The cold sweat.
The rigid muscles.
The precise way his body reacted.
This was not in his mind.
This was real.
Night after night, the pattern repeated.
Doctors increased sedatives.
Machines found nothing.
Ethan screamed.
And every night, just before the final injection, Victoria Vale, Adrian’s elegant new wife, dismissed everyone from the room.
Everyone.
For four or five minutes, she remained alone with the boy.
When the doors reopened, Ethan’s pain returned—stronger, sharper, more violent.
Isabella noticed on the second night.
By the fourth, she no longer believed in coincidence.
The mansion was flawless. Cold. Perfect.
Polished stone. Silent corridors. Expensive art no child dared touch.
But it felt wrong.
Isabella had grown up in a place where homes were alive with voices, where pain was shared before it had to scream.
Here, pain was hidden behind protocols.
And ignored.
One night, Isabella saw it.
Through a barely closed door, she watched Victoria stand over Ethan’s bed, gently parting his hair.
From a narrow lacquered case, she pulled something thin.
Dark.
Sharp.
A needle.
Ethan’s body arched violently as it pierced his scalp.
A scream ripped from him.