The common room of the asylum buzzed with the low murmur of patients—some rocking back and forth, others staring blankly at the walls. Fluorescent lights flickered weakly overhead, casting shadows that stretched unnaturally across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of damp fabric and something sour, something old.
Zoya sat among them, hands clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms. Her body ached, her head throbbed from the weight of memories creeping back into her mind like unwelcome ghosts. The past was bleeding into the present, its edges sharp, unforgiving. Sleep had become a distant thing—something unattainable, something foreign.
Then, the static came.
A low hiss crackled through the room, swallowing every other sound. Conversations halted. Heads turned toward the old television mounted on the wall. The usual mindless program vanished, replaced by darkness.
Then, his voice.
Low. Controlled. Familiar.
"And so, the story continues…"
Zoya's breath hitched.
Patients twitched in their seats—some muttering to themselves, others chuckling under their breath—but she sat frozen. That voice. Him. The man who had come to her room in the dead of night. The one who knew things he shouldn't. Who spoke as if merely observing a tale unfold from the shadows.
"She thought she had finally found peace," the voice continued, smooth as silk. "A life to call her own. But peace is a fleeting thing, isn't it? It never lasts. Not for people like her."
The screen remained black. No images. No movement. Just the voice, weaving its web.
"She married him. The man who loved her more than anything. He whispered promises in the dark, swore he would never let anything happen to her. And for a time, it was beautiful. They were happy."
Zoya's breath shallowed.
"But love does not exist in a vacuum. It does not shield you from the past that clings to your name like a stain. It does not erase the whispers, the judging eyes, the hands that reach to pull you back into the abyss."
A pause. A deliberate silence, stretching, waiting.
"His family never accepted her. She was the daughter of a criminal, a stain upon their name. And his mother—oh, his mother made sure she never forgot it. Words laced with venom. Glances filled with disdain. She was an outsider in their world, a ghost haunting the halls of a house that would never be hers."
Zoya's fingers curled tighter.
"But he loved her. That should have been enough."
A soft exhale. Almost a sigh.
"And then, she told him. A child. His child."
Something twisted deep inside her chest.
"He was overjoyed. She remembers the way his face lit up, the way he held her as if the entire world had finally made sense. But happiness is a fragile thing, easily shattered."
The voice darkened.
"The father. A gambler. A man who had built an empire only to destroy it with his own hands. The debts grew. The walls closed in. And then, everything was gone. The house. The company. Everything they had."
Zoya's vision blurred.
"So she did the only thing she could. She took them to the house that once belonged to her father. The house that now belonged to her. She gave them shelter. She gave them her shares of the company. She gave them everything."
The voice dipped lower, almost amused.
"But giving is never enough, is it? Not when they believe they are owed something greater."
The lights flickered.
"The mother took her father's room. The sister took hers. And she—the one who had given them a place to stay—was left in the guest bedroom with the man she loved. Even the clothes on her back, the jewelry gifted to her, the remnants of a life she once knew—stripped from her, claimed by those who believed they had the right to take."
Her heart pounded violently.
"And yet, she stayed. She endured. For him."
The voice turned cold.
"But love does not stop fate. And fate had other plans."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"A phone call. A private jet. An explosion."
The air left Zoya's lungs.
"The man she loved—gone. Just like that."
She stared at the screen, unable to move.
"There was no time for grief. No time for mourning. The mother and the sister, they didn't shed tears. No, they turned their rage to her instead. They called her a curse, a plague upon their family. And then…"
The words stretched. Slow. Calculated.
"They beat her."
A few patients flinched.
"They beat her until she couldn't move. Until her vision swam. Until she could feel life slipping from her grasp."
Zoya's stomach twisted violently.
"But she wasn't alone, was she?"
A shuddering breath left her lips.
"No. She wasn't."
A heavy pause.
"She gave birth. The pain, the blood, the fear—it all blurred together. And then, the darkness came."
Her hands trembled.
"When she woke up, she was in a car. The world moved too fast around her. Lights flashing past. A voice—pleading, begging. But she doesn't remember whose."
Her entire body tensed.
"The last thing she saw… was the world disappearing beneath her. The car tumbling into the abyss. And then—nothing."
Her pulse pounded in her skull.
"She should be dead."
The voice softened, almost thoughtful.
"But she isn't."
A long, drawn-out silence filled the room. The screen remained black. The voice had stopped.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the television snapped back to its original program—a mindless infomercial playing as if nothing had happened.
The room was silent.
No one spoke.
The other patients shifted, some blinking in confusion, others mumbling to themselves. None reacted to what had just played, as if they hadn't even heard it.
But Zoya had.
The voice still echoed in her mind.
She pushed herself up, unsteady. She needed air. She needed to think.
But the moment she turned—
He was there.
Standing in the corner of the room, watching her.
Her breath hitched.
He shouldn't be here. He was never here. Only his voice. Only the stories.
But now…
He tilted his head, unreadable.
"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The faintest hint of a smile.
"An old friend."
Her hands shook. "How do you know all of this?"
His dark eyes locked onto hers, unwavering.
"The underground world keeps no secrets, Zoya."
She couldn't breathe.
"And you," he murmured, stepping closer, "are part of it. Whether you remember or not."
The walls closed in. The world tilted.
And then—
The lights flickered once.
And he was gone.