Chapter 8: Silence or Death

Elliott sat on the edge of his cot, his fingers curled tightly around the notebook in his lap.

He had been waiting.

Waiting for the sound of footsteps. Waiting for the familiar, gentle voices of Lily and Maggie. Waiting for the only two people in this godforsaken place who had shown him kindness.

But they never came.

The hours dragged on, stretching into an eternity. Meals were slipped through the slot in the door as usual, but no one spoke to him. No comforting voices. No warm smiles. Nothing.

Something was wrong.

Elliott’s stomach twisted into knots, his fingers trembling as they tightened around the pencil. The asylum had always felt like a prison, but now it felt like a tomb—suffocating and lifeless.

Where were they?

He had told them the truth. They had believed him.

And now they were gone.

A sick feeling curled in his gut, a feeling he had known all too well in the basement of his father’s mansion.

His father.

The thought alone sent ice through his veins.

Had his father found out what they knew?

His heartbeat pounded in his ears as his mind spiraled into the worst possibilities.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

The sound of polished shoes clicking against the cold asylum floor.

Elliott’s blood ran cold.

That rhythm. That pace.

He had heard it before.

He had heard it in the mansion, in the dead of night, when his father walked the halls with quiet authority.

The footsteps grew louder, stopping just outside his door.

The latch clicked.

The door swung open.

And there, standing in the dim, flickering light of the hallway, was Dr. Samuel Delacroix.

Elliott’s breath hitched in his throat.

For a brief moment, a flicker of something like hope had ignited when he heard footsteps, thinking—praying—it would be Lily or Maggie.

But now, that hope was dead.

His father stepped inside, his tall figure blocking the doorway like a shadow stretching across Elliott’s world. He looked just as polished and composed as ever—his long coat buttoned neatly, his hair combed back with precision. But his eyes…

His eyes were colder than Elliott had ever seen them.

There was no warmth, no regret, not even disappointment.

Only calculation.

Only control.

“You’ve been busy,” Dr. Delacroix mused, his voice smooth, casual. His gaze flickered to the notebook clutched in Elliott’s hands. “I hear you’ve made some friends.”

Elliott’s hands clenched around the notebook, his knuckles turning white.

His father took another step forward, closing the door behind him with a slow, deliberate motion.

“You must have thought you were being clever,” he continued, his voice as calm as if he were speaking to a child. “Telling them stories. Writing your little truths.”

Elliott’s chest tightened.

His father knew.

Somehow, he knew.

Dr. Delacroix let out a quiet sigh, as if the whole thing was a minor inconvenience. “I warned you, Elliott. I told you to be quiet.”

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed two photographs onto the cot beside Elliott.

The moment Elliott’s gaze fell upon them, the world tilted.

His body went rigid.

His stomach lurched.

The photos were of Lily and Maggie—or what was left of them.

Their bodies lay on a metal table, their skin cut open with the same surgical precision that Elliott had seen on his mother. Their faces were frozen in an expression of horror, their hands limp at their sides, their insides neatly dissected.

Elliott’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. His fingers trembled as he reached for the pictures, his chest tightening with a pain so raw it felt like he was being torn apart.

Lily’s bright smile—gone. Maggie’s sharp voice—silenced.

Their kindness had cost them their lives.

A choked sound tried to escape Elliott’s throat, but nothing came.

Nothing but silence.

Dr. Delacroix tilted his head, watching his son with an almost clinical fascination. “I had no choice,” he said simply. “They were asking too many questions. You made them ask too many questions.”

Elliott’s entire body shook with rage, with grief, with unbearable guilt.

His father had done this.

Because of him.

Because he had trusted them.

Because he had dared to hope.

Dr. Delacroix stepped closer, leaning down slightly so that their faces were inches apart. His voice was eerily soft.

“This is what happens, Elliott,” he murmured, “when you don’t listen.”

Elliott’s breathing came in sharp, uneven bursts. His nails dug into the fabric of the cot, his muscles tensed so tightly it felt like they might snap.

His father straightened, adjusting his cuffs as though he had merely completed a routine surgery.

“There won’t be anyone else coming for you,” he continued smoothly. “No more nurses to bring you notebooks. No more kind faces to give you false hope.” His gaze darkened, and for the first time, a flicker of something like warning passed through his expression.

“You’re alone, Elliott.”

Elliott’s vision blurred, his hands trembling violently as he looked back at the photos.

Lily and Maggie had believed in him. They had told him they would help him.

Now, they were nothing more than corpses on a table—just like his mother.

Dr. Delacroix turned to leave, stopping just before the door. “If you’ve learned anything from this, my son,” he said without looking back, “I hope it’s that silence is the only thing that keeps you safe.”

The door creaked open, the dim light spilling into the room.

Elliott sat frozen, his breath shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs.

His father had won again.

The door clicked shut.

Elliott was alone once more.

But this time, he knew the truth.

If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to escape…

He would have to be smarter.

His father had taken everything from him.

But he would not take his will to fight.

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