Time did not shatter all at once—it stretched, thinned, and trembled under the weight of a choice I wasn't sure was mine to make.
Freddy stood in front of me, his weapon lowered, his entire body open in a way that should have made him vulnerable. Instead, it made him immovable. His eyes were locked onto mine, searching, steady, refusing to see the gun in my hand as a threat. How was he alive?
"Lola," he said, quietly but firmly, "put it down."
The words reached me, but they moved through a mind already under siege.
Deep inside, something far colder than fear had taken hold. It was not a voice in the traditional sense—not spoken, not even thought—but a command embedded in my bones, pressing outward from within.
Eliminate the threat.
My grip tightened around the gun without hesitation. My arm steadied itself with unnatural precision, muscles aligning as though guided by something far more exact than instinct.
Behind me, Frank let out a low, satisfied murmur. "Go on," he said softly. "Show me."
There was an expectation in his tone—no, not expectation. Certainty. He believed this moment already belonged to him.
Freddy took a careful step closer. Not aggressive, not fearful. Just… controlled.
"I'm not going to fight you," he said. "Do you understand that? If you pull that trigger… it's not me you're losing."
The command surged harder, as if reacting to resistance.
Fire.
My finger began to tighten.
Inside my mind, panic clawed against it. I could feel the fracture between intention and action growing wider with every second, like watching my own body from behind a pane of glass.
And then something broke through.
Not the command.
A memory.
My father's laugh—clear, warm, alive. The way he used to fill a room without trying. The time he burned breakfast and insisted it was "experimental cuisine" while I laughed until I couldn't breathe.
You don't quit, Lola.
The words echoed—not imposed, but remembered.
No matter how hard it gets, you fight.
Pain exploded across my thoughts as I resisted. It wasn't just internal pressure; it felt as if the serum itself lashed back at the refusal, punishing disobedience. My vision flickered. The world tilted.
Fire.
"No," I forced out—not just in thought this time, but in breath, thin and broken.
My arm jerked.
Freddy braced himself, but the gun did not stay on him.
It turned.
The shot rang out, sharp and final.
Frank's body recoiled as the bullet tore through his leg. The impact drove him backward into the metal tray, sending instruments clattering across the floor. For the first time since I had known him, his composure broke completely—his expression twisting with something raw and human.
Shock.
The command inside me faltered.
Not gone, but shaken—like a structure cracking under unexpected strain.
Freddy moved instantly.
"Move!" he shouted, already closing the distance between us.
I barely processed his words before he was at my side, pulling tubes from my arms and neck, tearing away the machinery that had controlled my breathing moments earlier. Sensation flooded back in violent waves—sharp, disjointed, overwhelming.
Warmth. Cold. Pain.
Everything at once.
"I—" My voice scraped out, fragile and unfamiliar. "I can't—"
"You can," he said, gripping my arm. "You're getting up."
My legs slid over the edge of the bed. When my feet hit the floor, it felt like standing on shattered glass. My body resisted, uncooperative and weak, muscles trembling under the sudden demand.
Behind us, Frank laughed—a strained, jagged sound, but unmistakably deliberate.
"You think that was defiance?" he said, pressing a hand to his wound as blood seeped through his fingers. "That wasn't choice. That was design."
Doubt crept in immediately, insidious and unwelcome. Freddy pulled me upright, forcing me to focus.
"Look at me," he said. "Stay with me."
"I'm trying," I whispered, though the effort of even forming the words felt immense.
Another wave hit.
Return.
The command slammed into me with renewed force.
My body jolted backward, as if pulled by an invisible tether. My grip tightened involuntarily around the gun again, my arm twitching as it fought to realign itself with its original target.
"No," I said louder, panic rising. "No, I'm not—"
Freddy caught my wrist, forcing it down.
"Fight it," he said.
"I am!" The words came out sharper than I intended, edged with desperation. "He's—he's still there. Inside. It's not just orders—it's like… it's rewriting how I move, how I react—"
"I know," Freddy said, though his tone said he didn't fully understand. "But you turned the gun. That was you."
