He tried to fight.
He picked fights with the nurses. He screamed obscenities until spit frothed at his lips. He tore his sheets to shreds.
But each time, he broke faster. Each time, the rage sputtered out too soon.
The staff whispered, jotting notes. "Episodes shorter… patient more compliant… possible improvement."
Improvement. He wanted to spit the word back at them.
But worse than their whispers was the reflection.
Now, it didn't just look different—it moved differently. It tilted its head when he didn't. It blinked slower, like it had all the time in the world.
One night, it smiled. Not the cruel grin Ty knew. A gentle, fragile smile.
He hated it. He feared it.
He whispered to the glass, "Who are you?"
The boy in the mirror almost answered, his mouth forming a word, but no sound escaped. Just silence, then he was gone, replaced with Ty's confused expression.