Lake stumbled over a root, nearly falling face-first into the forest floor. The man behind him shoved his shoulder, forcing him upright. “Keep moving.” It was the first time the man had spoken. His voice was low—rough and cold like gravel under boot. Lake’s breath caught in his throat. Something about hearing him speak made it worse. More real. “You don’t have to do this,” Lake said again, his voice cracking from a mix of cold and panic. “You can still turn around. Let me go. I swear I won’t tell anyone—” “Shut up and walk.” Lake gritted his teeth as they moved deeper into the trees. The sunlight was fading now, bleeding orange and gold through the branches. It cast long shadows ahead, each one twisting like they were reaching out to pull him under. “Who paid you?” he asked, trying to keep him talking. “Do you even know why they want me? You’re just someone’s puppet.” The man said nothing this time, but his hand jerked his arm roughly, steering him off the trail. Lake’
Lake stepped down from the last backdrop, sweat clinging lightly at the nape of his neck. The team behind the camera clapped softly—some polite, others more genuine. “That’s a wrap, Lake. Great work today.” “You really nailed that last set. The couch shots were fire.” Tania handed him a bottle of water with a nod. “Not bad for someone who claims he’s more comfortable behind a hoodie.” He chuckled, taking the water. “You weren’t so bad yourself. Give me a heads up next time you plan on stealing the show.” Tania smirked. “Please. I carried you.” “Rude.” But he was smiling. “Alright, everyone,” the creative director called. “Let’s clear up in ten. Models, thank you. We’ll be in touch before the next campaign.” Lake grabbed his bag from the corner, slinging it over one shoulder. He gave a few quick thank-you’s to the makeup artists and lighting crew, all of whom looked just as exhausted. He made his way to the exit, only to be stopped by the photographer. “Hey, Lake.” He turned.
“How’s he doing?” Lake asked, watching Max set his phone down with a sigh.Max dragged a hand through his damp hair. “Honestly? I don’t know. He’s a wreck. Everyone knows how obsessed he is with Monica, and now—no one even knows if she’s alive or dead. It’s really disheartening.”Lake’s eyes softened. “I hope she’s okay. Wherever she is.”Max nodded slowly. “Me too. But it’s hard to hold on to that hope when the odds keep shrinking. It’s been weeks. He’s taking it out on his staff—snapping, shutting people out. I don’t think he’s slept.”“That sounds like Spencer.”“I’m gonna shower and head over. Maybe I can get him to eat something.” Max stood and stretched, his shoulders tense.Lake nodded as Max disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the quiet room.Thirty minutes later.“Max, I’m heading out,” Lake called, slipping on his bag and reaching for his keys.The bathroom door swung open. Max stepped out, towel slung low around his waist, skin still glistening
“No. No. Leave me alone.”Lake twisted on the bed, voice choked and barely audible.Max stirred. His eyes blinked open into the dim light of the room. He turned toward the sound, brows drawn.“Lake?”He reached out, hand gently brushing against Lake’s shoulder.“Hey. You’re dreaming again. Wake up.”Lake whimpered. His breathing hitched. Tears slipped silently down his cheek even before his eyes opened.Max sat up straighter, alarmed now. “Hey—hey, are you okay?”Lake blinked rapidly, trying to shake the nightmare. His voice came out hoarse. “Did I… wake you up again?”“Doesn’t matter.” Max reached over and tucked Lake’s hair behind his ear, hand lingering. “You were crying.”Lake tried to sit up but dropped his head back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling like he couldn’t quite breathe right.Max stayed still beside him.“You don’t have to tell me what it was about,” Max said quietly. “But you’re safe. You’re here. With me.”Lake gave a slow, shaky nod. “I know. It’s just… it
Monica sat rigid on the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Indiana sat behind her, legs crossed, her fingers tapping gently on her knee. Dr. Beatrice glanced between them, then leaned forward just a little. “Before we begin, Monica,” she said kindly, “would you feel more comfortable if we spoke alone for a bit?” Indiana turned her head. “Is that necessary?” Dr. Beatrice smiled, not unkindly. “It can help patients open up more freely in the first session. Just a few minutes.” Indiana hesitated. “I’m fine,” Monica said flatly. Dr. Beatrice turned to her. “Are you sure?” Monica paused, then looked toward the door. “Yeah. Actually… I’d prefer it.” Indiana shifted in her seat. “I only brought you here because I care—” “I know,” Monica cut in softly. “But I just need a minute.” The room went quiet. Then Indiana stood. “Alright.” She adjusted her coat, gave Monica a final glance, and moved toward the door. “I’ll be right outside.” Monica didn’t reply. As the door click
Monica sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in a blanket. Her arms rested on her knees. Her fingers tapped against each other in a slow, restless rhythm. The night had ended hours ago, but her thoughts hadn’t. Indiana watched her from across the room, leaning against the wall. Her arms were folded. She hadn’t spoken yet. Monica looked up. “You’ve been staring for fifteen minutes.” “I’m worried,” Indiana said, finally stepping forward. “You haven’t eaten. You haven’t showered. You haven’t said a word all morning.” Monica didn’t answer. Indiana sat down beside her. “Do you remember what you said when I came into your room this morning?” Monica’s eyes dropped to her knees. “That I thought I was going to die.” “No,” Indiana said. “You said you didn’t feel real anymore.” Silence stretched between them. “You’re here,” Indiana said, voice steady. “You’re alive. But surviving something like that—what happened—it doesn’t go away on its own.” “I’m not broken,” Monica muttered. “