Chapter 2: The Liar's Scars

Chapter 2: The Liar's Scars

The first thing Aaron registered was the smell. Antiseptic, clean, and utterly sterile. It was the polar opposite of the cloying, rich scent of phantom chocolate that still lingered in his memory. A rhythmic, high-pitched beep pulsed beside his ear, a metronome counting out the seconds of his survival. He forced his heavy eyelids open, squinting against the flat, fluorescent glare of a hospital room ceiling.

An IV line was taped to the back of his hand, snaking up to a clear bag of saline. His stomach felt raw, scoured clean, but the soul-shredding agony was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. He was alive. The thought brought no relief, only a fresh wave of cold terror. It was real. The pantry, the woman, the poison. It was all real.

The door creaked open, and Ethan walked in, his face a mask of exhaustion and worry. He looked older than he had just yesterday, the lines around his eyes etched deeper.

“Aaron? You’re awake.” Relief flooded his brother’s voice, so potent it was almost a physical presence in the room. He rushed to the bedside, his large, warm hand engulfing Aaron’s. “God, you scared me. I called and called, and when you didn’t answer… I used the spare key. Found you on the floor.”

Aaron’s throat was sandpaper. “What… what happened?” he rasped, testing the waters.

“The paramedics said food poisoning. A really bad case,” Ethan explained, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What the hell did you eat? The place was empty except for a broken glass.”

Here it was. The crossroads. He could tell the truth—that a malevolent game show host appeared in his pantry and tried to kill him with magical wine—and spend the next six months in a padded room. Or he could lie. The choice was no choice at all. He had to build a cage of lies to protect himself from a truth no one would ever believe.

“It was… a gift,” Aaron began, the words tasting like ash. He focused on a water stain on the ceiling, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. “From an old colleague. Left a basket at my door. Fancy wine, some kind of imported dark chocolate. Guess it went bad.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “A gift? Who sends a twenty-three-year-old data-entry clerk a gourmet gift basket?”

“I don’t know! Maybe they were trying to unload a regift from Christmas?” Aaron’s voice rose with feigned irritation, a flimsy shield for his panic. “Look, I was hungry, it was free. I didn’t think to check the expiration date.”

A doctor, a brisk woman with tired eyes and a clipboard, entered without knocking. “Mr. Hayes. Good to see you with us.” She scanned her notes. “We pumped your stomach and pushed fluids. Whatever you ingested caused some acute gastritis—severe irritation of the stomach lining. But there’s no lasting damage. You were lucky.”

Lucky? The word was a mockery. Minor irritation? He had felt his insides being dissolved by liquid fire. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her about the woman with jade-green eyes and the perfect, predatory smile. He wanted to describe the agony that was anything but minor. But he just nodded, the lie cementing itself in his throat.

“You’ll need to stick to a bland diet for a few days, but you’re free to be discharged,” she said, already turning to leave. “Your brother can take you home.”

The ride back to his apartment was suffocatingly silent. Ethan kept shooting him worried glances, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between them. Aaron knew his lie was thin, a cheap bandage on a gaping wound, and it had already created a chasm between them. For the first time, he was completely and utterly alone with his secret.

Ethan helped him inside. The paramedics had cleaned up the broken glass, but the apartment still felt violated, the air thick with the memory of his collapse. The pantry door was closed. It looked innocuous, just a cheap wooden door. But now, it seemed to crouch in the corner of his kitchen, a sleeping monster.

“I’ll stay the night,” Ethan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “On the couch.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.”

Defeated, Aaron retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. He collapsed onto his unmade bed, the doctor’s words echoing in his head. No lasting damage. She was wrong. The damage was deep, etched into his psyche. He was a rat in a cage who had just survived the first experiment. The terror of the past twelve hours began to recede, replaced by something new, something hot and sharp: rage.

That thing, that woman, had tortured him for sport. It had lured him in with a promise of luxury, a balm for his lonely, pathetic life, and then poisoned him with a smile. The jaunty, cheerful jingle—Risk! Or! Reward!—played on a loop in his mind, a mocking soundtrack to his near-death experience.

His desire for escape was gone. His desperation for a moment of joy was gone. All that remained was a burning, singular motivation. He wasn’t going to hide. He wasn’t going to run. He was going to face it. He was going to go back into that pantry, and he was going to make the host pay. He didn’t know how, but the vow settled in his bones, a core of hard iron in the midst of his fear.

He couldn't do it here, though. Not with Ethan just a room away. He needed a safe place, a neutral ground to regroup. After a few hours of pretending to sleep, he crept out of his room. Ethan was asleep on the couch, his steady breathing filling the small apartment. Aaron grabbed his keys and wallet and slipped out the door, leaving a note saying he needed air and would be at Ethan’s place. It was the only other home he had, the only place he associated with safety.

He let himself into his brother’s quiet, tidy apartment. It was the antithesis of his own: clean, organized, normal. A fat, ginger cat, Gatsby, trotted over and rubbed against his leg, purring. Aaron scooped him up, burying his face in the soft fur, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of home and sanity.

He just needed a few hours. A few hours to steel himself before going back to his own apartment to face the monster in his pantry. He was thirsty. He walked into Ethan’s kitchen, the familiar layout a comfort. He opened the pantry to grab a glass from the shelf.

The door swung open.

Blinding light. Canned applause. The goddamn jingle.

It wasn't just in his apartment. It was everywhere. It could be anywhere. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. There was no escape.

He stood frozen on the threshold of Ethan’s kitchen, staring into the impossible, velvet-draped stage. This time, he didn’t stumble back. This time, the rage burned away the fear. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

A low hiss erupted from the floor beside him.

Aaron glanced down. Gatsby was crouched low, his back arched, the fur along his spine standing on end. The cat wasn't looking at Aaron. He was staring past him, into the pantry, his yellow eyes wide with feline terror, hissing at something in the impossible space that only they could see.

It was real. And it had followed him home.