Dr. Grace arrives at 8:30 PM on day six hundred and thirteen. She's a thin woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun, her movements efficient as she prepares the evening medication. Unlike Dr. Terror's rust-colored eyes, hers are a flat gray—the color of old coins or winter skies before snow.

  "Last dose for today," she says, voice clinically pleasant. Her wedding ring catches the fluorescent light as she flicks the syringe. "How are we feeling after our little excursion?"

  I don't answer. My face feels stiff from dried tears, my throat raw from screaming. The cat has disappeared, as it often does when others enter the room. My useless legs stretch before me like foreign objects—meat and bone that once belonged to someone else, grafted onto my body without consent.

  "Dr. Terror had quite a breakthrough with you today," she continues, unbothered by my silence. "He's recommended you join the general population for lunch tomorrow. A significant step in your rehabilitation."

  The needle slides into my arm. Unlike the burning cold of the morning medication, this one spreads warmth—almost pleasant, like honey dissolving in hot tea.

  "Day six hundred and fourteen might be your best one yet," Dr. Grace says, disposing of the needle in a sharps container that seems to swallow it rather than simply hold it. "Sleep well."

  As she turns to leave, the medication already pulling me toward unconsciousness, I see something move beneath the skin of her neck—a ripple, like fingers pressing from the inside, trying to break through.

  The door closes behind her, and the room dims. The sedative works quickly, but in that liminal space between waking and sleeping, the veil between realms slips.

  The ceiling above me peels back like burning paper, revealing a cathedral of bone and obsidian. Stars bleed light through the opening, forming constellations I recognize though they exist in no earthly sky. From the walls comes a soft whisper—a language older than human tongues.

  Pain is currency.

  My fingers twitch against hospital sheets that feel, momentarily, like chains against an altar of living bone.

  A vessel for what?

  The cat appears on my chest, its weight anchoring me as reality dissolves. Its eyes reflect firelight that isn't there.

  "For me," I whisper, as consciousness slips away.

  And in that moment between moments, I hear the walls of my room grinding against each other like massive teeth. Something watches from between the cracks—something ancient and hungry and patient.

  Day six hundred and fourteen dawns with unexpected clarity. The medication hangover that usually clouds my mind is mysteriously absent. In its place, a sharp awareness that feels dangerous, like the edge of a freshly honed blade.

  Two orderlies—massive men with identical blank expressions—arrive to transfer me from bed to wheelchair. Their hands leave momentary impressions in my flesh, like fingerprints in wet clay. I watch with detached curiosity as the indentations slowly fade.

  "Lunch with general population today," one says, his voice oddly flat. "Dr. Grace's orders."

  They wheel me through corridors that seem to stretch and contract with each blink. Doors appear where none existed before, then vanish when looked at directly. Other patients shuffle past—some with escorts, others moving with the jerky autonomism of marionettes with tangled strings.

  The cafeteria is vast—far larger than seems possible given the hospital's external dimensions. Long tables arranged in neat rows, approximately a hundred patients scattered among them. Some appear almost normal—reading books, conversing quietly—while others exist in states of profound disturbance.

  A man at the nearest table methodically disassembles his sandwich, arranging each component in concentric circles around his plate. Another rocks back and forth in silence, lips moving without sound, hands tracing symbols in spilled milk. A woman in the corner laughs so hard she weeps, yet makes no sound, her face contorted in silent hysterics.

  And at each table, at least one person stares directly at the walls, their gaze following something invisible that seems to crawl just beneath the surface.

  An orderly wheels me to a handicap-accessible table, places a tray before me, then retreats without a word. The food is institutional but recognizable—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, lime gelatin. Compared to the gruel of the dungeons—

  I stop myself, pressing fingertips against temples. Not real. The dungeons weren't real.

  Yet I can recall with perfect clarity the taste of that gruel—rancid and gritty, often containing tiny bones that cracked between teeth. I run my tongue over my own teeth now, whole and smooth. It's easier to eat with them, and for that I'm grateful, even if the gratitude feels like surrender.

  I sigh, pushing the potatoes around with a plastic spork. What's the point? Either I'm a paralyzed mental patient with elaborate delusions, or I'm a potential queen trapped in an equally elaborate illusion. Neither option offers much hope.

  The door to the cafeteria swings open, and conversations falter, silverware pauses mid-air. A heartbeat of perfect silence descends as a figure enters, wheeling herself forward with graceful confidence.

  Even from across the room, she's impossible to ignore—pink hair cut in a sharp bob that catches the light like a neon halo, skin the color of polished amber, features so symmetrical they border on the unnatural. She moves through the cafeteria like a shark through still water, other patients instinctively drawing back to clear her path.

  I drop my gaze, suddenly unwilling to be caught staring, and focus intently on my food. The cafeteria noise resumes, but with a different pitch—like an orchestra that's skipped several measures and is struggling to find its way back to harmony.

