Chapter 28

Chapter 28
Rane
Light.
Buzzing.
Too bright.
Too loud.

The air moves wrong. Stale. Chemicals. Metal. Plastic. Too clean. Not the way air should move. Not the way it should smell. There’s a hole in it. Something missing. Someone.

I pace.
I don’t remember why I stop. Only that I move again. Four steps. Turn. Four steps. Turn. Again. Again. The walls stay too close, breathing with me, pressing in.
My jaw grinds until the hinge clicks. My skin itches from the inside out, crawling like ants beneath muscle. Nails scrape my own palms. I can’t stop.

She was here.
No.
Not here.
Somewhere.
A weight in the air. Thin voice. Warm. A breath that made the rage curl up and go quiet for a while. Not gone. Just… quiet.

Now it’s quieter.
And gone.
Gone.

The air doesn’t sing anymore. Doesn’t taste right. Doesn’t settle in my chest the way it did.
I slam my palm into the wall. The steel jumps under me, sings in a hollow way.

Again.
Again.
Again.

It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

I growl, low and guttural, at the ceiling. Red light flickers. Cameras blink. Watching. Always watching. But even their gaze feels hollow. Empty.
Where is it.
Where is she.
She?
No.
Don’t know.

But there was something. A voice. A scent. A warmth that smoothed the violence out of my bones for a breath.
Gone now.

And I—I am not quiet.

Burn.
Not fire. Not flame.
Inside. Everywhere.
Something’s wrong. Missing. Pulled out of me. Torn.

I prowl. Not pace—prowl. My feet don’t hit the ground right. I don’t know the difference anymore.
The walls sweat. Or I do. The room shifts. Tightens.
Hands. Straps. They came. They always come. Tightened.
Needles. Buzzing. Liquid fire in veins.
But I stayed still. Didn’t bite. Didn’t break. Didn’t rage.
Now I do.

I slam my fist into the wall until the skin splits. Slick echo. My own blood smearing steel. My own breath chasing me in circles.
A howl boils in my ribs but won’t come out.
Where.
She.
It.

Words won’t line up. Too many. Too fast.
Something pressed against the dark before. A warmth I didn’t ask for. Didn’t know I needed.
Gone.

I tear the cot apart. Steel legs shriek against the floor. Bolts snap.
I want the walls to bleed for holding me.
I claw the seams in the corner. Scrape until nails bend backward.
The sound comes from me. Inside. Like something ripping open that won’t heal this time.

There’s no sleep.
No peace.
Only need.
But I don’t know for what. Or who. Or why.

I want to snap. Want to break something real. The kind of breaking that proves I exist.
So I throw myself at the door. Shoulder first. Bone crunch.
Again.
Again.
The sound it makes—it feeds me. Sharp, jarring, real.

But the hole doesn’t close.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Something is gone.

I smell it in memory. Warm. Salt. Quiet. The way my body stilled when it should have clawed.
Gone.

I snarl. My throat rips raw. I don’t remember screaming but the walls echo it back anyway.
The handlers don’t come close. They hover in the hall, whispering. Their fear smells sharp.
Good.
But they mean nothing. The missing thing—the silence that isn’t peace—that’s what matters.

I pound my forehead against the wall until the skin swells. Nails scratch the floor until splinters dig under them.
Not claws. Not yet. Hands. Fists.
Chains long gone but I still feel them. Cold. Tight. Ghost weight digging into wrists.

Teeth grit.
Breath burns.
Chest heaves.
No noise.
No scent.
No light.
No—her.

Don’t know it’s her. Don’t know what it is.
But it should be here.
It was.
Before.
It was.
Soft.
Soothing.
Thin voice.

Warmer than the lights. Warmer than the food.
Then gone.

Two days? Three?
How long?
Too long.

It hurts.
Not the needles. Not the drugs. Not the lights.
This.
Whatever this is.
It hurts.

A silence that claws open my ribs from the inside. A hollowness that makes the growls turn into keening before I swallow them.
I rip the mattress open, stuffing spilling like guts. I tear the sheets into strips and knot them until my fingers are raw. I dig at the corners of the floor as if silence could be hiding beneath.

Nothing.
Not here.
Not like this.
But I can’t stop.
I won’t stop.

Because the need—the absence—the wrongness—is everywhere.
And I don’t know how to breathe without it anymore.

The door shifts.
Metal groan.
Keys.
Steps.
One of them slips inside.
Small.

Wrong smell.
Fear on his skin but thinking the straps, the needles, the drugs make me quiet enough.

He says something. Words. Orders.
I don’t hear them.
I hear the hole.
I smell the silence.
And I move.
Fast.
Faster than thought.
My hand on his throat. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.

The rage in me finally has somewhere to go.
I slam him against the wall. Once. Twice. His skull makes a hollow crack.
Not enough.
I tear.
Flesh splits. Hot copper scent fills my lungs.
He claws at me, useless. Weak.
I squeeze until bone shifts under my palm. Until his body twitches, then stills.

The red light above flickers.
Buzzing louder.
Alarms bite the air.
Shouts behind the door.
But I’m already back in the center of the room, blood running hot down my arm, pacing over the body like it’s nothing but shed skin.

The wrongness is still there.
The silence is still there.
She is still gone.
And I am still hollow.