Chapter 20: Noah Watches

Noah

The glow from my phone was the only light in the apartment.

I lay sprawled across the couch, one hand knotted in my hair, the other gripping my phone hard enough to ache. The hum of the refrigerator seemed louder in the quiet, a lonely mechanical sound filling the silence. I hadn’t moved in hours.

I told myself I’d stop after just a few posts. Just a glance. But I couldn’t. The hashtags were everywhere, bleeding across my feed in black text and white labels.

“This scent is unreal. I feel… different.”

“Everyone stared at me tonight. Not complaining.”

“Can’t stop smelling my wrist. Obsessed.”

That word, obsessed, caught me. Stuck to me like it was meant for me.

I clicked another video.

A young woman appeared on-screen, her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated wide. Her laugh was jittery and nervous, her teeth flashing too white under the bathroom lights.

“I don’t know what’s in this,” she said breathlessly, brushing back tangled hair. “But I feel amazing. Like I could walk into any room and…”

She didn’t finish. Just smiled too widely and stared into the lens.

I knew that look. God help me, I knew it.

I reached for my journal on instinct. It was right where I’d left it: corner of the table, leather cover worn soft. My fingers flipped pages I hadn’t touched in years, stopping where I already knew they would.

Day 12: Feels good. Too good. Like I’m someone else entirely.

The ink was jagged. Slanted. Written by someone who didn’t care if it was legible.

Day 15: Slept for the first time in weeks. Can’t stop smelling it. Can’t stop thinking about her when I do.

The words blurred. My handwriting didn’t look like mine anymore.

I shut the book hard enough to make myself flinch.

I’d seen those eyes before. Wore them, even.

And Adrienne had written them there.

I opened my laptop. The click of the hinge sounded sharp in the stillness. My fingers moved on their own, typing passwords I hadn’t thought about in years, pulling up folders I’d promised myself I’d deleted.

I hadn’t. Of course, I hadn’t.

Adrienne’s archive appeared, neat as a knife drawer.

Rows of files. Subject IDs. Cold, clinical timestamps. The order was perfect. The control almost felt smug, even now.

I scrolled until I saw it: 001N.

Me.

I clicked.

Subject: 001N (male, 27).

Initial presentation: acute anxiety, chronic insomnia. Formula administered: 0.5ml (therapeutic compound). Further down:

Day 7: Subject exhibits increased compliance. Day 10: Subject verbalized “safe” (unprompted) x4. Day 12: Proximity-seeking behavior observed (toward researcher).

I stared. Safe. I remembered saying it. Could almost hear my voice in the empty apartment. I didn’t remember why.

An audio file sat at the bottom. I clicked before I could stop myself. My voice crackled through the speakers, quiet, hoarse. “It feels good, like it’s working. Like… I feel safe when you’re here.” Adrienne’s reply followed, calm and cool:

“Good. Keep going.”

I slammed the laptop shut.

The cursor blinked at me from a blank email draft.

To: Adrienne Volke.

Subject: STOP.

Two words. Simple. Heavy.

I pictured her reading it, her slight smile, the one that meant she’d already won. She’d glance at it once and move on.

Still, I typed.

“I know what you’re doing. You need to stop before—”

I stopped. Before what? Before it gets worse? Before they end up like me? None of it was big enough.

I erased the line. Typed again:

“I recognize the signs. You’re doing it again. They won’t know what’s happening until it’s too late.”

The words on the screen challenged my resolve, their haunting intensity unyielding. I squinted, trying to extract meaning from their silent glare.

I remembered late nights in her lab, bathed in the soft glow of desk lamps, her warm whisper coaxing a single word from my mind: “safe.”

Feeling a sudden urgency, I pounded the Backspace key, erasing each letter and leaving a heavy void where my words had been. The draft blinked at me, an empty canvas mocking my struggle.

On my shelf, the bottle remained in its silent vigil, a relic from another time when I believed it held the key to my peace. Its frosted glass shimmered faintly in the dim light, the minimalist label curling at the edges, a testament to years gone by. At first glance, it looked innocuous, almost decorative.

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the chilled surface, feeling its unexpected weight. As I turned it in my hands, my thumb brushed against a faint smudge near its base—an old reminder of my dependence.

Her voice echoed, reassuring: “This will help you sleep.” And it did. The first time I used it, I sank into a deep slumber, awakening after ten hours with a sense of wholeness and intoxicating relief.

Yet, that relief was merely a tempting trap, a hook that dragged me deeper into the abyss. What had started as a nightly ritual soon morphed into something darker—a slippery slope. I found myself spritzing it during the daylight hours, desperate for a moment of quiet in a world that buzzed relentlessly around me. I began counting the hours until her visits, timing my doses with military precision, convincing myself I had everything under control. I was lying to myself, each lie echoing in the dark corners of my mind.

I toyed with the cap, my fingers itching to twist it off, yet I hesitated, caught in a moment of reckoning. I set the bottle down with more force than I intended, the sound a sharp reminder of what I stood to lose. I didn't open it, because deep down, I understood the consequences of crossing that line.

Now, seeing Adrienne extend that same insidious slope to everyone else felt like a betrayal. Each notification that lit up my screen felt like a warning, a reminder of the power of choices and the fragility of the human spirit.

Julian Rhys. I clicked. His face filled the camera: his shirt was undone, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes wide and electric. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said, breathless. “I wore it yesterday, and” He hesitated. Laughed once, sharp, too thin.

“Someone I’ve never met showed up outside my building. Just stood there. Watching me. Smiling.” Julian swallowed hard, pupils blown wide. “And I liked it. That’s the worst part. I wanted them to stay.”

My stomach dropped. I scrubbed backward, rewatched. Frame by frame. That look in his eyes, the restless brightness, the raw edge of it, I’d seen it in my mirror once. “I ordered three more bottles. Overnight shipping,” Julian whispered, leaning closer. “I don’t care what it costs. I just, God, I need it.”

The feed cut abruptly. I slammed my laptop shut. My reflection stared back at me from the dark screen: pale, hollow-eyed, haunted. I’d survived because Adrienne had let me.

These people wouldn’t be so lucky.