The Missing Pattern

Tethered to the Edge Part 23

Day two of my suspension. Still here. Still confined to this sterile, suffocating box of a room, surrounded by machines that beep and whirr in the background like some kind of mocking reminder that my body isn't my own. The sterile white walls seem to close in tighter with every passing second, and it's not just from the physical pain gnawing at me. It's the isolation. The constant, crawling reminder that I'm stuck.

The meds are doing their work, dulling the worst of the pain, but I'm not sure if they're doing more to keep me docile or just rendering me numb. I've never hated feeling helpless more than I do now.

I turn my head, barely shifting my body, to see Calvin sitting in the corner, eyes closed, his body relaxed in that eerie stillness he always seems to fall into. He's asleep—or pretending to be. Either way, it's the perfect moment.

Finally I can make a break for it.

But as I try to move, as I try to lift my legs from the bed, my body refuses to cooperate. Pain lances through my shoulder, down my ribs, and into my spine, like a lightning bolt of fire, forcing me back against the mattress. My vision blurs for a moment, but then I catch it—the subtle, almost imperceptible curve of his lips.

His eyes crack open, a hint of amusement flashing in them, but he says nothing.

"I'm not asleep," Calvin's voice is low, barely above a whisper, but it slices through the fog clouding my brain like a razor. "And even if I were? I wouldn't be worried about you sneaking off—not in this condition. But I knew you'd try."

I glare at him, every ounce of frustration bubbling under my skin, threatening to erupt. The meds dull the pain, but they also anchor me, dragging my limbs down like dead weight. Without them, I wouldn't be able to move at all. The realization is a bitter pill to swallow. Worse yet? I know I'll need them—and him.

I hate that.

"You know I'll heal," I rasp, my voice rough but steady, defiance lacing every word. "And when I do, you won't be able to keep me contained."

Calvin raises a single eyebrow, his expression calm but edged with something sharper. "You're right," he says simply. "You will heal. But I've got time to wear you down first. Maybe by then, you'll realize you need to heal properly—physically and mentally. Because pushing through like you always do? That's not strength, Kitty. That's self-destruction. And for the record, when we leave this place, there won't be a single question about how I'm handling you."

The weight of his words sends a chill down my spine. I narrow my eyes, searching his face for the meaning behind his cryptic declaration. "What the hell does that mean?"

Calvin doesn't answer right away. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, letting them dangle lazily from his fingers. His smirk is maddeningly confident. "It means I've got jewelry for your good arm. Every night, before we go to sleep, I'm making sure you stay put. And when I wake up in the morning? My Kitty Kat will be right where I left her."

My stomach twists with equal parts rage and disbelief. "You've lost your damn mind."

"Maybe," Calvin shrugs, his smirk unfazed. "But I'm not taking any chances with you."

He slides the cuffs back into his pocket, the clink of metal like a taunt. I glare daggers at him, my body too weak to do anything more.

He stands, walking out of the room without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me with nothing but the persistent hum of the machines and the aching weight of my own thoughts.

Time drags.

The minutes stretch into hours, but then the door opens again. Calvin steps in first, his presence an anchor, a reminder of what I can't escape. And behind him? SSA Thompson. His usual stone-cold demeanor is in place, but today there's something darker behind his eyes.