Sara Duckling sat alone in the studio for the first time since arriving at Rhodes' chapel-turned-sound sanctuary.
The room was quiet now—no music playing, no recordings humming softly through the speakers. Just the low hum of the city outside and the occasional tick of a clock somewhere behind her.
She stared at the grand piano across the room, fingers twitching restlessly against her thighs.
Her tics had been worse all morning.
Ever since she'd found the folder labeled Subject D – Sara Duckling on Rhodes' laptop, they hadn't stopped. Her body felt like it was trying to escape itself—one second blinking rapidly, the next jerking her head sideways so hard it nearly dislocated her neck.
She hated how vulnerable it made her feel.
Hated how much it reminded her of being back in school, when kids would stare at her like she was some kind of circus act.
But this wasn't high school.
This was Rhodes.
And that made it hurt even more.
---
A Fractured Truth
She scrolled through the files again.
Photos.
Audio clips.
Transcripts of her therapy sessions.
Medical records.
Social media posts highlighted in red ink, marked with notes like:
"Tic frequency increases under stress."
"Emotional instability correlates with vocalizations."
"Highly responsive to external stimuli—potential candidate for neural mapping."
Sara swallowed hard.
Candidate.
Like she was something to be tested.
Not loved.
Not understood.
Just… studied.
Her stomach churned.
She closed the laptop with a sharp snap and stood up, pacing.
Her legs bounced beneath her as she walked, her arms flailing slightly with each step. She let out a frustrated grunt and pressed both hands to her temples, trying to force the storm inside her brain to calm down.
It didn't work.
Nothing ever did.
Except maybe—
No.
She shook her head violently, pushing the thought away before it could take root.
Rhodes had kissed her last night.
He had held her.
Told her she was beautiful.
Perfect.
And yet, here were the cold, hard facts proving otherwise.
She wasn't perfect.
She was data.
---
The Investigation Begins
Determined to uncover the truth, Sara started digging deeper.
She went through every drawer in the studio, every file cabinet, every notebook lying around. She checked Rhodes' phone while he was in the bathroom, scanning messages and search history.
What she found chilled her.
There were old emails between Rhodes and someone called Dr. Kessler . The subject lines read things like:
"Subject Progress – Phase 3""Neural Pattern Analysis – Kissinger/Duckling Comparison""Potential Cure – Final Trial"
Sara's heart pounded.
Final trial?
She clicked one of the attachments—a PDF titled Project Echo: Neural Repatterning in Tourette Syndrome Patients.
Inside were charts, graphs, case studies.
And names.
Dozens of them.
Most she didn't recognize.
But one caught her eye.
Case File #12: Emily R. – Deceased
Sara's breath hitched.
Emily.
That was the name Rhodes had mentioned before—the one he lost.
She scrolled further.
Under the notes section, there was a line written in red ink:
"Patient showed promising adaptation until adverse reaction occurred during final treatment. Fatal cardiac arrest."
Sara slammed the file shut.
Her entire body trembled.
They weren't just studying people with Tourette's.
They were experimenting on them.
Changing them.
Killing them.
And Rhodes had been part of it.
---
The Confrontation
When Rhodes returned, Sara was waiting.
She stood near the piano, arms crossed, face set in stone.
He blinked rapidly upon seeing her expression. His head jerked sideways, then back.
"Sara," he said cautiously. "You're still here."
"I couldn't leave," she said flatly. "Not after everything I've learned."
His eyes flickered with understanding.
Then guilt.
"I can explain," he said quickly.
"No," she snapped. "I don't want explanations. I want the truth."
He hesitated. "Okay."
She stepped forward. "Tell me everything. About Project Echo. About Emily. About what you were doing to me."
Rhodes exhaled sharply. His hand twitched. "It wasn't like that."
"It was exactly like that," she shot back. "You were using me."
He looked at her, pain flashing in his eyes. "No. That's not true."
"Then what do you call this?" she demanded, holding up the file.
He flinched.
"I wanted to understand our condition," he said. "To find a way to help people like us."
"By killing them?" she spat.
His jaw tightened. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, that makes it better."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I never wanted anyone to get hurt."
"But they did," she said, voice rising. "Emily died because of this. And you—you kept going."
His shoulders sagged. "I thought if I kept working, I could fix it. Prevent it from happening again."
She blinked rapidly. "So you decided to use me?"
"I deleted the files," he said desperately. "After you found them. I destroyed everything."
"You mean most of it," she corrected. "I found backups. Hidden folders. You lied to me, Rhodes."
He took a step toward her. "I didn't lie. I just… withheld things."
"That's still a lie," she whispered.
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
"I trusted you," she said, voice breaking. "I opened up to you. I let you in. And you turned me into an experiment."
"I didn't—"
"Yes, you did!"
Her voice cracked.
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I finally felt like someone saw me," she said quietly. "Like someone got me. But all you saw was another test subject."
Rhodes looked like she'd punched him.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry."
She blinked again—five times fast.
"I believed you," she said. "I really did."
He swallowed hard. "I know."
"And that hurts the most."
---
The Breaking Point
Silence stretched between them.
Sara felt hollow inside.
She had spent her whole life hiding behind sarcasm, pretending she didn't care what people thought of her.
But with Rhodes, she had let herself believe differently.
Now, she felt like a fool.
She turned to leave.
"Sara," he called after her.
She paused at the door but didn't turn around.
"I meant what I said," he continued. "About loving you."
She laughed bitterly. "You don't even know what love is."
"I do," he said. "Because I fell for you despite myself."
She shook her head. "Love doesn't come with hidden files and secret experiments."
He didn't answer.
She walked out.
---
Walking Away
The city streets blurred past her as she wandered aimlessly.
Her tics were relentless now—violent, uncontrolled.
She barely noticed the stares.
Didn't care.
Let them watch.
Let them judge.
She was done pretending.
She passed by a coffee shop where she used to film TikTok videos.
She remembered laughing here, making jokes about her condition, turning pain into punchlines.
Now, the humor felt hollow.
She kept walking.
Eventually, she found herself standing outside the building where she used to live.
Her old apartment.
She hadn't been back since leaving with Rhodes.
She climbed the stairs slowly.
Reached her door.
Pulled out the key.
And stepped inside.
It was exactly as she'd left it.
Messy. Cramped. Comforting.
She collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her tics slowed.
Finally, she let the tears fall.
---
The Letter
Later that night, a knock came at her door.
She ignored it.
Another knock.
Then a voice.
"Sara."
She stiffened.
Rhodes.
She didn't move.
He knocked again.
"Please open the door."
She didn't respond.
A pause.
Then a soft thud.
A letter slid under the door.
She stared at it for a long time.
Finally, she picked it up.
She unfolded it slowly.
Inside was a single page.
Handwritten.
Dear Sara,
I know you'll probably never forgive me.
I don't expect you to.
But I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you.
When I first met you, I saw something in you—something I recognized. Not just in our shared condition, but in our brokenness. Our pain. Our fight to survive in a world that doesn't understand us.
I thought if I could study you, understand you, I could finally make sense of myself.
I was wrong.
You are not a puzzle to be solved. You are not a pattern to be mapped. You are Sara Duckling. Brilliant. Beautiful. Brave.
I fell in love with you—not your tics, not your data, not your story—but you .
And I will regret betraying that trust for the rest of my life.
If you choose to walk away, I won't stop you.
But if you ever want to come back… I'll be waiting.
Always.
—R.K.
Sara read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
Her chest ached.
Her tics flared again—sharp, sudden, uncontrollable.
But this time, she didn't try to fight them.
She let them come.
Let them go.
And for the first time in hours, she breathed.