Chapter 3: The Contract

Chapter 3: The Contract

The moon had long since surrendered to a grey, overcast dawn. Ethan hadn't slept. He’d spent the night alternating between feverish pacing and standing stock-still, listening to the suffocating silence of Gerry Gardens. The conversation he’d overheard in the courtyard played on a torturous loop in his mind, each word a nail hammering his coffin shut. Lattice. Merger. Vessel.

The withdrawal was a constant, grinding ache, a beast clawing at the walls of his stomach, but the terror was a sharper, more immediate poison. Every creak of the building, every whisper of the ventilation system, sounded like a footstep, like the precursor to being dragged back to that chair and the blood-red door in his mind.

He had a new objective, forged in the cold fire of last night’s revelation. Survival. And the first step was escape. He had to believe it was possible, that he could simply walk out. He would play their game, just long enough to get to the front door.

A soft chime, identical to the one that had summoned him to his “attunement,” sounded at his door. He steeled himself, forcing his trembling hands into fists at his sides. The door slid open with a faint hiss.

Leo stood there, holding a tray. On it was a plate of perfectly arranged fruit and a glass of orange juice. His smile was back in place, as wide and bright and artificial as a plastic storefront sign.

“Good morning, Ethan!” he chirped, his voice a grotesque parody of good cheer. “I trust you slept well. A restorative night’s sleep is crucial for cognitive integration.”

Ethan didn’t move. He stared at the Guide, at the mask of placid friendliness that he now knew concealed a chilling void. “I’m leaving,” he said, his voice low and hard.

Leo’s smile didn’t flicker. He took a step into the room, his movements preternaturally smooth. “Leaving? Ethan, your journey has only just begun. Dr. Finch was so encouraged by your progress. We’re on the verge of a genuine breakthrough.”

The word—breakthrough—was like a spark on a short fuse. It was the same word Finch had used in the courtyard. The same clinical excitement.

“I know what you’re doing here,” Ethan snarled, taking a step forward. “I heard you. You and Finch. Last night.”

For the first time since Ethan had met him, something changed in Leo’s face. The smile didn’t fall so much as it dissolved. The muscles in his cheeks went slack, the light in his unnervingly blue eyes extinguished, leaving behind something flat and cold. The cheerful Guide persona evaporated, and what remained was the blank, observant machine Ethan had seen under the moonlight. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“That is unfortunate,” Leo said, his voice now stripped of all inflection. It was the voice of a recording. “Observation of senior staff is a breach of protocol.”

“To hell with your protocol,” Ethan spat, his fear transmuting into rage. “I’m not a part of your experiment. I’m not a ‘vessel.’ I’m checking out. Now. Get out of my way.”

He moved to push past the Guide, aiming for the open doorway. Leo didn’t move to block him, but simply turned his head.

“That will not be possible, Ethan.”

“Watch me.”

“I would advise against any attempt to leave,” Leo continued, his voice calm and dispassionate. “Your participation is contractually mandated.”

Ethan froze. The contract. The thick stack of papers he had signed in a haze of desperation and nicotine withdrawal, barely glancing at the dense blocks of text. He’d been so focused on the promise of a cure, he’d have signed away his soul. It seemed he had.

“That was a consent form for treatment,” Ethan said, his own words sounding hollow.

“It was a comprehensive agreement,” Leo corrected him, his stillness a profoundly intimidating force. “I can recommend you review Clause 7, Paragraph B: The Involuntary Withdrawal Protocol. It states that should a patient attempt to terminate treatment prematurely, especially when deemed to be under the influence of pre-existing dependencies or new cognitive dissonances, the facility is legally empowered to continue the prescribed course of therapy for the full, pre-agreed ninety-day term.”

Ninety days. The words hit Ethan like a physical blow. “You can’t hold me here against my will. That’s kidnapping.”

“It’s healthcare, as defined by the terms you agreed to,” Leo said. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that should have been human but felt like a piece of machinery re-calibrating. “Furthermore, Section 12, which you initialed on page eleven, outlines the Relinquishment of External Communication Privileges. For the duration of the Primary Treatment Phase, all contact with the outside world is suspended to ensure a controlled, therapeutic environment. Your phone line is inactive. The facility’s network is closed.”

The cage wasn’t just the room. It was legal. It was digital. It was absolute.

A primal, military rage surged through him, overriding the cold dread. He was a soldier. He would not be caged by paperwork and a creepy android.

“We’ll see about that,” he growled, and lunged for the door.

He didn't make it two feet. Leo moved with a speed that defied physics, a silent, fluid motion that put him directly in Ethan's path. Ethan slammed into him, expecting to shove him aside. It was like running into a concrete wall. Leo didn’t even grunt, didn't shift his weight. He simply absorbed the force of the impact, his blank eyes fixed on Ethan’s.

Ethan shoved again, harder this time, putting all his weight and training into it. It was useless. The Guide was an immovable object.

“Your aggression is a noted symptom of your condition,” Leo stated, as if reading from a chart. “It will be factored into your next session.”

With a final, chillingly placid look, Leo stepped back out of the room. The door slid shut before Ethan could react, the click of the lock echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

He was alone.

The rage gave way to frantic, desperate action. He threw himself against the door, pounding on it with his fists until his knuckles were raw and bruised. “LET ME OUT!” he screamed, his voice hoarse. The sound was swallowed by the soundproofed walls, a futile explosion in a vacuum.

He stumbled back, panting, and his eyes fell on his phone lying on the desk. He snatched it up, the smooth, cool case a talisman from a world he was no longer a part of. He already knew what Leo had said was true, but he had to see it. He thumbed the screen to life.

In the top left corner, the words glared back at him, a death sentence in two simple words: No Service.

A wave of pure, claustrophobic panic washed over him. He spun toward the window, the last vestige of the outside world. He grabbed the metal tray from the floor where Leo had left it, hefted it, and hurled it with all his might against the thick pane of glass.

The tray clattered to the floor with a loud clang. The window remained utterly pristine. Not a crack. Not a scratch. He stared at his own wild-eyed reflection in the glass, a prisoner looking back at himself.

He was trapped. The friendly facade had been ripped away, revealing the cold, hard reality of the prison beneath. He had no phone, no way out, and no one in the world knew where he was. He was utterly, terrifyingly alone, a lab rat in the clutches of a smiling monster and a mad doctor who wanted to unravel his mind and weave something new from the threads. The whispers in the courtyard were not just a conspiracy he had discovered; they were his written fate, and he had signed his name on the dotted line.