Chapter 5: The Gilded Cage

Chapter 5: The Gilded Cage

Tyler’s apartment in 28B was not just an upgrade; it was a different reality. Where her own condo was a model of minimalist luxury, Tyler’s was one of bespoke opulence. The air was scented with something subtle and expensive, like sandalwood and old leather. Vast, abstract paintings adorned the walls, riots of color and texture that were mesmerizingly beautiful. Deep, leather-bound books with gilded spines lined an entire wall, promising centuries of wisdom and stories. It was a space designed to soothe, to impress, to disarm. It was a cage of unparalleled comfort.

Beth let him build it around her. The desire for survival had mutated into a desire for respite. The constant, grinding paranoia was exhausting, and Tyler offered a powerful anesthetic. He cooked for her—dishes that were complex and perfectly balanced. He talked to her, his voice a steady, calming presence that seemed to anticipate her fears before she voiced them. He never pushed, never pried too deeply into the vague, flimsy story she’d constructed about Tim’s sudden departure. He simply accepted it, offering a solid, reassuring shoulder to lean on.

She knew it was a lie. Every perfectly seared scallop, every empathetic nod, every warm smile was part of a program. But she was tired of fighting. So, for a time, she let herself fall into the new routine. She let herself become the asset he was managing.

The first glitch was subtle. She was admiring one of the large canvases, a swirl of deep blues and violent reds that spoke to the chaos in her own soul.

“The artist is incredible,” she said, tracing the thick impasto with her eyes. “Who is it?”

Tyler came to stand beside her, holding two glasses of wine. “I’m not sure, actually. I just enjoy the aesthetic. The artist is irrelevant, don’t you think? It’s the feeling it gives you that matters.”

His answer was smooth, plausible. But as she looked closer, she realized there was no signature. Not in the corner, not on the back. She surreptitiously checked the other paintings over the next few days. None of them had a signature. They were beautiful, anonymous things, created by no one. Set dressing.

The second crack appeared a week later. Tyler was on a work call in his office, his voice a low, confident murmur. Beth, restless, drifted to the magnificent bookshelf. She had always loved the smell and feel of old books. She slid a heavy, dark green volume from the shelf—The Collected Works of Shakespeare. Her finger traced the embossed gold lettering before she opened it.

The pages were blank.

A cold shock went through her. She pulled out another book, a red leather one titled War and Peace. Blank. A third, Moby Dick. Blank. Every single book on the shelf was a prop. A beautifully crafted, hollow shell designed to give the impression of substance where there was none. Just like the paintings. Just like Tyler. Just like her own life.

She slid the book back into its place just as Tyler emerged from his office, a perfect smile on his face. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she said, her own smile feeling like a mask. “Just admiring your collection.”

The most unnerving glitch was the verbal one. Whenever her paranoia would spike, when he would see the flicker of terror in her eyes as she remembered Tim’s metallic face or the empty lot on Sycamore Street, he would use the same phrase. He’d place a warm, steadying hand on her arm, his handsome face a perfect picture of concern.

“It’s okay to feel disoriented,” he’d say in his honeyed voice. “It’s all part of the recovery process.”

The first time he said it, it was comforting. The second time, it felt familiar. By the fourth time, the words were a chilling confirmation. It wasn’t an empathetic response; it was a line of code. A pre-written script for handling a malfunctioning unit. She wasn’t a grieving woman; she was a damaged asset undergoing a “recovery process.”

One evening, as they sat on his balcony overlooking the glittering, dead city, she decided to test him.

“I was thinking of visiting my parents next month,” she lied, watching his face for any reaction. “It’s been too long.”

Tyler didn’t miss a beat. His expression softened. “That’s a wonderful idea, Beth. But maybe we should wait just a little longer? Let yourself get properly back on your feet. It’s all part of the recovery process.”

There it was. The script. The cold, digital control beneath the warm, human facade. The mask slipped for a fraction of a second. The lights of the city reflected in his eyes, and she saw it again—that brief, unnatural flicker. A momentary lag. The uncanny valley staring back at her.

She had not escaped. She had been transferred. Reassigned. She was no longer in the standard display unit; she had been moved to the premium suite, complete with a dedicated handler to ensure her compliance.

The final warning came late one night. Tyler had gone out, a rare occurrence he explained away with a work emergency involving a “burst water main at a downtown hotel.” Beth was alone in the silent, opulent apartment, the beautiful, empty things watching her.

Her phone, which had been a dead brick for weeks, suddenly buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up, displaying a notification from an “UNKNOWN NUMBER.”

Her heart seized. It wasn’t a call. It was a text message. Her thumb trembled as she swiped to open it.

It was a garbled mess of text, code, and static, as if it had fought its way through a dozen firewalls to reach her.

B3th— th3y to0k m3— cann0t st0p th3m—

&^%$#@

TYL3R is a H4NDL3R— M0d3l 7— N3w display c4g3—

&^%#@#!

L1ST3N— y0u ar3 n0t s4f3— h3 will r3s3t y0u—

&^%$#@

IT IS N0T R3AL— th3y m4d3 us— CHECK YOURSELF— acc3ss p4n3l—

S E A M B E H I N D E A R R U N

The message flickered. And then, as if it had never been there, it vanished. The screen went back to her normal home screen. There was no trace of it in her message history. It had self-destructed.

But the words were burned into her mind. TYLER is a HANDLER. CHECK YOURSELF. SEAM. BEHIND EAR.

Tim. It had to be Tim. A final, desperate ghost in the machine, screaming a warning before his consciousness was fully erased.

The anesthetic effect of her gilded cage evaporated in an instant, replaced by a terror more potent than anything she had felt before. She was no longer a grieving girlfriend. She was a defective product about to be reset.

Slowly, as if in a trance, her hand rose. Her fingers, cold and shaking, moved past her jawline, over the smooth skin of her neck, to the delicate spot just behind her right ear, hidden by her hair.

She had been too afraid to check before. Too afraid to find the proof. Now, she was too afraid not to. With a deep, shuddering breath, she began to search.