A little later, a middle-aged man I'd never seen before walked in wearing a bloodstained lab coat. His thinning, salt-and-pepper hair framed a lean, lined face.
I realised he was mute when, instead of answering my question about how long I needed to rest, he pulled a small notebook from his pocket and wrote:
— I removed the bullet, but you need a lot of rest. You're badly hurt.
After checking me over and changing my bandage, he slipped out.
I stared dully at the soup they'd brought me, then ate it sitting up, slow and mechanical—bland soup and two pieces of toast—just to quiet the hunger. The whole time I kept thinking about Ashur and the strange way he moved through the world. What exactly set him apart from the others? I replayed the way he fought—precision in close quarters, with or without a weapon. Every motion felt calculated. Those unreadable eyes. When he looked at Patrick, or the Doctor… there wasn't even hate in his gaze.
How did he hide his feelings like a professional poker player—always, under any pressure?
The meds kicked in fast, and before I could untangle Ashur and his behaviour, I slipped under.
⸻
I was nine, maybe ten, strapped to a white metal bed.
I was in a nappy, drowning in a loose hospital T-shirt. The stench of old waste and alcohol burned my nose. Everything was white and lifeless—a room like a small, frightening lab. Butterflies were painted on the walls. The blanket over me reeked—stale and sour. No one had changed my nappy in hours.
I stared at the drip beside the bed. A feeding drip. I hadn't eaten in a long time.
I didn't know why I was trapped in that room.
I'd been kept in that room, on that bed, for what felt like forever. I wanted my wooden doll—the one Steven had carved for me.
It had been a summer day when members of the Rose Organisation came, spoke to our leader, and loaded me into their posh car. I didn't even get to see Steven to say goodbye. The woman in the car told me I'd only be with them a few months and then they'd bring me back.
And now… I had no idea how long I'd been locked in this cursed room.
Everything was hazy.
All I could think about was Steven—whether I'd get back to camp and play with him in secret. If we could make shadow puppets with a torch under the bed like before.
I even missed the hard missions and the punishments at camp.
Everything here was worse. Crueller. Unbearable.
Like a blurred nightmare. Nothing made sense.
What did they want from a little girl?
A middle-aged woman with golden hair swept into a chignon always came to see me. Her 'kind' look made my skin crawl. Her hands were soft, smelling of lotion; when she stroked my hair, nausea roiled in me.
I begged her to let me go. She told me I had to serve the Rose Organisation—that this was a loyalty test, that I needed to pass. She said the trial would end and they'd send me back to my camp. Just one year, she said. Just one year to endure. Her voice was soft and soothing—the kind of calm I hated.
'You're a brave girl, Viuna,' she'd coo. 'You can do this. Only a few more days, then it's over.'
I started screaming. I yanked at the straps, slammed my head against the stiff mattress, stared at the white ceiling and screamed.
The woman just fixed her painted, gentle eyes on me and smiled that sick little smile.
'You have to be loyal to the Organisation, little girl. Prove you deserve it.'
I kept screaming. Kept smashing my head into the mattress.
I wanted to run—run far away. Maybe crawl back under our metal bed—where Steven would be waiting with his torch.
Hands suddenly wrapped around my waist.
I jerked awake, sobbing.
I was held tight in safe arms, pressed against a solid chest. I buried my face in a shoulder, hiccuping.
'Oh, my sweet Viuna… that must've been so scary, hmm? Want me to call Lucy so you won't be alone?'
My body turned to stone. Bones snapped in on themselves. My heart stopped.
I lifted my head, terrified.
White lab coat. The sharp, gingery aftershave.
And then the Doctor's eyes—wild, fever-bright—filled my vision.
My breath cut out.
We were in his lab, on a bed smeared with blood.
He blinked—and blood welled from his eyes.
It was a nightmare come to life. Terror swallowed me whole. My tongue wouldn't move.
His mouth opened—wider than a hand.
His terrible, warped voice crawled into my ears.
'Do you want to play with Lucy?'
At the same time, a little leather-clad girl with a covered face crawled toward me on all fours. The Doctor's mouth stretched wider; blood streamed from his eyes. I scrambled backwards on the bed.
I couldn't scream.
My voice jammed in my throat. I tried, but nothing came. My heart slammed so hard it rattled my ribs.
My mouth opened and closed—no sound, not a single damned sound.
My heart was going to tear out of my chest.
The Doctor reached for me. I stared at his bloody glove, paralysed.
I threw my hands up, tried to scream—but his fingers wrapped around my arms and dragged me in—
⸻
The pull on my body ripped me awake. Darkness. A man leaned over the bed, gripping my arms.
I swung at his face, blind with panic, but he caught me and slammed me back to the mattress.
I finally found my voice and screamed.
I was drenched in sweat.
Panicked, I lifted my limp fist and shoved it into his chest, trying to make him let go…
But he kept his rough grip on my arms and, in a hard, steady growl, said,
"It's me… Ashur. Y-you were having a n-nightmare."