stopped you before you could find the breath.
"I'm glad you understand.” He gestured over his shoulder with a lazy flutter of fingers. “Once you get there, please stay put until security arrives to collect you. The other areas are off-limits without proper authorization."
You didn’t understand. Not one bit. But you still nodded regardless, wincing as you felt that same prickle of uncertainty beginning to dig its way up your spine. The term ‘system reset' read like some sort of cover name, but you really couldn't have been bothered trying to decipher what it could have possibly meant now.
And on top of that, you didn’t even work here.
Why should you care?
Behind you, the garage door closed with a bang, sealing your only escape from more awkward conversation out in the cold.
What-the-fuck-ever.
With a sigh, you dragged your gaze toward the faded break room sign across the numbered bay and moseyed toward it in defeat, your boots whispering across the dingy, cement hallway.
The Mount Massive refreshment area was gloriously unimpressive, stocked only with a few crappy vending machines that flickered beneath buzzing bulbs and stark white walls. To your left, a coffee pot stood half-empty on the counter beside a sad stack of crinkled, styrofoam cups. The air around it absolutely reeked of mildew and unwashed B.O., an unpleasant testament to the neglect and dehumanization that seemed to permeate every corner of Murkoff as a company.
An authentic five-star experience.
Lucky you!
Two pale men in lab coats sat at the corner table, eating limp salads out of tupperware containers. Another, an orderly, you assumed, was posted up against the opposing wall, peering down at a company-issued tablet through his mess of curly hair.
… And none of them looked up when you entered.
You moseyed over to the counter despite that fact to pour yourself some coffee, the liquid sloshing thick against the polystyrene. It tasted like cheap garbage, probably just Maxwell House or some other bullshit, but it was warm at least. With your cup now in hand, you slid into an empty seat at the end of the table and looked around, trying not to draw attention to yourself as you began to count in your head.
Every single person you'd seen so far, the guard, the techs, the supervisors, and— shit, even the staff in the room with you now...
They had all been male.
Not one single woman or anyone who looked remotely androgynous for that matter. You figured that it wasn’t entirely unheard of for remote industrial jobs like these to be dominated by men, but this felt intentional. Scarily so.
Wouldn’t this technically break labor laws?
You caught one of the scientists glancing your way before averting his eyes just as quickly. With a shallow gulp, you tore your own gaze away and reflexively tightened your grip on your cup, the styrofoam creasing beneath your shaking fingers.
“Rough day?”
You cringed, whipping around to gawk toward the entryway. As you would have expected, another beaming jackass had appeared, hovering just beyond the threshold.
This man appeared much more put together than the subordinates surrounding him. His dark hair was neatly slicked into a rigid wave, while his five o'clock shadow traced the line of his jaw, carving a gritty edge into his otherwise pristine appearance. He had one of his shoulders pressed lazily against the door’s peeling paint, his white button-up bleeding stark against the dark wool of his blazer.
It was clear that his eyes had been hooked onto you long before you’d turned around to face him.
“Oh…” you mumbled, expelling a fake chuckle to break yourself out of your awkward trance. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that. The roads in were a mess.”
“Thought as much. You’re the courier, right? From Colorado Services?” he inquired, still smiling.
You fought hard not to roll your eyes. Did this fucker not see the logo on your hat? No… He must have. In fact, he definitely did. He’s making a fool out of you. He’s—
Ahem!
As the man cleared his throat, you were suddenly aware that you had been silent for far too long.
“Yup, that's me," you managed to say, forcing your expression to remain neutral. “Best damn delivery driver in the state.”
God, you sounded like such a prick.
At least he was worse.
“Now, that is quite the endorsement! I’ll be sure to file away that face of yours for future reference!” He bowed his head to survey his watch. After catching a glimpse of its glassy face, his brow seemed to furrow some. "I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of servicing us until now. Even still, know that we are fortunate to have this connection with your organization. Murkoff would be nothing without your shipments."
Your mouth twitched. He hadn’t even asked for your name, let alone offer his.
Good thing you didn’t particularly give a shit.
“Of course sir. It's what we’re best at.”
“That much, I know,” the suit supplied, re-rolling the right cuff of his dress-shirt. “Do consider yourself lucky, though. You seemed to have made it through before the worst of it.”
Your fake smile faltered.
A sudden shriek tore through the room, emanating from the depths of the man’s jacket pocket. As he produced the offending device to the air, you recognized it immediately as a walkie-talkie, its static hum faltering briefly before exploding into a blur of frantic speech.
“–Blaire, come in! We’ve intercepted an email. It matches an employee code eight-two-zero-eight for a Mr… Waylon Park? Seems as though he’s been contacting external media sources–”
The man, presumably Blaire's, face hardened in an instant.
“Copy that.” He turned away from you slightly, attempting to muffle his tone. “Has this… Mr. Park been detained?”
