ONLY IN THE DARK

FRACTURED REALITY

Sleep was nowhere to be found.

Aurora couldn't remember the last time she slept complete hours.

The moments stretched like thick, suffocating fog around her. Every creak of the floor, every slight shift of the air made her body tense, anticipating a knock. But no one came. No Saint. No guard. Not even the woman in grey.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his words. "You need to decide whether you want to survive this place... or burn with it."

What the hell did that mean? She wasn’t in control of anything here. They told her when to eat, when to sleep, when to speak. And yet, in that moment, with Saint’s voice still echoing in her mind, Aurora realized something. She wasn’t the one being controlled.

Not completely.

Not if she could figure out how to play this game.

The night passed slowly, as she sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the darkened corner of the room where he’d been. That lingering scent of smoke still clung to the space, despite his absence. She ran her fingers over the note again, feeling the jagged ink burn into her skin, the weight of it pressing down on her.

"Trust no one."

It was a warning.

She had no idea what was happening in Greywood—what Saint had meant by "everyone" being involved—but she knew one thing for sure. The walls here were closing in. Fast. She had to decide whether she would escape the suffocating grip of this place or let it consume her.

The next day came like every other. The artificial brightness of the overhead lights felt blinding, and the hum of fluorescent bulbs made it hard to focus. She walked through the hallways like a ghost, blending into the walls, but her mind was elsewhere. What if the answers she was looking for weren’t in Greywood at all? What if the real game, the one Saint was playing, existed somewhere beyond these walls?

But how? Where?

Her thoughts were interrupted when she reached the courtyard. The sun barely kissed the edges of the sky, but it felt like an eternity since she’d seen anything resembling warmth. Aurora inhaled deeply, forcing herself to breathe in the crisp air. It was an escape—if only for a few minutes.

But she wasn’t alone.

She spotted him across the yard—a man in a black jacket, standing just on the edge of the shadows. His back was to her, but something about his posture was unmistakable.

The man with the too-straight posture.

She froze. Her pulse hammered in her throat. It was him. The one from the cafeteria. The one Saint had warned her about.

Aurora turned quickly, but not fast enough. She caught the man’s eyes. His dark gaze held her for a moment, a silent exchange passing between them. Then, just as quickly, he turned and disappeared into the shadowed hallway.

What the hell is going on here?

Her instincts screamed at her to leave, to hide, but she couldn’t. She had to know. She had to understand.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she moved toward the door. But before she could reach it, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Trying to run again?” the woman in grey asked, appearing from the shadows behind her. Her voice was sharp, almost amused.

Aurora’s heart dropped. “I wasn’t—”

“I don’t care what you were doing,” the woman said, her tone colder than before. “But you don’t belong here, and you’re getting dangerously close to finding out why.”

Aurora’s throat constricted. She couldn’t read her. Couldn’t figure out if this woman was trying to warn her or threaten her.

"Stay out of it," the woman added, stepping closer. Her eyes narrowed. "You’ll be a lot better off if you do."

Aurora swallowed hard, not trusting herself to speak. She was out of time.

The woman turned and walked away without another word, leaving Aurora standing there, the weight of her warning settling heavily in her chest.

---

Later that night, Aurora was restless, unable to get the image of the man from the courtyard out of her head. Why had he looked at her like that? It wasn’t just curiosity—there was something darker beneath his gaze. Something dangerous.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the door. Any moment now, the knock could come. Any moment, Saint could reappear, and all the questions she had would be answered—along with a dozen new ones.

But instead, there was nothing.

No knock. No Saint. Just the oppressive silence that filled the room, the hum of the lights, and the weight of her thoughts.

She couldn’t keep waiting.

Aurora grabbed the note from underneath her mattress. She had to do something with it—something to make it matter. The words were too sharp, too important to ignore.

She slipped it into her sweater seam once again, then headed toward the door.

The shadows along the hallway seemed to stretch as she walked, turning corners like something alive. And then, she saw him again. The man from the courtyard, watching her from down the hall.

This time, he didn’t look away.

Aurora’s breath hitched, but she didn’t stop walking. She couldn’t.

She was getting closer to something. And it was either going to pull her in deeper or tear her apart.

But either way, she wasn’t backing down.

She just didn’t know what was waiting for her when she finally reached the edge of this game.

The man didn’t move as she closed the distance.

His stillness was unnerving—like he’d been standing there long before she’d turned the corner, waiting for her to find him.

When she was ten steps away, he finally spoke.

“You’re not very good at hiding.”

His voice was low, smooth, but with an edge that made her skin crawl.

Aurora stopped just out of arm’s reach. “I’m not hiding.”

A flicker of a smirk touched his mouth. “Then you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, buzzing against the silence that followed. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He ignored the question, letting his eyes sweep over her like he was taking inventory.

“You don’t belong here. Not in this ward.”

Her stomach tightened. It was almost the exact phrase the woman in grey had used.

“What do you mean?”

“Greywood isn’t what you think it is,” he said. “And if you keep sniffing around, you’re going to find something that won’t let you go.”

