The first thing Rosie noticed was the light.
It wasn't red.
Not like the lab's emergency sirens not like the blood that slicked her throat or the pulsing lights that punished her every time she disobeyed. This light was warm, soft, golden—like sunlight poured through honey It dripped onto white sheets that smelled like lemon and bleach.
But light meant people and people meant danger.
Rosie sat up so fast the world spun tubes pulled at her wrist, and her arms flailed like a panicked deer in a net. She tore at the IV, yanked the oxygen tube from her nose, and staggered from the bed on unsure legs.
The collar It was still on her neck mocking her glinting like a predator's eye.
She clawed at it, blood bursting from fresh wounds she didn't care she wanted it off.
Then—footsteps.
Rosie spun she was ready to fight, to bite, to scream—
But the boy who entered wasn't dressed in white like the lab techs.
He wore a hoodie with a crescent moon logo on it his dark hair curled just under the hood he soft features that the world might've once called beautiful but it was his eyes—green like shattered glass—that made Rosie freeze.
Because behind the softness was something else.
Recognition
Pain
History
He raised his hands "Hey, It's okay I'm not gonna hurt you I promise."
Rosie trembled.
Words hovered on the edge of her mouth, broken things with jagged edges but they wouldn't come. She couldn't remember how to shape them.
"Do you know your name?" he asked gently.
Silence.
She opened her mouth air came out just that not sound, Not sense, just a silent plea.
"Okay," he whispered, stepping closer "Okay. I know what they did to you. I know about the collar."
Her fingers twitched.
He lowered his hoodie slowly, revealing a scar just under his jaw Rosie's breath hitched.
The exact same scar.
They matched.
"I escaped too," he said "My name is Jamie. Well—James, but everyone calls me Jamie even the fans."
Fans? Her head tilted.
"I know you don't get that yet, but I'm kinda... famous now. It's complicated. You'll get it."
Famous? Escaped? Was he like her?
He took a slow step forward, and for the first time in seven years, Rosie didn't run.
THREE DAYS LATER
Rosie still didn't speak.
But she watched. God, did she watch.
She watched Jamie move through the world like it didn't scare him. He danced across rooms, cracked jokes with his friends — who all respected the space Rosie needed — and sang when he thought no one was listening.
He watched her too.
When she tried to mimic words under her breath when she touched her collar in her sleep when she stared at mirrors like they were portals to someone she might've been.
Jamie didn't push he brought Rosie books, cartoons, even a doll with a stitched-on smile and a dress that Rosie fingered like it was made of magic.
But one night, Rosie stood in the doorway of Jamie's studio.
She pointed at a photo.
It was a little boy — five, maybe — standing in front of a government building, the corner of a lab coat barely visible behind him his eyes were the same haunted.
Jamie turned.
"She's you," Rosie rasped, her voice dry, like an unused violin string.
Jamie blinked then he smiled. "You mean 'That's you,'" he corrected gently.
Rosie blinked. Then tried again. "...That's... you."
Her voice cracked.
But Jamie's didn't when he whispered, "Welcome back."
SIX WEEKS LATER
Rosie could speak not fluently, not fearlessly but she was learning.
And Jamie was there every day.
He taught her about music, the ocean, microwaves ("tiny sun-box!" she called it), and texting. He taught her about lying ("not all bad") and laughing ("feels weird, good weird") and trust.
And in those weeks, she taught him something too:
That pain doesn't make you a monster It makes you a survivor.
BUT THEN CAME THE BLOODSTAINED MESSAGE.
It was left in Jamie's mailbox.
A piece of gauze a strip of red cloth and a note written in the black, clunky font of a lab computer.
"Model 02 survived Eye compromised Unit returning home With vengeance."
Rosie dropped the paper.
Her hands shook.
Because the cloth?
It smelled like Charlie.