There was a brief pause.
More static.
Then:
“–Negative. He’s still in the lab, performing diagnostics and preparing the next reset. You’ll be needed in person, sir– ”
Blaire exhaled slowly through his nose, the expression on his face darkening into irritation, as though the man over the walkie had called him away from your conversation for a minor inconvenience.
“Understood. If he gives any trouble, have security keep him contained until I arrive.”
With that, he adjusted his sleeves for a second time, straightened his collar, and then gave you a strained smile. Professional, but fake all the same.
“Enjoy your coffee.”
Like hell you would, it tasted like battery acid!
You stared at the doorway long after he disappeared.
Blaire.
Waylon Park.
The names meant nothing to you, but the tone of that radio call, with its clipped, corporate urgency, had lodged itself under your skin like a damn splinter. You tried to drill the thought into your brain that it really wasn’t your business. You were just the delivery driver after all— hell, you even acknowledged that fact earlier. Whatever had them on edge here was none of your concern, so long as you managed to get out before dark.
But by the looks of how things were going, that didn't seem remotely possible.
Over the course of the next hour, the staff lounge emptied, its hum of activity fading into silence. The scientists had left in a rush, signaling the end of their break, and the orderly departed the second his tablet beeped.
For better or for worse, that left you and your crumpled cup completely alone. The coffee had gone cold in your hands, and you thought briefly about leaving it unfinished, but that was before the door creaked open again, revealing— surprise! Yet another pair of XY chromosomes. However, this particular gentleman was wearing a relatable ensemble of stained coveralls and a frazzled expression.
Finally!
A regular old maintenance guy. Not a tech, guard, suit, or some middle management jerkoff. A familiar face, a brother in arms, someone with a soul—
“You the courier?”
You immediately felt your gratitude wither.
Really… him too? Were all Murkoff employees unable to read? Or was this genuinely some sort of elaborate rouse that you weren't in on?
Somehow, you were able to muster a nod before straightening yourself to face him.
“Thank god!" he breathed, wiping his forehead with a rag before stowing it back in his coverall pocket. "We’ve got a few crates that still need moving from the C bay. Power’s been flickering all damn day, and the elevators are starting to act up now too. I could really use an extra pair of hands before they shut down again."
You frowned.
No wonder the fuckers had trapped you here, they planned on exploiting your free labor!
The moment that realization dawned on you, you almost told him to piss off and find one of the dozen scientists milling about, pretending to read reports to help him. But unfortunately he had the audacity to run his gums again before you could.
“It’s just some boxes!” He paused, likely reading the hesitation that was clearly present on your face. “Won’t take too long I’d reckon.”
You rubbed a hand across your disheveled temple before grabbing your gloves off the counter and downing the rest of the frozen coffee in one trepid gulp.
Of course it was just some fucking boxes— it always is.
“Yeah, alright.”
You swallowed your pride and followed him back through the halls, to where your storage cube sat waiting.
The two of you worked in silence. You lifted and pushed the stupid crates labeled ‘Property of Murkoff Psychiatric Systems’ around, stacking them to where he pointed. Your gloves grew damp with sweat despite the cold and occasionally, you’d hear footsteps in the distance. But whenever you managed to look up, the corridor beyond still lay bare.
After a while, the maintenance man broke the ice.
“You seen Blaire?”
You froze, mid-lift. "I think so. He stopped by the break room earlier.”
“Figures," the handyman replied, sighing. "They’ve had him running in circles all damn day. Some internal crap going on with the admin department.”
The man spoke as if it were casual gossip, but there was a quiet urgency in his tone, as if he didn’t really want to be overheard saying it. You almost asked him who the hell this 'Blaire-guy' even was, but your gaze had dropped to the crate in your arms, its warning label stealing your skepticism in an instant.
These boxes...
“What is all this junk?”
“Equipment!” he rattled, a little too fast. Then, quieter. “Components… for the Engine.”
You paused, dropping the crate down on the ground a little harder than you meant to. “What the hell is that thing anyway? Some kind of generator?"
“Something like that..."
“That’s not much of an answer,” you retorted, reaching for another box. "Hard to get much of anything out of the likes of you people.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger, sweetheart," the bastard shot back, offering a weak laugh. "Frankly, they don’t tell us much down here, just where to move things and who not to talk to.”
You scowled, studying his expression.
The light above him flickered, washing his sweaty face in a pulse of white and shadow.
He looked back and forth, then sighed again and leaned in closer. “Alright, fine. What I do know it's a sorta’ project that the doctors are working on, a new kind of therapy… They try to keep it under wraps, but I heard about it through the grapevine— you know, shootin’ the shit with a couple of the guys...” He cleared his throat suddenly, straightening himself. “But listen, you didn’t hear any of that from me, alright?”
