Inside the steakhouse, I placed the sealed vial filled with white liquid at the edge of the table.
James was busy cutting his tomahawk steak into small pieces, chewing with both cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.
With a hint of disgust, I pushed my untouched steak over to him. How long had it been since he'd had a decent meal? Catching a gullible client like me, he must be thrilled to upgrade his diet.
"How are you feeling today?"
I sighed, "I slept for eight hours, feeling pretty good."
He nodded. "It's very likely you were drugged. We'll know for sure once it's tested."
A deep sadness washed over me—so depression and pain could be artificially created.
They had orchestrated my initial suffering and then used drugs to strip away my ability to recover, trapping me in a PTSD spiral u
