Ch.3: The Panopticon

I focus on the rage. I nurture it. I feed it the memory of my face in the metal tray, the sound of Aris humming Mozart, the feel of the scalpel.

*Beat, beat, beat.*

The monitor behind me picks up the rhythm. The steady *beep... beep... beep* begins to accelerate.

*Beep-beep-beep.*

It’s not enough. I need a crisis. I need to force a code blue. If I crash, they have to move me. They have to bring in equipment, maybe outside paramedics if the facility isn't stocked for cardiac arrest.

I hold my breath. I clench every muscle that still obeys me—the deep abdominals, the diaphragm. I push the blood pressure up, straining against the paralysis until my head swims with vertigo.

*BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*

The alarm wails. A shrill, piercing shriek that bounces off the concrete walls.

Good. Let it scream. Let it shatter the glass upstairs.

I push harder. I conjure the image of Isabella wearing my skin. I imagine her fingers—*my* fingers—touching my daughter’s hair. The fury turns into a physical heat, boiling the blood in my veins. My heart thrashes like a bird caught in a net. 120. 130. 140.

The door flies open.

I expect a crash team. I expect Greta with a defibrillator.

Instead, Aris walks in.

He isn't running. He is strolling. He holds a glass of red wine in one hand, swirling the liquid gently against the crystal rim. He is wearing a velvet smoking jacket, the kind he wears when he reads in the library.

He looks annoyed. Not worried. Just mildly inconvenienced.

He walks over to the wall and punches a code into the keypad. The alarm cuts off instantly.

The silence hits the floor like a dead weight.

"You're being dramatic, Elena," he says, taking a sip of the wine. "It disrupts the ambiance upstairs."

I try to glare at him, but without eyelids, I just stare—a wide, wet, frantic stare. My heart is still hammering, vibrating the bed frame.

He walks to the IV pole. He taps the black box mounted above the drip bag. It looks like a standard pump, but there is a modification. A secondary line runs from the box directly into my jugular catheter.

"Do you recognize this?" he asks, tracing the tube with a manicured fingernail. "It's the prototype from the Starkweather merger. The automated sedation loop."

He leans in close. I can smell the Merlot on his breath. It smells like the dinner parties we used to host.

"I calibrated it specifically for you," he whispers. "I know your resting heart rate is a robotic 48 beats per minute. You always were ice cold, darling. So, I set the threshold."

He points to the digital display on the box. It reads: **LIMIT: 60 BPM**.

"If you go over sixty," he says, his voice dropping to a conversational murmur, "the machine assumes you are in distress. Or, more likely, that you are throwing a tantrum."

He taps the display.

"It automatically dispenses 5mg of Midazolam. Instant twilight state."

My blood runs cold.

He hasn't just trapped me in a room. He has trapped me in my own physiology.

"So, go ahead," he challenges, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Get angry. Get scared. Panic. The moment you feel anything strong enough to raise your pulse, the machine will knock you out. You'll wake up six hours later, groggy and drooling, and we'll do it all over again."

I try to calm down. I try to force the rhythm to slow. But the terror of the trap makes it impossible.

*Beep-beep-beep.*

The number on the screen climbs. 58. 59. 60.

*Hiss.*

The machine engages. I hear the pneumatic click of the plunger driving down.

A wave of grey fog hits my brain instantly. The rage dissolves into a soupy, confusing slush. My limbs feel heavy, sinking into the mattress. The clarity—the sharp, burning desire for revenge—slips through my mental fingers like smoke.

"There she goes," Aris says, watching my eyes lose focus. "Much better."

He reaches out and pats my raw, muscle-exposed shoulder. The touch sends a dull, distant spark of pain through the fog, but I can't react. I can't even think.

He finishes his wine and sets the glass down on the counter, right next to the tray that held my face.

"You have to learn to be still, Elena. To be nothing. That's your role now. You are the battery that keeps the face alive. Nothing more."

He turns to leave, his velvet slippers silent on the concrete. At the door, he pauses, hand on the light switch.

"Oh, and stop trying to scream," he adds, glancing back at the wet, red ruin of my head. "The vocal cords are still intact because I enjoy the sound of your breathing. But if you keep trying to use them..."

He smiles, and the cruelty in his eyes is absolute.

"Be a good vegetable, El. Or I'll cut the vocal cords next."