Damian
The ward smelled like lemons and piss.
Damian Proctor lay on his back and counted the cracks in the ceiling for the hundredth morning in a row. Not real cracks, not yet; hairline fractures in the paint where the plaster swelled and shrank with the seasons. The building was too new for real damage. The real damage happened in the people.
"Proctor. Up. Group in ten."
Kess's voice came through the door. She didn't bang. She never banged. The other guards liked to use their fists like gavels. Kess just said your name and expected you to move.
He stared at the ceiling a heartbeat longer.
Ten cracks. Eight screws in the vent. Three cameras in the hallway.
He swung his legs off the bed.
The floor was cold, even through the thin socks Arden gave them. No shoelaces, no belts. Too many ways to wrap a loop around your neck.
They trusted fabric less than they trusted people.
He pulled on his gray sweatpants and the same blue T-shirt as yesterday, the one with the Arden logo peeling at the shoulder. "RECOVERY IS A JOURNEY," the back said.
He snorted.
On the inside, in his own head, he supplied the rest.
Some of us are just here for the scenery.
"Proctor," Kess said again. A little sharper now.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Keep your hair on."
He opened the door.
Kess stood in the hallway, badge on her chest, arms crossed. Her hair was shaved close to her scalp, the color of soaked coffee grounds. She had the kind of eyes that had seen enough that new trouble didn't impress them.
She looked him up and down.
"You sleep?" she asked.
"Like a baby," he said. "Cried four times, woke up hungry."
Her mouth twitched. "You're funny today," she said.
"Must be the institutional cuisine," he said. "Chef's kiss out there."
"Walk," she said, jerking her head.
He fell in beside her.
The hallway was a river of pale light and closed doors. Each with a number. Each with somebody's life folded small inside.
"Common room," Kess said. "New group protocol. Brant's orders."
"New protocol," he repeated. "That what you people call it when you decide to mess with us in a different way?"
She gave him a sideways glance.
"You'd complain if we didn't," she said.
"Fair," he said.
They passed the camera in the corner. Damian flicked it off with his fingers, just a little twitch. A private ritual. The red light blinked back, steady and unbothered.
Kess pretended not to see.
---
On Level Seven, in a room soft-lit by flat screens, Noor watched the camera feeds scroll by like a deck of cards being shuffled.
"Proctor's awake," she said.
Elena leaned on the back of her chair, coffee cooling in her hand.
"Any different?" Elena asked.
"Baseline irritability," Noor said. "Mild sarcasm. Heart rate in his usual range. No obvious sleep disruption."
"He listened to the fake fire alarms last night same as everyone else," Elena said.
"Brant's scenario hit the whole ward," Noor said. "He only had Tran in the basement, but he fed the audio into other floors. Proctor paced for six minutes, then sat on his bed."
"Did he knock on anyone's door?" Elena asked.
"No," Noor said. "He listened. He watched the hallway. Waited for staff to move first. Classic 'I'll react when I see how bad it really is.'"
"Not a hero, then," Elena said.
"Heroes get buried fast in these buildings," Noor said. "He has some survival instincts left."
On the screen, Damian and Kess turned the corner toward the common room.
"Brant's new group?" Elena asked.
"'Conflict exposure cohort,'" Noor said. "He renamed it last week. Used to be called 'anger management.'"
"Rebranding," Elena murmured. "The oldest trick."
Noor clicked, expanding the common room feed.
"Watch this," she said. "Brant's changing the mix."
---
The common room had two personalities.
In the morning it was almost quiet: a TV murmuring old sitcoms no one laughed at, cheap couches too low to stand up from gracefully, plastic chairs arranged in a circle for whatever "group" was on the schedule.
Later, it would fill with card games, whispered arguments, people staring at the TV without seeing it.
Right now the chairs were in their circle. Five of them occupied.
Tran was there already. Mira. She sat with her knees together and her hands folded loosely in her lap, eyes on the door. She looked like she was waiting for a bus that was late, not for therapy.