The words lodged in her chest like splinters.

Before she could press him, a shadow moved at the far end of the corridor—two guards, boots heavy against the tile.

The man stepped back into the dark, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“They’ll tell you I don’t exist.”

Then he was gone.

Aurora turned, scanning the hall, but there was no door where he’d stood. No opening. Just solid wall.

The guards passed her without a glance, but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

She didn’t head back to her room. Couldn’t.

Instead, she kept moving, her mind turning over the same impossible question.

If he didn’t belong here… and she didn’t belong here…

then who the hell did?

______

Aurora reached the stairwell and pressed her palm to the cold metal rail.

The air here was different, staler, heavier, as if the vents hadn’t been used in years.

She descended one flight, then another, passing the numbered plaques that marked each level. Most were locked behind reinforced doors.

Level 3. Level 2.

At Level 1, the lights flickered.

She hesitated. A faint sound carried up from below—wet, irregular, like water dripping from a great height.

Only… it wasn’t water.

A metallic tang hit her nose. Copper. Blood.

Aurora froze halfway down the next set of stairs.

Below, the landing was empty—until something shifted in the shadows.

A figure hunched at the bottom step, back turned to her. The shape of it was wrong, shoulders bunched unnaturally high, head c****d at an angle that no neck should bend.

Her breath caught.

Then, as if sensing her, the figure turned—

And there were no eyes. Just smooth, pale skin where they should have been.

It moved. Fast.

Aurora stumbled back, her shoes scraping the steps.

The thing stopped just short of the dim light spilling down from the upper floors, as though crossing that line would burn it.

It lifted its head, sniffing the air.

She didn’t dare breathe.

From somewhere above, the heavy clang of a door slamming broke the moment.

When she looked again, the figure was gone.

Aurora didn’t remember climbing back up the stairs, only the taste of iron in her mouth and the sick certainty that the guards here weren’t protecting the patients.

They were keeping something in.

Aurora didn’t sleep that night either.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that blank face, that skin stretched smooth where eyes should have been.

She waited until the guards changed shifts, then slipped out of her room.

The corridor was empty except for the faint hum of the overhead lights.

She retraced her steps to the stairwell. The air was colder here tonight, sharp enough to sting her lungs.

At Level 1, the lights still flickered. She forced herself down one more flight, her hand tight on the rail.

The metallic scent was stronger now.

And then she saw it—just beyond the shadows.

A smear of dark, dried blood across the wall… and embedded in it, a fingernail.

Not torn, not broken—grown long and curved like an animal’s claw.

Her stomach twisted.

Beside it, something else: deep grooves raked into the concrete. Four parallel lines, uneven and jagged, like whatever made them had been dragged backward while it clawed for purchase.

She reached out without thinking.

The edges of the grooves were still sharp.

Aurora’s heart pounded as she realized she’d been right....

It wasn’t human.

A sudden click echoed behind her.

She spun around, but the stairwell was empty.

Still, she felt it, the same prickling weight of being watched.

The next morning, Aurora sat in the Director’s office, the grooves and claw still fresh in her mind.

“I saw it,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “There’s something down there. It’s not a patient. It’s not—”

“Aurora,” the Director interrupted smoothly, his tone warm and almost paternal. “You’ve been under a great deal of stress. Nightmares aren’t uncommon in our… environment.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” she insisted. “There’s blood. And claw marks.”

He smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Our maintenance logs show no damage in the stairwells. And the cameras confirm you haven’t left your room after lights out.”

She stared at him. “That’s impossible. I was there.”

“Trauma can make the mind… creative,” he said softly. “Perhaps you’re projecting fears onto harmless situations. It’s part of why you’re here....to heal from that.”

Her hands tightened on the armrests. “You’re lying.”

“Or,” he replied, leaning forward just enough to make her pulse spike, “I’m telling you the truth, and you simply don’t like what it means.”

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating.

When she left, a guard was already waiting outside the door, escorting her back as though she were the dangerous one.

Back in her room, Aurora sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint pattern of cracks in the wall.

The Director’s words kept looping in her head like a broken tape.

Maybe you imagined it.

Perhaps you’re projecting fears.

But she could still feel the edge of those concrete grooves under her fingertips. She could still smell the metallic tang of the air. Those things were real.

Unless…

Her chest tightened. What if it was her mind? What if Greywood was right, and she was unraveling without realizing it?

She rubbed her eyes, but that only made the shadows at the edges of the room shift and warp.

They seemed to bend toward her, as though the darkness itself was listening.

Aurora forced herself to breathe evenly, but the thought kept digging into her:

If she was imagining things, then the fear wasn’t real.

And if it wasn’t real, then she had nothing to protect herself from.

That should have comforted her.

It didn’t.

A faint noise from the vent above caught her attention, a slow, dragging scrape, like nails against metal.

Her skin prickled.

She told herself to ignore it, to lie back and let sleep claim her.

Instead, her eyes stayed fixed on the vent until the sound stopped.

And just before it did… she thought she heard breathing.

Shallow. Wet. Close enough that if she stood on the bed, she could almost touch it.