CHAPTER 4: THE FACILITY RULES

Marcus found Dr. Cross in his office on the third floor, behind a door made of frosted glass etched with the Prometheus House logo of a phoenix rising from flames. The symbolism wasn't lost on him. It symbolised rebirth, transformation, and rising from the ashes of whatever had broken you enough to land you here.

He knocked once and entered without waiting for permission.

The office was nothing like the sterile luxury of the rest of the facility. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, shelves crammed with leather-bound books that looked older than they had any right to be. A massive desk dominated the space, its surface cluttered with files and an antique fountain pen that gleamed in the light from a Tiffany lamp. Behind the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the fog-wrapped redwoods, making the forest look like something from a dream.

Dr. Evander Cross sat with his back to the door, facing the windows. He didn't turn around when Marcus entered.

"Mr. Webb." His voice was smooth, cultured, the kind of voice that belonged in lecture halls or boardrooms. "I wondered when you'd come looking for me."

"I want to leave."

"Of course you do." Cross swiveled in his chair, revealing a man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a high forehead. His features were sharp, aristocratic, saved from severity by the warmth of his smile. He wore a charcoal suit without a tie, the top button of his shirt undone in a gesture of studied casualness. "They all do, at first."

Marcus stayed by the door, hands clenched at his sides. "I don't remember checking in, and I certainly don't remember agreeing to treatment. I want to know how I got here and why I can't leave."

"Please, sit." Cross gestured to one of the leather chairs facing his desk. When Marcus didn't move, his smile widened. "I'm not going to bite, Mr. Webb. Though I understand why you might be feeling defensive. Disorientation is perfectly normal in the early stages of integration."

"Integration into what?"

"Yourself." Cross leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "That's what we do here at Prometheus House. We help people remember who they really are beneath the layers of trauma, denial, and societal conditioning. It's a process. A sacred one, if you'll forgive the terminology."

Marcus took a step closer to the desk. The air in the office felt heavier than it should, thick with the scent of old paper and something else. Something medicinal. "I don't need integration. I need answers. Starting with how I got here."

"You came voluntarily."

"I don't remember that."

"Memory," Cross said softly, "is a fragile thing. It protects us sometimes. Hides what we're not ready to see." He pulled a file from beneath a stack on his desk, flipping it open. "You had a breakdown six months ago, Mr. Webb. During a live investor call. You started screaming about a man in a mirror and a night you burned. The video went viral, and your company's stock dropped forty percent in a single day."

Marcus's chest tightened. He remembered that call. Remembered standing in the conference room, the faces of investors on the screen, the pressure building behind his eyes like a migraine about to split his skull open. Then nothing. Just blank space where the rest of that day should have been.

"That doesn't explain why I'm here now. Six months later."

"You've been looking for help." Cross closed the file. "Psychiatrists, therapists, specialists in trauma and dissociative disorders. None of them could help you. The episodes kept coming. You were experiencing blackouts, lost time, and violent outbursts. Your sister was the one who found Prometheus House. She's the one who brought you here."

"Elena." The name felt foreign on his tongue. Marcus had a sister. He knew that. Could picture her face if he concentrated hard enough. She had dark hair like his, sharp eyes, and a fierce protectiveness that had followed them both through childhood. But the memories felt distant, viewed through clouded glass. "Where is she?"

"She visits when she can. We have strict protocols about outside contact during the integration process." Cross stood, moving to pour himself a drink from a crystal decanter on the sideboard. He didn't offer Marcus any. "You're here because you need to be here, Mr. Webb. Because whatever broke inside you six months ago is still broken, and if we don't help you put it back together, there won't be anything left of you to save."

The words should have been comforting. They should have felt like concern from a doctor genuinely invested in his patient's wellbeing. Instead, they landed cold and clinical, like a diagnosis delivered without empathy.

"What are the rules?" Marcus asked.

Cross took a sip of his drink, something amber that caught the light. "Direct, I see. Good. That will serve you well here." He moved back to his desk but didn't sit. "Rule one: No leaving the grounds until your integration is complete. This process can take weeks, sometimes months. We'll know you're ready when you demonstrate full acceptance of your authentic self."

"That's vague."

"Necessarily so. Everyone's journey is different."

"And if I leave anyway?"

Cross's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The doors are locked, Mr. Webb. For your protection and the protection of others. Many of our patients arrive in acute crisis. We can't risk anyone harming themselves or wandering into the forest unprepared."

Marcus's jaw clenched. "I'm not a prisoner."

"Of course not. You're a patient. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Rule two," Cross continued, ignoring the question. "No contact with the outside world during integration. No phones, no internet, no letters. Complete immersion in the therapeutic process is essential. Distractions from your previous life only impede progress."

"My company—"

"Is being handled by your board of directors. Your sister has power of attorney for medical decisions. Everything is taken care of. You need to focus on healing, not on the life you left behind."