He saw the faint round marks on her arm where tape had been. Thin circles like coins pressed too hard into skin.
He filed that away.
Two others: a woman in her forties who wrung her hands until the knuckles blanched, and a twitchy kid with bad jailhouse tattoos and a buzz cut that looked like it had been done with a dull blade.
And the vet, Ramirez. Older than Damian, dark hair just going gray at the temples, valley of a scar down one forearm. The vet sat straight-backed, eyes calm and distant, like he was always standing on a parade ground somewhere else.
Brant stood in the center, one hand resting lightly on the back of an empty chair.
"Damian," Brant said, as if greeting a guest to a dinner party. "Come in. Take a seat."
Damian's jaw tightened at the use of his first name. He preferred Proctor. Proctor had teeth. Damian was a kid with a busted front door and blood on the tile.
"New script today?" he asked, dropping into the chair closest to the window. He liked having glass to one side and wall to the other. Gave him an angle.
"New frame," Brant said. "Scripts are what you will provide."
The kid with the buzz cut snorted.
"Man talks like a robot," the kid muttered. "What the fuck is 'frame.'"
"Language, Ky," Brant said mildly. "We're in mixed company."
"Sorry, doc," Ky said, not sounding sorry at all. "Forgot we're in church."
The anxious woman let out a small, strangled laugh and clapped her hand over her mouth as if she weren't allowed.
"Good," Brant said. "We have some energy today."
Damian watched Mira rather than Brant. Her gaze flicked to him once, quick and assessing. Something in her eyes was different. There was a hardness there that hadn't been there last week. Or maybe it had and he just hadn't seen it.
"Today," Brant said, pacing the circle's inside like a lazy dog, "we're going to talk about conflict."
"No shit," Ky said under his breath.
"Not just how you express it," Brant said. "We've done that. You've all described how you break, throw, push, punch, slam doors, raise voices. Today I'm more interested in what happens before you do those things."
"Voices in our heads?" Ramirez asked, tone dry.
"Patterns in your heads," Brant said. "Let's start simple. I will give you a scenario. You tell me what you do."
"This going to be like that fire alarm bullshit last night?" Damian asked.
The room stilled.
He hadn't meant to say it. The words slipped out. His tongue had always been faster than his sense.
Brant's eyes turned to him. Not angry. Interested.
"What did you do during the alarms, Damian?" Brant asked.
"Same as everyone," Damian said. "Waited for the adults to tell me whether to run or not."
The anxious woman twisted her fingers harder.
"There will be a review of our emergency protocols," Brant said smoothly. "But no, this is not about that. This is about what happens when the fire is smaller. Inside the room. Inside you."
He stopped behind Mira's chair.
"Imagine this," he said. "You're in this room. Same chairs, same people. A stranger walks in. He has the wrong badge on his shirt, or no badge at all. He starts shouting at the staff. Says Arden is a fraud, that he's taking some of you with him. He wants you to back him up. He wants you to walk out with him right now. What do you do?"
Ky snorted again.
"Easy," Ky said. "If he's opening doors, I'm walking."
Laughter, nervous and real, rippled around the circle.
"What if staff say you must stay?" Brant asked. "What if they tell you this man is dangerous, unstable, that leaving with him will put you at risk?"
"Staff always say that about anyone who doesn't have their shirt," Ky said.
"Language," Brant repeated, but his tone was mild. He was pleased. Ky was playing his role.
Ramirez spoke next.
"I'd wait," Ramirez said. "See how the staff react. If it's real, if he's really a threat or if he's just pissed. Walking with the loudest guy in the room is how you end up in court."
"You've already been in court," Ky muttered.
Ramirez ignored him.
"And you, Ms. Tran?" Brant asked.
She sat very still.
"I'd ask him questions," she said. "Name. How he got here. Who he works for. What his plan is. People who say 'come with me now' usually either have a really good plan or none at all."
"And if his plan sounds good?" Brant asked.
