Toby's Blocked Visit

Hope is a dangerous drug, especially when the side effects include a metallic aftertaste and the crushing weight of a silver locket that doubles as a tracker. I sat on the edge of the bed in my white-on-white box, the silence of Unit 4 pressing into my eardrums until I could hear the blood rushing through my own carotid artery. My hand—the one with the jagged, red line—was a fist. I wasn't just a Foley artist anymore. I was the Foley. I was the sound of a woman refusing to be erased.

The intercom crackled, a sudden burst of white noise that made me flinch.

"Movement in the hall," Elena’s voice whispered from the vent. It was thin, like silk thread about to snap. "He’s bringing someone. Not a doctor. A civilian."

I scrambled to the observation port, pressing my face against the cool, reinforced glass. The hallway was a tunnel of clinical dread, the overhead lights strobing in that same erratic code. At the far end, the heavy security doors hissed open.

Graham walked through. Or Gavin. Or whichever of the four identical brothers was currently holding the remote control to my life. He looked impecabbly styled in a charcoal blazer, the very image of the tragic, wealthy widower-to-be.

He was followed by Toby.

My breath hitched. Toby looked like a man who hadn't slept in a decade. His clothes were wrinkled, his posture slumped, a Starbucks cup clutched in his hand as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He was arguing with the man in the blazer, his face flushed with a mixture of grief and an audacity that was astronomical.

"I have a right to see her!" Toby shouted. His voice echoed through the hallway, vibrating against the steel doors. "She’s my partner. I’m not leaving until I see her chart!"

"Partnership agreements don't override medical privacy laws, Toby," Graham—let's call him Graham for now—said smoothly. His tone was giving 'I have a secret family in another state' energy. "Merritt is in a delicate state. She’s violent. She’s confused. She thinks I’m a stranger."

"Because you are acting like one!" Toby stepped into Graham’s personal space.

Graham didn't flinch. He adjusted his cufflinks with the calm of a man who owned the building. Which, as it turned out, he Lowkey did.

"She tried to kill me, Toby. She’s obsessed with some fantasy about a dead brother and a hidden child. You’re only making it worse."

I pounded on the glass. "Toby! I’m here! Don't believe him!"

The soundproofing swallowed my scream. Toby didn't even turn his head. To them, I was just a ghost behind a two-way mirror.

"I brought her a care package," Toby said, his voice cracking. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a small, brown paper bag. "Just some things from the studio. Her favorite headphones. Some tea."

"We provide everything she needs," Graham said.

"Just give it to her. Please. For old times' sake."

Graham sighed, a performance of profound patience. He signaled to the nurse—the one with the crinkling scrubs who had taken my SD card. She stepped forward and took the bag from Toby.

"I’ll have it screened," she said.

"Screened for what? It's a hoodie and some earplugs," Toby snapped. He looked at the door to 402, his eyes lingering on the observation port for a fraction of a second. Did he see me? Was that a flicker of recognition?

"You need to leave now, Toby," Graham said. "Before I have security escort you out. You're trespassing on private medical property."

Toby stared at him, a raw, naked hatred in his eyes. This was his villain era, or maybe his hero era, and the vibes were actually call the cops. He looked at the camera lens in the ceiling, then back at Graham.

"Plot twist," Toby whispered, loud enough for the intercom to catch it. "The plot is actually twisted. I’m going to find Elena, Graham. And when I do, this whole Vivarium comes down."

He turned and ambled away, his bare feet—wait, no, he was wearing work boots. Size 11. The same boots I’d seen in the garden. The same boots Sarah had winked at in the van.

My heart stopped.

Toby was the man in the hoodie?

But I had seen Toby zip-tied in the van. I had seen Sarah with the blade.

My mind spun. The confusion was a mood, a thick, grey mist that Aris’s stimulants couldn't pierce.

The nurse walked toward my door. She swiped her keycard. *Beep.*

The door hissed open. She didn't look at me. She just tossed the brown paper bag onto the bed and stepped back out.

"Don't touch the headphones," she commanded. "Security hasn't cleared them."

She slammed the door. *Thud-clack.*

I stared at the bag. It was a mundane object in a room full of lethality. I am one bad day away from becoming a statistic, I thought.

I crawled onto the bed. My fingers trembled as I opened the bag.

Inside was a gray hoodie, smelling faintly of the Foley studio—cabbage, wet soil, and Toby’s stale coffee. And a pair of heavy, noise-canceling headphones. The kind we used for high-fidelity recordings.

I pulled out the hoodie. It was heavy. Too heavy.

I felt the hem.

Something hard was sewn into the fabric.

I ripped the stitching with my teeth.

A micro-SD card fell into my palm. It wasn't the one the nurse had taken. It was different. Labeled in red marker: *BENE-9*.

Check the beneficiaries.

I looked at the headphones. They were my favorites. Bose QuietComfort.

I put them on. The world went silent. The hum of the ward, the vibration of the flood—gone.

But then, a sound.

A recording started playing automatically. It was a digital loop, triggered by the pressure sensors in the earcups.

*"Merritt,"* Toby’s voice whispered directly into my skull. *"If you're hearing this, it means they let the package through. Listen carefully. Elena isn't in 403. Elena is the Director."*

I felt a cold drop of sweat slide down my spine.

*"The brothers? They aren't the masters. They're the product. Graham, Gavin, the others—they were bred for this. For the show."*

The recording flickered, static-heavy.

*"Sarah found the ledger. The trust fund isn't yours, Merritt. It was never yours. It belongs to the survivor of the 1999 fire. The girl who stayed silent."*

The lights in my room began to pulse. Red. White. Red.

*"The girl in the closet wasn't you, Merritt. You were the girl outside. You were the one who started the fire."*

I ripped the headphones off. My lungs burned. It was a lie. A script. Another layer of the gaslight. I remembered the closet. I remembered the smell of the linen.

I looked at the television screen.

The live feed was back.

It showed a room I didn't recognize. A nursery. Pink walls. A crib.

And a woman sitting in a rocking chair, her back to the camera. She was wearing a white silk dress, identical to the one currently bagged in the basement.

She turned around.

It wasn't Elena. It wasn't Sarah.

It was me.

A younger version of me. Maybe twenty. Holding a red metal truck.

She looked at the camera and smiled.

*"Welcome to Season 1, Merritt,"* she said.

The door to my room hissed open.

Graham stood there. He wasn't wearing a blazer anymore. He was wearing an orderly’s uniform.

He was holding a long, curved blade.

"Time for the series finale," he said.

He didn't lunge. He didn't scream. He just stepped into the room and locked the door behind him.

I backed into the corner, the micro-SD card biting into my palm.

"Which one are you?" I whispered.

"I'm the one who remembers the matches," he said.

He raised the blade, and as the drones began their descent through the broken observation window, I realized the red liquid they were carrying wasn't paint.

It was accelerant.

The forest outside began to roar, the sound of a thousand trees catching fire at once.

"Tell me, Merritt," he whispered, the blade inches from my throat. "Do you want to know who really bought the grave?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a receipt, but it wasn't for Plot 4B.

It was a bill for a 5-star hotel in Paris, booked in my name, for tomorrow morning.

And the guest list included a person I thought I had buried twenty years ago.

The footsteps stopped outside my door. The handle began to turn.