  A shadow falls across my tray. I raise my eyes slowly.

  She's before me, wheelchair aligned with the empty space at my table, tray held in delicate fingers tipped with polish that matches her hair exactly.

  "This seat taken?" she asks, voice like warm caramel, already setting her tray down. "Course not. Who'd want to sit with the quiet girl?"

  Without waiting for a response, she wheels herself into place, her movements economical and practiced. Up close, her beauty is even more unsettling—perfect in a way that makes my skin prickle with unease. Her eyes, which I first thought were hazel, shift between amber and green depending on the angle of light.

  She digs into her meatloaf with bare hands, tearing off a chunk and popping it into her mouth, then immediately launches into conversation as if we're old friends.

  "Heard you screamed like hell yesterday," she says, mouth full. "Proper impressive, that. Half the ward thought someone was being murdered." She swallows, eyes bright with interest. "What'd the good doctor show you? Must've been something special to crack the Queen of Quiet."

  I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. She notices and laughs— gorgeous and soft, out of the ordinary for this place.

  "Oh, don't look so spooked. The Walls talk around here. It's practically the only entertainment." She tears off another piece of meatloaf. Chews. Watches me with those shifting eyes.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  A specific choice of words, too specific to be a coincidence.

  "You have a name?" I ask, the words scraping my unused throat.

  Something flickers behind her perfect smile—a shadow passing across the sun. "I did. Once." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "The things in the Walls took it from me. So I took one back."

  She leans closer still, pink hair falling forward to frame her face like a neon halo.

  “Would you like me to tell you it?” she asks. I nod, and her lips part as if to whisper something precious and secret.

  What emerges isn't a word or a name. It's a sound that bypasses my ears entirely and scrapes directly against the inside of my skull—like fingernails dragging down a chalkboard, like metal grinding against bone, like the scrape of teeth against the inside of a coffin lid.

  I recoil; a cry trapped in my throat.

  She uses a napkin and extends a clean hand across the table. I stare at it, making no move to reciprocate. Something about her feels wrong—not dangerous, exactly, but... askew, as if she's been imperfectly translated from another language.

  "Not the social type. Fair enough." The pink-haired girl shrugs with a dancer's grace. "I've always been too chatty. Makes the doctors nervous." Her smile reveals teeth too white and too perfect, almost luminescent under the fluorescent lights.

  I find myself drawn to her despite my instincts screaming danger. "What are you in for?" I ask, voice raspy from disuse.

  Her smile widens, revealing more teeth than should fit in a human mouth. "Heard the Walls talking." She leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow feels louder than her normal tone. "And worse—I answered back."

  A cold tremor runs down my spine, stopping precisely where sensation ends at my hips. "The Walls," I repeat, careful not to phrase it as a question.

  "Mmm." She nods, picking at her green beans with her fingertips. "No drugs help. Nothing helps. Dr. Terror says therapy's the only way, but—" she leans closer, her breath smelling of mint and copper "—I think he just likes watching us when we hear them scratching."

  My pulse hammers against my ribs. I want to ask more, but caution holds my tongue. What if this is another test? What if she isn't real?

  "It's okay to be careful," she says, reading my thoughts. "But sooner or later, you choose sides. Nobody stays neutral forever."

  "Sides?" I manage.

  Her eyes flick ceiling-ward, then to the walls, then back to me. "The hungry ones," she whispers, pushing a green bean between perfect teeth. "The ones who've waited since before there were words."

  Across the cafeteria, a thin man with wispy gray hair lurches to his feet, chair clattering against tile. His spine arches backward, tendons in his neck straining against papery skin. His eyes—suddenly bloodshot, pupils shrunk to pinpricks—lock onto something hovering above our table that only he can see.

  "Why did you do that?" he whispers, voice trembling with such naked horror that several patients nearby begin to whimper.

  What happens next unfolds with such horrific speed that my mind fractures trying to process it.

  The man's chest swells, stretches, distends. His hospital gown splits at the seams. His mouth gapes in a silent scream as his ribcage bends outward, bones visibly shifting beneath taut skin. Then, with a wet, tearing sound, he simply... erupts.

  Blood sprays in a crimson fountain. Chunks of meat and bone arc through the air like grotesque fireworks. Viscera slithers across the floor with purpose, seeking, hunting. A length of intestine drapes itself over a neighboring patient's head, who sits frozen in shock, mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth.

  I recoil, wheelchair skidding backward. "What the fuck—"

  The pink-haired girl doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. A fine mist of blood settles on her perfect features like morning dew. She merely tilts her head, observing the carnage with the detached interest of a child watching ants.

  "Oh dear," she says mildly. "Someone heard."

  I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision, to comprehend what my senses refuse to accept. When my eyes focus again, reality has... recalibrated.

  The man still sits at his table, face down in his meatloaf and gravy, apparently passed out. No blood. No explosion. No scattered organs. Just an elderly patient who seems to have dozed off mid-meal.