"I'd still wait," she said. "If he really has a way out, he won't lose it in ten seconds. If he does lose it in ten seconds, it wasn't a real way out."
"Cautious," Brant said.
"Alive," she said.
Damian shifted in his chair.
They were talking around something. The man from yesterday, the one with the consultant badge. The one who had looked at the room like it was an equation instead of a place.
Brant turned to him.
"And you, Damian?" he asked.
Damian rolled his shoulders.
"You already know what I'd do," he said.
"I'd like to hear you say it," Brant said.
"Depends," Damian said. "What he looks like. What he smells like. How he stands."
Ky sniggered.
"You and your smells," Ky said. "Man, you're weird."
"Shut up, Ky," Damian said calmly.
The kid subsided.
Brant's eyebrows nudged a little higher.
"Body language," Brant said. "You assess threat level first."
"I assess bullshit level first," Damian said. "Seen enough guys in jail talk like they're some kind of revolutionary. Half of them just want an audience."
"And if he doesn't smell like bullshit?" Brant asked. "If he stands like he knows where the exits are, and doesn't shout, and just looks at you and says, 'You. Now.'"
Something in Damian's chest tightened.
Different room. Different man. The memory still tasted like hospital antiseptic and old sweat.
He was fifteen. The judge had said words about "alternatives to incarceration" and "structured support" and "accountability." His mother had cried. His father had stared at the wall.
In the hallway afterward, a woman in a gray suit had put a hand on his shoulder and said, "We have a place for boys like you."
He'd gone. Because the alternative was a cell and he already knew what those smelled like.
"Depends where he's taking me," Damian said.
Brant's smile was thin.
"Honest," he said. "Good. But of course, you don't know where he's taking you. That's the point. Crisis doesn't come with brochures."
"Here it does," Mira said softly.
Brant chuckled.
"Here," he said, "we like to give you as much information as we think you can handle."
Ky made a face.
"So, then," Brant went on. "A man comes in. An outsider. He offers escape. Staff say no. You suspect both sides are hiding something. What do you do?"
Damian leaned back.
"I watch," he said. "I see who he looks at. Who he's really talking to, even when his mouth says 'everybody.' Who gets targeted? Who gets ignored? Then I decide if I want to be in that group."
"And if he looks at you?" Brant said.
Damian's jaw worked.
"He already did," he said. "Your consultant. Yesterday."
The air in the room seemed to thin.
Brant's gaze sharpened.
"You noticed him," Brant said.
"Hard not to," Damian said. "He walks like a guy who's counting doors. Looks like he's trying to decide if he's here to fix the place or burn it down."
"And your conclusion?" Brant asked.
"That he hasn't decided yet," Damian said.
Ky snorted again.
"Man, you think too much," Ky said.
"That's why I'm still breathing," Damian said.
The anxious woman finally spoke.
"I thought he looked… sad," she whispered.
They turned to her.
"He kept looking at the maps like… like he already knew what was on the other side of the walls," she said. "Not surprised. Just… tired."
Brant smiled faintly.
"Interesting," he said.
He tapped his tablet.
From above, the camera watched.
On Level Seven, Noor logged the tag.
> PROCTOR: OBSERVANT, THREAT-SENSING. IDENTIFIES OUTSIDER AS UNDECIDED VARIABLE.
"Elena," she said. "Hear that?"
"Elena?" she repeated.
But Elena had already turned away to put her coffee down and curse quietly under her breath.
"He's using Hale as theater now," Elena said. "We should have seen that coming."
"Hale's presence was always data to Brant," Noor said. "We aren't the only ones doing pattern recognition."
---
Brant changed the angle.
"Let's try a different scenario," he said. "More personal. Same circle, same room. But this time, the conflict is not outside. It's between you."
He moved to stand behind Ky.
"Imagine Ky here," Brant said, resting a hand lightly on the kid's shoulder, "has just stolen something from you. Not money. Not a cigarette. Something… more important. A letter from home. A photograph. A piece of information you didn't want anyone else to see. He waves it in your face and laughs. What do you do?"
