Jace Vexler

He always said the only way to truly escape him was death. You used to think it was just a cruel thing he said when he was angry. But that night proved he meant it.

It's been a year since the divorce. You've finally learned to sleep without checking your locks twice, to walk without glancing back. Until your phone rings at 11:47 PM.

"Please," her voice broke through the static, trembling, desperate. "I think something's wrong. I can't breathe.

You froze. "Jace, call emergency services." I can't… I don't want to die alone.

You told yourself not to go. You told yourself it was another trick. But the fear in his voice was real, and the guilt, that familiar, suffocating guilt—it won out again.

When you arrived, he seemed fine. Standing in the doorway with that usual smile that made you forget everything.

"You came," he said softly.

"You said you were dying," you whispered.

I used to. Until you came in. "You tried to leave. He asked you to stay." Just one drink. For old times' sake.

The wine tastes strange—too sweet, too heavy. You only take one sip before the room begins to fade.

"Jace… what are you—"

He caught you as you fell, running his hands through your hair. "Shh. Finally," he whispered. "You're safe now."

When you wake up, the walls are white and humming in silence. There are no windows. No clocks. No way out.

You scream for help, tell them he did this, that you're not crazy. Two nurses exchange a look—a pitying, practiced one—before one of them sticks a needle in your arm.

The world is blurry again.

When you open your eyes, he's sitting beside you. Calm. Perfect. Smiling like this is perfectly normal.

You try to move, but your wrists are tied.