Chapter 6: A New Scar

I woke slowly, grogginess overwhelming my consciousness like a heavy fog. The clean scent of antiseptic scent, hit me first, then the soft hum of machines somewhere nearby. My eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim, artificial light that spilled across the room. The ceiling above me was smooth, white, and too perfect. This wasn’t my apartment—or anywhere I recognized.

Panic bubbled up in my stomach, rising fast. My body felt heavy, as if someone had replaced my bones with stone. I tried to sit up, but my limbs betrayed me, weak and sluggish.

“Don’t move too quickly.”

The deep voice startled me, shivers ran down my spine at its calm familiarity. I saw him as I turned my head to the side—Lincoln. He sat in a sleek chair pulled close to the bed, his dark eyes locked on me. In his presence, it felt almost like I was suffocating, the pressure of his gaze heavy with something I couldn’t name. Concern? Guilt?

“Where am I?” My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

“My home,” he said, his tone even, controlled. “You’re safe.”

Safe? I didn’t feel safe. My heart hammered against my ribs as I glanced around the room. It was very neat, almost clinical, the kind of place you’d expect in a private hospital or a high-tech laboratory. The walls were smooth and white, the furniture minimal and modern. A soft beeping sound came from a small monitor near the bed, its screen displaying numbers and lines I didn’t understand.

“What happened?” I croaked, forcing the words out despite the dryness in my throat.

Lincoln leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. “You fell unconscious for reasons I can't fathom. I brought you here to recuperate.”

“Unconcious?” My brows knitted together as I tried to piece together the fragmented memories. There had been… something. Voices. Flashes of pain, then darkness.

He didn’t elaborate, his face a mask of unreadable calm. That only made my anxiety spike higher. “How long was I out? What did you—”

“You’re alive,” he interrupted, his voice firmer now. “That’s what matters.”

I didn’t miss the way he avoided the question, and frustration flared hot in my chest. “That’s not an answer, Lincoln. I deserve to know—”

“Nothing.” He straightened, his jaw tightening. “You need to rest. Your body isn’t ready for any stress.”

“Stress?” I repeated, frustrated. “What does that even mean?”

He didn’t respond, his silence heavy and deliberate. I clenched my fists, only to wince as a sharp pain ran through my wrist.

“What the…” I muttered, lifting my arm to examine it.

That’s when I saw it—a thin, jagged scar running along the inside of my wrist. The skin was pale and slightly raised, as though it had healed weeks ago rather than hours. But I knew my body. This scar hadn’t been there before.

“What is this?” I demanded, holding my wrist up for him to see.

Lincoln’s gaze moved to the scar, his expression tightening almost immediately. “A sign,” he said softly.

“A sign of what?” I pressed, my voice rising.

“Jane…” He reached out as if to take my hand, but I pulled back, glaring at him.

“Don’t ‘Jane’ me,” I snapped. “You’ve been vague and cryptic from the second I walked into your house, and I’m done with it. Tell me what’s going on.”

For a moment, something like regret flashed across his face. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the same stoic mask he always wore. “You wouldn’t understand, even if I told you.”

“Try me,” I shot back.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Your life has changed, Jane. Irreversibly. That’s all you need to know for now.”

My stomach twisted at his words, a sickening mix of fear and confusion churning inside me. “That’s what you keep saying. Changed how? Why won’t you just tell me?”

“Because it’s not safe,” he said, his tone final.

“Not safe for who? For me?”

“For both of us,” he said quietly.

His answer did nothing to ease my growing sense of dread. If anything, it only deepened the pit in my stomach. “I don’t believe you,” I said, my voice trembling with anger. “You’re hiding something. Something big.”

Lincoln stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He loomed over me, his expression hard and unreadable. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Rest. That’s all you need to focus on.”

“And what if I don’t?” I challenged, even as my heart raced in my chest.

His gaze darkened, a flash of something dangerous passing through his eyes. “You don’t want to test me, Jane.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the tension between us thick and suffocating. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the door.

“Wait!” I called after him, but he didn’t stop.

The door closed with a soft click behind him, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence.

I sat there for a long moment, my mind racing. Every instinct screamed at me to get out, to find answers, to do something. But my body still felt weak, unsteady, and the scar on my wrist throbbed faintly as if to remind me of its presence.

What the hell had he done to me?

Dizziness washed over me as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Wincing for a moment, I thought I might collapse, but I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stand. The cool tile floor sent a shiver through my legs and up my spine, grounding me just enough to keep moving.

Lincoln had told me to stay put.

But staying put had never been my style.

I took a tentative step toward the door, then another. My legs trembled beneath me, but I pushed forward, fueled by equal parts anger and desperation.

The door wasn’t locked—either it was a careless oversight or a calculated test. I didn’t care which. I slipped out into the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest.

The mansion was quiet, almost eerily so. The walls were lined with sleek, modern artwork, their abstract shapes and muted colors doing little to ease my dread. I crept down the hall, every step feeling uncertain about the whole thing.

I didn’t know where I was going or what I was looking for, but I knew one thing for sure—I couldn’t just sit back and wait for answers to come to me. If Lincoln wouldn’t tell me the truth, I’d find it myself.

As I turned a corner, I heard footsteps echoing from somewhere ahead. My breath caught, and I ducked into a nearby space, pressing myself against the wall. The footsteps grew louder, as my heart raced in a frantic motion.