Ky grinned and leaned into the role readily.
"Oh yeah," he said. "I've got your shit, bro. What now?"
Damian saw the woman flinch. Ramirez's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"I tell staff," the woman said. "That's what we're supposed to do. Report. Use the tools. Resolve conflict safely."
It sounded like she was reading from a pamphlet.
"And if staff don't do anything?" Brant asked. "If they say, 'work it out amongst yourselves'?"
She wrung her hands harder.
"Then I get my stuff back," she said. "Whatever it takes."
Her eyes didn't match her words. She looked like someone who had never once successfully taken anything back in her life.
"Ramirez?" Brant asked.
"I warn him once," Ramirez said. "Plain words. No theatrics. Then if he doesn't hand it back, I take it. Fast. Aim for the wrist, twist, control. Not a show. Just an adjustment."
Military training wrapped around old street instincts.
"And you, Ms. Tran?" Brant asked.
Mira watched Ky turning his imaginary stolen object between his fingers.
"Depends what he took," she said.
"A letter," Brant said. "From a family member."
"I don't have any," she said.
"A photograph," he said.
"Don't have those either," she said.
"Then something else of value," he said, a hint of impatience threading his voice.
She thought for a heartbeat.
"Information," she said. "He took something I told someone in confidence and he's waving it around."
Ky laughed.
"Oh yeah," Ky said. "Like you telling doc you wanna blow up the building or some shit."
She ignored him.
"I'd ask myself why I gave it to him in the first place," she said. "Why I put my letter in someone else's hands."
"Blaming yourself," Brant said. "Interesting."
"Accounting for my own stupidity," she said. "Then I'd make sure he can't use it again."
"How?" Brant asked.
"Destroy the value," she said. "If you tell everyone, he has nothing to threaten you with. Secrets are only worth something when they're hidden."
"So you'd confess," Brant said.
"I'd choose my audience," she said. "I'd tell people who matter, not just everyone in earshot."
"Honest," Brant said.
"No," she said. "Strategic."
"And you, Damian?" Brant asked.
He had known the question was coming. It still felt like a punch he'd seen too late.
He rolled his tongue against his teeth.
"I've had people take shit from me," he said. "Photos. Letters. Shoes. Last cigarette. Girl."
Ky chuckled.
"Did you ask staff for help?" Brant asked.
"Once," Damian said.
The memory came like a flashbang.
He was sixteen. Group home stank of bleach and boys. Some older kid named Tre had taken a picture from his mattress: him and his little sister at the lake, both of them grinning with ice cream running down their wrists.
Tre had held it up, laughing.
"Your kid sister looks easy," Tre had said.
Damian had gone to the staff office, fists clenched.
"He took my picture," Damian had said. "It's the only one I got. Can you make him—"
The staffer had not looked up from the clipboard.
"Work it out, Damian," the man had said. "We can't babysit every argument. You boys need to learn to resolve your own conflicts."
He'd walked away with his ears hot and his mouth full of words that tasted like metal.
Tre had laughed again when he came back.
He hadn't laughed long.
"Staff told me to work it out," Damian said now. "So I did."
"And how did you 'work it out'?" Brant asked.
Damian spread his hands.
"Broke his nose," he said. "Took my picture back."
"Consequences?" Brant asked.
"Three-day suspension at school," Damian said. "No visits for a month. Extra chores. They wrote 'aggression issues' in my file in big red letters."
Brant nodded, as if that matched the text in his tablet exactly.
"And if Ky here took something from you now?" Brant asked. "Same scenario. Same rules."
Damian looked at Ky.
The kid grinned, baring crooked teeth.
"I'd ask staff for help," Damian said.
Brant's eyebrows went up.
"You would?" he asked.
Damian shrugged.
"That's what we're supposed to say in group, right?" he said. "Model good behavior. Use support systems. Practice non-violent conflict resolution."
Ky laughed out loud.