Frank staggered forward a step, his expression hardening.
"You don't get to walk away," he snarled. "You belong to me."
The words struck deeper than they should have. For a horrifying second, they felt true. My body froze, caught again between conflicting directives. The gun lifted slightly, my muscles betraying me.
Freddy didn't hesitate. He shoved the weapon downward and pulled me toward the door.
"Out," he said.
This time, I moved with him.
Each step was uneven, shaky, but forward nonetheless. The further we got from Frank, the more the commands seemed to blur—not gone, but less precise, like static interfering with a signal.
We burst into the hallway.
It was chaos—overturned equipment, flickering lights, the distant echo of alarms and gunfire. Smoke lingered in the air, stinging my eyes.
"Can you run?" Freddy asked, already moving.
"I don't know," I admitted.
"Then stay on your feet."
We started forward.
At first, I barely managed more than a stagger, but Freddy's momentum dragged me along. My body began to remember itself in fragments—balance returning in fleeting pieces, coordination snapping unpredictably into place.
Behind it all, the command continued.
Return.
"No."
The refusal hurt. It triggered something chemical and violent in my system, sending sharp bursts of pain through my skull.
Return.
"I said no."
My voice shook, but the words held.
We reached a stairwell and slammed through the door. The narrow space amplified every sound—our breathing, our footsteps, the distant chaos below.
"Up," Freddy said.
"Why up?"
"They'll expect us to go down."
It made enough sense.
We climbed.
Halfway up, my strength collapsed. My knees buckled, and I fell hard against the steps, catching myself just before sliding back. Freddy dropped beside me immediately.
"Stay with me," he said.
"I'm trying," I repeated weakly. "But it's not just… strength. It's like he left something behind. A trigger. A leash."
Freddy was quiet for a moment, thinking.
"Then we break it," he said.
I let out a soft, humorless sound. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," he replied, meeting my eyes with unwavering certainty.
It wasn't realistic, but it was enough.
"I shot him," I said, the realization settling more fully now.
Freddy nodded. "Yeah. You did."
"That wasn't what he wanted."
"No."
I inhaled slowly, grounding myself in the ache of my lungs, the burn in my muscles, the very real proof that I still had agency—however fragile it might be.
"I can fight it," I said. "Not perfectly. Not all the time. But I can… push back."
"That's all we need," Freddy said.
We reached the top of the stairs and pushed out onto the roof. Night air rushed over me, cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering haze in my mind.
A helicopter waited, its blades already spinning. Relief hit me in a wave I hadn't expected.
"You came prepared," I said.
"I wasn't leaving without you."
He helped me into the seat, steadying me as another wave of weakness passed through my body. Once the door slammed shut and the helicopter lifted, the building began to shrink beneath us.
For the first time since waking up, the pressure in my mind eased slightly.
Not gone.
But quieter.
"Your dad," Freddy said after a moment.
The reminder settled heavily over me.
"He's alive," I said. "But not okay. The serum—it's affecting him differently. He's resisting it, and I think that's what's tearing him apart."
Freddy's grip tightened on the controls.
"Then we get him out."
"It won't be simple," I said. "Frank won't make the same mistake twice. And whatever he's done to my dad… it's not just physical."
"Doesn't matter," Freddy said. "We'll figure it out."
I studied my hands—still trembling, still unreliable.
"He'll try to control me again," I admitted. "Maybe harder next time. I don't know how far it goes."
He glanced at me briefly.
"You already proved he doesn't own you," he said. "Now we build on that."
The words settled somewhere deep inside me. Not reassurance. Not certainty. But something steadier than fear.
Resolve.
"We'll need a plan," I said. "Something that doesn't just get us in, but keeps him from using me—or my dad—as weapons."
Freddy nodded. "Then we make one."
I leaned back, closing my eyes—not to escape, but to focus.
Frank was still there. Not physically, but in fragments—echoes of command, embedded reactions waiting to be triggered.
But now there was something else alongside them.
Resistance.
As the helicopter carried us into the night, I held onto that fragile, hard-won truth. I had turned the gun once. Next time, I would do more than that.