June – POV
I wake with ICE in my veins.
I'm strapped to a metal chair—cold, unyielding armrests clamp around my wrists, my thighs, my ankles. My body feels heavy. My head pounds. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't—not again.
This can't be real.
No. No. No.
I'm in that room. That clinical, sterile nightmare space. Walls painted the same dull gray they used in psychiatric wards. Harsh fluorescent lights. A single door, metal, with a sliding panel—like something from a horror film. Something they would use.
My vision swims. My heart hammers so hard I can't hear myself think.
No. This… this can't be right.
I try to pull at the straps.
They're locked.
I try to breathe fast, hyperventilate. The smell of antiseptic, metal, and something acrid hits me.
Not here.
Not this place.
I can feel the cold light—tingling across my skin like a ghost touch. My limbs tremble. Tears sting my eyes.
Please. Please.
My heartbeat fills my ears. My eyelids flutter. I see—flashes.
