He looked down briefly, the memory seeming to weigh on him.
"She went to the washroom and left a notebook on the table. I—I shouldn't have, but I opened it. Just one page."
I stared at him, a strange silence blooming in my chest.
Jason met my eyes again. "I'm sorry, Janica. I had no right to do that. But what I read… it wasn't just thoughts. It was evidence. Warnings. Pieces of something bigger."
I let out a breath, shaky and uneven, the weight of his words sinking in.
"Even if it exists," I whispered, my mind already pulling away from the thought. "I wouldn't even know where to start looking."
Jason didn't argue. He just watched me a moment longer before reaching for something on the table beside him. He grabbed a glass of water, offering it to me without a word. I took it, my fingers brushing his for a second as I held the glass, the coolness a stark contrast to the heat building in my chest.
"Then we start with memories," he said softly.
I shot upright with a gasp—like surfacing from a nightmare I couldn't claw my way out of.
My breath hitched. My eyes darted across the room.
He was already there.
The masked man. Sitting. Watching.
Not startled. Not surprised. As if he'd been waiting for me to wake. Like he'd been watching me sleep.
Then, without a word, he stood. Slow. Controlled.
I tried to pull away, instinct screaming—but I barely moved an inch before he reached down and took the notebook from under my arm. The one I'd written in. The one I'd poured myself into.
He didn't snatch it. That would have made him human.
No. He took it like it had always been his.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The ache in my throat and the hollow in my chest were louder than any words I could have screamed.
He turned a few paces away and opened it.
He read.
His silence was more terrifying than any outburst. He didn't blink. Didn't shift. Just read. Like I was a puzzle to be solved, not a girl falling apart.
Then—just as I wanted to curl away from the weight of his gaze—the door creaked open. A man in a white coat stepped inside, eyes down, gloves already on.
The doctor.
He didn't look at the masked man. Not once. Just came straight to me like this was routine.
He kneeled, checked the bandage on my wrist. His fingers were impersonal, mechanical. No words. Just the rustle of fabric and the faint sting of antiseptic.
The wound didn't burn. Not like before.
It had started to heal.
But healing shouldn't feel this cold.
The masked man finally closed the notebook—softly—and held it for a moment against his chest. Then, slowly, he turned to me.
His eyes met mine.
Empty.
He didn't speak. Didn't flinch.
He just… stared. Like he already knew every question I wanted to ask and didn't think I deserved the answers.
Then he turned and left, taking the last pieces of me on those pages with him.
And I… just lay there.
Wrapped in gauze.
And silence.
And something far worse than pain.