Chapter 6: First Resistance

The next evening, Mark came home with Chinese takeout and a bottle of Pinot Noir.

"Date night," he announced, setting the bags on the nightstand. The smell of sesame oil and MSG filled the sterile room, a sudden, violent reminder of the life we used to have. "Since you can't come to the restaurant, I brought the restaurant to you."

He poured himself a glass of wine, the red liquid swirling dark and heavy. He didn't offer me any.

"Where's Chloe?" I asked.

"Downstairs. Giving us some space." He sat in the armchair, loosening his tie. "She's been working hard, Elara. You should try to be nicer to her."

I picked at the duvet cover. "I asked her to unlock the door last night. She wouldn't."

Mark sighed, a long, patient exhale that made my teeth ache. "We talked about this. You were confused. Wandering. You could have fallen down the stairs."

"I wasn't confused. I wanted to see my daughter."

"And you will," he said, taking a sip of wine. "When you're better. Right now, you're... unstable."

He said it so casually. *Unstable.* Like it was a diagnosis he'd read on a chart, not a label he was actively manufacturing.

"Is that why you're locking me in?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "Because I'm unstable? Or because you don't want me to see what's happening in my own house?"

Mark set the glass down. The humor evaporated from his face.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I saw the photos, Mark. On the cloud."

It was a risk. A massive, stupid risk. But I needed to see his face when I said it. I needed to know if he was a victim of Chloe's manipulation or an architect of it.

He didn't flinch. He didn't look surprised. He looked... disappointed.

"Elara," he said softly. "We disconnected the cloud sync days ago. To save bandwidth."

"I saw them," I insisted, my voice rising. "Photos of you and her. Photos from years ago. You knew her. You knew her before you met me."

He stood up, walking to the bed. He loomed over me, blocking out the light from the hallway.

"You're hallucinating," he said. "Dr. Thorne warned us about this. Paranoia. False memories. It's the trauma talking."

"It wasn't a hallucination! It was on the screen!"

"Show me," he said. He held out his hand. "Show me the photos."

I froze. I couldn't show him. The battery was dead, and I had hidden the phone under the mattress. If I showed him, he'd take it away.

"I... I can't," I stammered. "The battery died."

"Of course it did." He shook his head, a look of profound pity on his face. "Elara, honey. Listen to yourself. You sound crazy."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pill bottle. He rattled it. The sound was like dry bones.

"Time for your meds."

He shook a yellow pill into his palm.

"I don't want it," I said, shrinking back against the headboard. "It makes me fuzzy. It makes me see things."

"That's the pain, Elara. The pain makes you see things. The medicine stops it."

He held the pill out.

"Take it."

"No."

His jaw tightened. "Don't make me call Chloe. She's not as patient as I am."

I looked at the door. It was closed. I looked at the water carafe. It was still out of reach.

I had to be smart. I had to survive.

"Fine," I whispered. "Fine. Give it to me."

I took the pill. I put it in my mouth. I took a sip of the stale water from the nightstand glass.

And then I did what I used to do with the vitamins my mother forced on me when I was a child. I slid the pill under my tongue, pressing it deep into the soft tissue of the floor of my mouth.

I swallowed the water with a loud gulp.

"Open," Mark said.

I opened my mouth. I lifted my tongue.

He peered in, satisfied.

"Good girl," he said. He kissed my forehead. His lips were dry. "Sleep well."

He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He picked up the wine and the takeout.

"I'll tell Chloe you're down for the count," he said.

He walked out, closing the door. I heard the lock click.

I waited. One second. Two. Three.

As soon as his footsteps faded down the hall, I spit the dissolving yellow paste into a tissue. It burned like acid.