"Bullshit," Ky said. "You'd knock me out, man."
Damian's lips twitched.
"Depends," he said. "You're small. Might just take it out your hand and save everyone the paperwork."
Brant's gaze flicked between them.
"Truth, Damian," he said. "Not what you think I want to hear. What would you actually do?"
Damian's jaw tightened.
"I'd give you one chance," he said. "You, staff. See if the 'system' does what it says on the posters. If it doesn't, then I handle it myself. Your choice which one you want to write down."
Brant regarded him for a long moment.
"Thank you," he said.
He turned away, but Damian knew he'd just given the man exactly what he wanted: proof. Data. "Template confirmed."
---
On Level Seven, Noor flagged the entry.
> PROCTOR: DEFERS TO AUTHORITY ONLY ONCE; REVERTS TO SELF-HELP IF SYSTEM FAILS. HIGH POTENTIAL FOR TARGETED PROVOCATION.
"Brant's going to use him," Noor said.
"He already is," Elena replied.
She set her coffee down harder than she needed to.
"This group," Elena said. "He's not just gathering data. He's building a mix."
"Of what?" Noor asked, though she had a strong guess.
"Powder and spark," Elena said. "Tran, Proctor, Ky, the vet, the anxious one. Different reactions under stress. He'll throw a match and see who burns whom."
"Your poetry is getting darker," Noor said.
"I've been reading his reports," Elena said. "It rubs off."
She stared at Brant on the screen: his neat beard, his tidy hair, his posture.
"He's setting up an incident," Elena said quietly. "Something he can show the board later. 'See? Look how dangerous our patients are. Look how essential our work is.'"
"Or something he can blame if Arden gets exposed," Noor said. "One bad day. One violent outburst. Scapegoat the 'broken' ones."
"Damian as the monster," Elena said. "Mira as the unpredictable element. Perfect narrative."
"Can we interrupt it?" Noor asked.
Elena's fingers tightened on the back of the chair.
"Not yet," she said. "We pull too hard now, Krell will see the strings. Transfers first. Then we go after Brant's stage."
"By then," Noor said, "someone will have bled."
"Probably," Elena said.
She didn't sound okay with it.
She also didn't sound surprised.
---
The group ran for another twenty minutes.
More scenarios. Brant turned the dial subtlely each time: conflict over a seat, conflict over medication, conflict over a rumor whispered at night.
Damian answered when asked. He gave as little as possible, but sometimes the words slipped. He couldn't help it. He wasn't stupid. He knew that talking in group was like throwing stones in a lake. The ripples always reached somewhere he hadn't intended.
At the end, Brant clapped his hands once, soft.
"Thank you all," he said. "You've given me a lot to think about. Remember, the purpose here is not to judge your answers, but to understand your patterns. Once we see the patterns, we can change them."
Ky snorted.
"Or we can use them," Mira muttered, too low for most to hear.
Damian heard.
He stood when Kess gestured.
"Free time until lunch," Kess said. "TV, games, art room, if you can call it that."
"Can I call it 'sad room with chalk'?" Ky asked.
"Call it what you want," Kess said. "Just don't steal the markers."
They drifted out in ones and twos.
Damian hung back, letting Ky bounce out first and the anxious woman scurry after staff. Ramirez moved with the calm of a man who had walked away from worse rooms and knew he'd walk away from this one too.
Mira stayed seated a moment longer.
"You coming?" Damian asked, jerking his chin toward the hallway.
She looked up as if she'd forgotten he was there.
"Where?" she asked.
"Anywhere that isn't here," he said.
She stood, her joints moving with a stiffness that hadn't been there last week.
"Common room," she said. "Better lighting. Less blue."
They walked side by side down the corridor.
"What was that on your arm?" he asked, nodding at the faint circles.
"Brant thinks I'm interesting," she said.
"That's not good," he said.
"No," she said. "It's not."
"You okay?" he asked, surprising himself.
She gave him a sideways look.
"Define 'okay,'" she said.