  Two orderlies rush toward him, checking his pulse, lifting his face from the food. One looks our way, expression dark with suspicion.

  "What did you do to him?" I demand, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  The pink-haired girl's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Me?" Her lips curve into a smile too precise to be genuine. "Nothing at all." She leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper that seems to bypass my ears entirely. "But the thing that heard me? That's another story."

  The orderlies help the man to his feet. He appears groggy but alive, face smeared with gravy, eyes vacant as empty rooms.

  "What just happened?" My voice shakes. "What did I see?"

  "What did you see?" she echoes, tilting her head slightly. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, which seem to change color as I watch. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe what happens when the veil gets thin." Her smile widens, teeth gleaming too white, too perfect. "Or maybe you're just crazy. Crazy as me. Crazy as all of us."

  Before I can respond, a shadow falls across our table. Dr. Grace stands there, her flat gray eyes moving between the pink-haired girl and me.

  "Time's up," Dr. Grace announces, tone flat as pavement. "Your therapy session is scheduled to begin." Her fingers grip my wheelchair handles, already turning me away.

  "Wait—" I twist in my seat, desperate to maintain eye contact with the pink-haired girl. "I need to know—"

  "Another time," Dr. Grace interrupts, voice crystalizing into ice.

  The pink-haired girl gives a small wave, her smile serene despite the blood mist drying on her cheeks. "Tomorrow, maybe," she calls. "If there is a tomorrow."

  As Dr. Grace wheels me toward the exit, I catch one last glimpse of her. She's watching me, eyes now entirely green, her expression unnervingly still. Her lips move, forming words I can almost read from across the room:

  The Queen must choose.

  The doors swing shut behind us with a finality that makes me shiver. Dr. Grace wheels me through corridors that seem longer and darker than before. The shadows in the corners don't move correctly—flowing rather than shifting when we pass.

  "You shouldn't associate with that one," Dr. Grace says after several minutes of silence. "She's a disruptive influence."

  "What happened to that man?" I ask. "The one who collapsed."

  "Minor seizure. Nothing unusual." Her voice is flat, definitive. "Many patients here have comorbid conditions."

  "I saw..." I begin, then stop myself. What did I see? Blood and bone and horror, or simply an old man passing out in his lunch?

  "What did you see?" Dr. Grace prompts, her tone suddenly keen with interest.

  The question echoes the pink-haired girl's with such precision that goosebumps rise on my arms. I remain silent, suddenly aware of how precarious my position is, how easily my "progress" could be revoked.

  "Nothing," I say finally. "Just surprised me, that's all."

  We turn down a corridor I've never seen before—or perhaps never remembered. The floor here is different—polished stone rather than institutional tile, the walls adorned with mirrors in ornate frames. In their reflections, I catch glimpses of a different me—taller, stronger, crowned with shadow and light.

  "You know," I say quietly, "I keep hoping my legs will work again."

  Dr. Grace's reflection appears in one of the mirrors—her face momentarily rippling like disturbed water, the severe bun unraveling into something that resembles writhing snakes.

  "Hope," she responds, voice neutral, "is not a treatment protocol we encourage at Mercy Hills."

  The cat appears ahead of us in the corridor, its form shifting between that of an ordinary feline and something much larger, with limbs too long and a tail that splits at the end. It watches our approach with eyes that gleam with colors from beyond the spectrum, hues that exist in the space between dreams and waking.

  Dr. Grace doesn't seem to notice it. But as we pass, the cat falls into step beside my wheelchair, a silent companion as I'm delivered to whatever therapy awaits.

  I close my eyes, and for just a moment, I feel the weight of a crown of bone settling onto my brow. When I open them again, the cat is gone.

  But in its place, trailing behind us like a shadow, is the man from the cafeteria—the one who collapsed. His eyes are empty now, pupils so dilated no iris remains. His mouth hangs open slightly, and inside, something moves that isn't a tongue.

  He raises a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, then points to the wall beside us. I follow his gaze, and for just an instant, I see what he sees—a network of veins pulsing beneath the plaster, carrying something dark and viscous that isn't blood.

  Dr. Grace pushes me onward, unaware or unconcerned about our silent observer. My hands grip the arms of the wheelchair so tightly my knuckles turn white.

  What if sanity is just a comfortable lie? What if madness is simply seeing too clearly?

  We stop before a door marked simply "Therapy." Dr. Grace leans down, her breath cool against my ear.

  "Dr. Terror has special plans for you today," she whispers. "Try to keep an open mind."

  As the door swings open, darkness spills out like ink, a void that drinks light rather than merely lacking it. I stare into its depths and feel it staring back, assessing, measuring the hollow spaces within me.

  In that moment, clarity strikes like lightning. I will wear the mask they expect—the broken patient, the docile specimen—but beneath that fragile disguise, I am becoming something they cannot fathom. Something that remembers.

  The Queen must choose. And I choose to believe the Walls.