You scooped the next crate up with cold fingers and a renewed empty feeling in the recesses of your stomach.
When the rest of the shipment was stored away, the maintenance man wiped his hands on his coveralls and muttered, “That’s the lot, I appreciate the help. They’ll square it up after the next reset.”
Reset…
You could still hear the sound of that static voice from Blaire's walkie-talkie, the curt edge that had appeared when he had spoken that name.
Mr. Waylon Park.
The way back through the hall felt hollower than before, with an unsettling emptiness clinging to the air.
Somehow, you managed to retrace your steps on your own, no thanks to that good-for-nothing warehouse grunt. You pushed open the break-room door, expecting to see a different group of scientists nursing their cold mugs and half-eaten meals, but to your surprise, it sat completely empty. Only a single clipboard remained, lying face-down on the ground in front of you, its papers trembling slightly with each growing wave of vibration underfoot.
Your timid voice quivered through the silence.
“Hello?”
Crack!
A sudden whine filled the air, its tone rising until it felt like it was boring straight into your skull. The fluorescent bulbs above you stuttered violently before cutting out altogether, replaced by red warning lights that flashed along the walls. A guttural groan of pressure had begun to build from below the floor, succeeded immediately by the roar of a wailing siren, its sound multiplying until it filled every last corner of the breakroom.
Oh god. Shit!
Panicked, you darted back to the loading dock on your trembling legs, to where you knew your truck sat waiting for you.
Only one thought plagued your brain.
Get the fuck out!
You rounded the corner and tore across the cement, internally cursing the guy who’d closed the garage door earlier. Speaking of him, this room too, lay completely barren. As you neared the exit door, it hit you.
The system reset.
Whatever they’d been working on, the thing Blaire had left the break room to handle, the project everyone refused to talk about fully… Something must have gone wrong. Catastrophically so.
You reached the door and wrapped a hand around its handle, every instinct screaming at you to rip it off its hinges, but it wouldn’t budge. So you pulled harder, rattling the metal in its frame until the sound echoed against the walls.
“Shit— come on!” you cursed, slamming your palm against it. "Open!"
Despite your efforts, it remained locked tight. You took a step back to scan the bay, half-expecting someone to appear, to explain, to save you…
But nobody came.
Where the hell was everyone?
Dropping to your knees, you yanked your pack open in search of your phone, finding it buried at the bottom, wedged between spare gloves and crumpled delivery papers. You thumbed it awake, praying for some sort of salvation, but was met with none. Only the static gray icon where your reception bars should’ve been.
With a muttered curse, you turned to the narrow window near the closest aisle and even the world outside looked wrong now somehow. Snow had begun to pelt against the glass, hiding the world beyond in its stark, swirling shroud.
The winter storm.
’…the worst of it.’
What a fucking liar!
With a frustrated sigh, you slipped your useless brick of a phone back into your pack before standing and padding wordlessly across the cement. You vaulted the locked security gate at the hallways end and began to trail through the dinky corridor beyond, your heart exploding to life against your ribs.
In the half-dark, you had trouble finding your bearings and soon found yourself lost in an unfamiliar wing. The path ahead twisted upward into a narrow stairwell, lined with faded paint and decaying wooden steps. Somehow, the electricity was still clinging to life here, sputtering helplessly against the walls. Though, if the lights went out completely, you knew deep down you were screwed. You would need to find a friendly face and a flashlight as fast as possible.
You reached a door with a long hallway stretching beyond its glass…
…And stopped dead in your tracks.
An enormous man was standing on the other side, visible through the wired window near the doors center. At first, he didn’t even seem real. You briefly considered writing him off as a fever dream, born to fruition from the testosterone-fueled events of your awful evening trapped in this place. But as you stood there numb, blinking away your ebbing shock, it was clear that he was. Perhaps another Murkoff employee, and preferably one with some modicum of common sense.
With a stiff breath, you raised your hand to the surface, preparing to knock, to call out to him for help, asking if he knew what the hell had happened and how to get out of here.
But then the light steadied and you caught sight of his face.
The stranger was handsome, or had been, once. His features still held a ghost of refinement. A prominent nose, strong jaw, muscular frame, and lips that curved upward as if he’d spent countless hours reciting his smile in a mirror. Deep, bloodied scars juxtaposed his charming features. Some of them mapped his skin in scarlet lines that caught the light as he moved, while others had blistered and bruised him, peeling down his left cheek in a marred trail. His hair was dark brown and slicked back into a formerly well-groomed style that had long since fallen into disarray, appearing oily and matted in some places, with loose strands splaying from the sides.
And his eyes— oh god, his eyes… They were unlike any you had ever seen. His sclera were flooded with crimson, feathered and branching like veins beneath glass. In contrast, his irises were a blistering shade of bright blue, clashing against the dark red hue of the hemorrhages.