"Not trying to chew through your wrists," he said.
"Not yet," she said. "You?"
"I'd need a better view first," he said. "These floors are ugly as hell."
She snorted.
They reached the common room.
The TV played some old cooking show with the volume low. A few patients sat scattered around, eyes on the screen or on nothing.
Damian flopped onto one end of the couch. Mira took the chair beside it, turning it slightly so she could see the door as well as the TV.
"You believe his little scenario?" Damian asked.
"Which one?" she said. "The stranger with the wrong badge? Or the one where your friend steals your secret and the staff say 'work it out'?"
"Either," he said.
"I believe he doesn't do anything without a reason," she said. "He's setting up something."
"That's what I thought," Damian said.
"You going to help him?" she asked.
He laughed once.
"What, punch someone on cue?" he said. "Theatrical violence on demand? I've done enough of that."
"You're good at it," she said.
"Practicing other skills," he said.
She studied him.
"He wants a story," she said. "An incident he can point at and say, 'see, look how unstable they are, we need more funding.'"
"You talk like you've read these scripts before," he said.
"I have," she said.
"Where?" he asked.
She looked away.
"Different building," she said. "Same font."
He leaned back, letting his head thump softly against the cushion.
"You think the consultant is part of it?" he asked.
"Hale?" she said.
"You got his name?" he said.
"Badges have names," she said. "You just have to look at them instead of doors."
He chuckled.
"You think he's their guy or ours?" Damian asked.
"Whose is 'ours'?" she said.
"People who don't want to live in experiments," he said.
Her mouth quirked.
"People like that don't usually get badges," she said.
He thought about that.
"Back in the city," he said after a moment, "my PO told me Arden was a chance. Said it was better than prison. Said it was… what was the word… 'restorative.'"
"How many other chances did he give you before that?" she asked.
"Two," he said. "One anger management course with a guy who fell asleep in his own chair. One job placement at a warehouse where the boss skimmed hours."
"And when those didn't work, he sent you here," she said.
"He didn't have many options," Damian said. "I already used up my free punches."
"Systems always say that," she said. "'We have no choice.' Then they put you somewhere like this and call it mercy."
"You sound like you've been on both sides of the desk," he said.
"Once," she said. "I sat in an office with a woman who had four framed certificates on her wall and she told me my suicide attempt was a 'cry for help' and that I should be grateful there were resources like Arden. I asked her if she'd ever been here. She said no. She didn't need to. She had the reports."
"And you?" he asked. "Why are you here, really? Brant's tells us one thing. Paper says another. What's the unflattering version?"
She considered.
"I didn't die when I was supposed to," she said. "And that made people nervous."
"That's it?" he said.
"They like clean narratives," she said. "Dead girl. Sad father. Tragic story. They don't like it when you refuse to play the part and keep breathing."
He scratched his jaw.
"I hit people," he said. "That made people nervous."
"You hit the right people?" she asked.
"Depends whose story you read," he said.
They fell quiet.
On the TV, someone whipped egg whites into peaks. The audience clapped.
Damian watched the doorway.
"Lemon and piss," he muttered.
"What?" she asked.
"How this place smells," he said.
She sniffed.
"Add old coffee and fear," she said. "You've got a nice little perfume line."
He smiled despite himself.
"You ever think about walking out?" he asked.
"Every hour," she said.
"I mean actually," he said. "Not just in your head."
She looked at him.
"Do you?" she asked.
"Every minute," he said.
They sat there, two bodies in cheap furniture, staring at a television and thinking about exits that didn't exist yet.
Outside the common room window, the sky was a flat, washed-out blue. The city's edges were just visible in the distance, hazy and indifferent.
Somewhere out there, a journalist was choosing adjectives. Somewhere else, a clerk was finishing her shift and trying not to think about the file she'd signed. Under a bar on Holcomb Street, a man with too many names was deciding which lie he'd tell next.
Inside Arden, the building breathed around them, steady and slow.
Waiting.