The life he left behind. Marcus tried to grasp at it—his office, his apartment, the feel of his keyboard beneath his fingers as he wrote code at three in the morning. The memories were there, but they felt thin, and insubstantial like photographs fading in sunlight.

"What about my roommate?" Marcus's voice came out hoarse. "Silas Ashford. Tell me about him."

Something flickered behind Cross's eyes. There and gone so fast Marcus almost missed it. "Mr. Ashford has been with us for several weeks. He's further along in his integration than you are. I thought pairing you two might be beneficial. He can help you acclimate."

"He says he's a ghost."

Cross laughed, the sound warm and indulgent. "Mr. Ashford has a unique relationship with reality. Part of his therapeutic journey involves distinguishing between metaphor and literalism. When he says he's a ghost, he's expressing his disconnection from the physical world. His feeling of being untethered from conventional existence."

"He doesn't have a pulse."

"Many of our patients experience psychosomatic symptoms. Mr. Ashford's circulation issues are well-documented. We monitor him closely."

"He casts no reflection."

Cross set his glass down, expression sobering. "Mr. Webb, you've been here three days. Three days of disorientation, memory gaps, and adjustment to a new environment. I would caution against making absolute statements about what you have or haven't observed. The mind plays tricks when we're under stress."

"I know what I saw."

"Do you?" Cross moved around the desk, stopping just close enough that Marcus had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. The doctor was taller than he'd seemed sitting down, his presence suddenly oppressive. "You don't remember checking in here, don't remember the last six months clearly, don't remember why you screamed about fire and mirrors during that investor call. But you're certain about your observations of Mr. Ashford?"

Marcus wanted to argue. He wanted to insist that yes, he was certain, he knew what he'd seen in that bathroom mirror. But doubt crept in like cold water, seeping through the cracks in his conviction.

"I want to call my sister."

"In time. When you're further along."

"I want to leave."

"You will. When you're ready." Cross placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder. His palm was warm, heavy, grounding. "I know this feels restrictive. I know it's frightening to be in a place you don't fully understand, surrounded by people who seem to know more about you than you know about yourself. But I promise you, Mr. Webb, everything we do here is for your benefit. You came to us broken. We're going to help you remember how to be whole."

Marcus shrugged off the hand. "And if I refuse? If I demand to leave right now?"

Cross's expression hardened, warmth draining from his features like water from a cracked vessel. "Then you'll be kept here under involuntary commitment. Your sister provided medical power of attorney. Your behavior in recent months has demonstrated clear danger to yourself. I have the authority to hold you for observation as long as necessary."

The words landed like a punch. Marcus's breath caught, his pulse roaring in his ears. "You can't—"

"I can. And I will, if you force my hand." Cross moved back to his desk, picking up his drink and finishing it in one smooth motion. "I'd prefer not to. I'd prefer you engage voluntarily with the therapeutic process. But make no mistake, Mr. Webb, you're not leaving Prometheus House until I determine you're ready. Fighting that reality will only make your stay longer and more difficult."

Marcus backed toward the door, his hands shaking. Everything in him screamed to run, to find a window and break through it, to escape into the fog-wrapped forest and keep running until he found civilization. But Cross's eyes tracked him with the patience of a predator watching prey, and Marcus knew with bone-deep certainty that running would accomplish nothing.

The doors were locked. He was trapped.

"One more thing," Cross called as Marcus's hand closed around the door handle. "Mr. Ashford is off-limits for romantic or sexual contact. Many of our patients form attachments during their time here. It's natural, a byproduct of shared vulnerability. But acting on those attachments only complicates the therapeutic process. I trust I've made myself clear?"

Marcus's throat constricted. He managed a nod.

"Good. Dinner is at six. I suggest you attend. Community is an essential part of healing." Cross turned back to the windows, dismissing him. "Welcome to Prometheus House, Mr. Webb. I have a feeling you're going to find your time here quite transformative."

Marcus fled.

He made it halfway down the corridor before his legs gave out. He sank against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the cold hardwood floor, head between his knees, trying to breathe through the panic clawing at his chest.

He was locked in. No contact with the outside world. No escape until Cross decided he was integrated, whatever the hell that meant. And Silas—impossible, beautiful, dead Silas—was somehow part of this. Part of Cross's plan, and the therapeutic process designed to help Marcus remember who he really was.

Michael. Silas had called him Michael.

Marcus pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The photograph in his wallet felt like it was burning through the fabric of his pants, demanding attention. 1924. Two men holding hands like they were the only solid things in a world made of smoke.

He was trapped in a facility with a ghost who looked at him like recognition, run by a doctor who spoke in riddles and threats, in a building that felt more like a prison than a hospital.

Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the panic and the fear and the desperate need to understand, something whispered that he'd been here before.

That he'd died here before.

That Silas had been waiting for him to come back.