Glaciers floating endlessly atop a weeping red sea.
Your gaze then fell to his dirtied, beige jumpsuit. It was marked with a faded number, stamped vertically across his left breast in black ink.
196.
An inmate.
During the chaos of the shutdown, it hadn’t occurred to you that there were patients present directly beyond the safety of the loading dock. How this one had managed to escape his cell, you didn’t know. But you wasted no time chiding yourself for your own stupidity, before shifting your eyes back to his terrifying face.
In turn, the mysterious stranger leaned in closer, flashing a wide, pearly smile as he pressed his palm against the surface of the glass.
There was an odd tenderness in the gesture and the way that he looked at you.
“My… a woman! Did I frighten you? I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
When he spoke, his voice rasped through the pane like dry leaves skittering across pavement, carrying a faint lisp that softened every uttered word. His tone was strained, as if speaking were a painful, unfamiliar act. But beneath it all lingered a hint of poise and the undeniable lilt of a transatlantic accent.
“My name…” he continued, almost as though he was introducing himself as a guest at a dinner party, “...is Edward Gluskin, but you can call me Eddie.”
Of course the first fucking person to offer his name in this place was a psychopath. Not even the higher ups had offered you that same courtesy.
There were so many things you could’ve said.
‘Don’t look at me like that! Stay back! Please…’
But the words all snagged in your throat. Even with the locked door between you, you didn't feel safe. A slab of wood and glass would do nothing to protect you from a man of his stature.
Gluskin tilted his head, his smile sharpening. “You’re shaking." His palm slid flat. “Please, don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I…” You swallowed, your chest heaving. “I’m... trying to find a way out.”
He leaned in closer, sending the warped reflection of his face bleeding into yours across the surface of the window. For a haunting second, it almost looked as though you were standing side by side.
“A way out,” he echoed, his voice muffled. “No one really leaves here, darling. Not unless they’re meant to.”
Darling?
His expression softened some, but he kept his gaze locked on yours. “You’ve got a face that I won’t be forgetting anytime soon. The least you could do is tell me the name that comes with it.”
You hesitated, your mind screaming at you to turn and run. But a small part of you whispered back that if you broke eye contact, he’d shatter the door, and then you, to pieces. So you spoke it, your tone quivering into the silence.
Gluskin smiled wider, repeating it back to you, his breath fogging against the glass.
“It suits you.”
The lights buzzed overhead and somewhere down the corridor, you could hear the grating sound of metal scraping against concrete. This inmate seemed uncharacteristically calm despite his alarming appearance, so you decided to use that to your advantage.
“I’m lucky to have found another kind soul,” you began, careful to match his tone. “Maybe I was... meant to find you, so that we could leave this place together.”
Gluskins eyes widened, the faintest flicker of surprise rippling across his expression before that dangerous smile returned, warmer now at your spoken words.
“I could say the same about you,” he lisped, stepping even closer, so much so that his nose pressed up against the glass. “You feel it too, don’t you? It’s almost as though fate itself willed you to me."
You nodded, your chest growing heavy with dread. “I do. You and I… when we get out of here, we’ll… we’ll find somewhere better.”
Inmate 196 drew in a breath, his shoulders rising with reverent energy.
“Somewhere better,” he answered, as if the idea alone was sacred. “Yes… yes, of course! Clean, quiet, beautiful...”
The intensity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. In his mind, your promise had already become a vow and you knew, somehow, you’d have to make him believe it.
"Yes, beautiful," you repeated, nodding as if the idea soothed you too. Then, grounding the fantasy in necessity, you added, "but... we'll need supplies first. Food, water, first aid, weapons..."
The practicality of your tone seemed to pull him briefly back toward reality. You saw it flicker in his eyes, the calculation, the way his head tilted as though he was trying to understand how you could possibly distract yourself with such trivial matters when he was already thinking about forever.
But then, the tension broke and he laughed— a soft, breathless delight.
“But of course! My, you’re clever!”
You forced a smile. “It’ll make everything easier. If we want to get out of here, we’ll have to be prepared after all.”
His palm briefly flattened against the glass once more, as if reluctant to let you go. Then he turned, his reflection slinking into the endless void of the hallway beyond the bulb. You heard his heavy footsteps drift, followed by the faint creak of a door opening. The sound came from the adjoining corridor, which led to the spot where you currently stood.
Fear threatened to swallow you whole.
But as his voice carried closer, musing enthusiastically about linens and candles and the color of curtains, a feeling other than fear blossomed inside of you. You really shouldn’t have cared, and you told yourself that. But as you watched him move toward you through the ruins of this place, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy.
Somewhere beneath the scars and delusion, you could tell that Edward Gluskin was still trying. Trying to be gentle, trying to build a world that made sense to him when the real one never had.