Alwin could feel the needle piercing his skin, the cold liquid spreading through his bloodstream like an icy tide. His adrenaline-fueled body gradually began to weaken. His consciousness flickered, but he clung to it, desperately holding on to the last vestiges of his strength.
"Damn it," he muttered in a hoarse voice, his eyes half-closed as the sedative started to take effect.
The nurses tightened the restraints once more, ensuring there was no chance for him to fight back. The nylon straps bit into his skin, leaving raw red marks on his wrists and ankles, the pain a persistent sting that kept him tethered to reality.
The relentless sound of crying echoed through the sterile room, the shrill, piercing wails filling the air. To Alwin, it felt like thousands of needles pricking his eardrums, seeping into his brain and gnawing away at his sanity.
"Ah, just shut up!" he thought furiously, his jaw clenching tight to contain the fury that threatened to erupt.
Turning his head, he caught sight of her—his mother—standing at the bathroom doorway. She was sobbing hysterically, her eyes swollen and red, her face etched with lines of panic and dread. But for Alwin, the sight didn’t stir any sympathy. Instead, it only kindled a deep, crawling disgust within him.
He had always hated tears. Especially hers—tears he considered fake, overly dramatic, and utterly revolting.
The gurney he was strapped to started moving, its wheels clattering noisily against the hard floor. Two nurses at the front pushed hastily, while another stayed behind to keep the gurney steady as it rolled forward.
It was already late at night. The chill of the evening air struck him as they crossed the threshold. Outside, an ambulance waited, its siren blaring and lights flashing in a monotonous rhythm. The nurses lifted the gurney and slid it into the back of the ambulance.
The doors slammed shut with a heavy thud, echoing through Alwin’s fading consciousness. There was no escape, not tonight, not here.
"Stupid bitch," he cursed inwardly, just before the last sliver of his awareness slipped away, plunging him into the darkness.
*
Unexpectedly, the woman who claimed to be Alwin's mother was waiting in the hospital lobby. Arya introduced herself and was greeted with a weary, melancholic smile from Ranti.
"What happened on the rooftop... I just wanted to say thank you," Ranti began softly.
"Thank you? For what, Ma'am?"
"Don't lie to me. I know what Alwin is like. You must've tried to stop him, didn’t you?"
Arya froze, unable to hide her surprise.
"He’ll do whatever he wants without caring about anyone else's feelings. He’s always been like that," Ranti continued, wrapping her arms around herself. The cream-colored knitted cardigan she wore made her pale face appear almost ethereal, even without makeup.
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Meanwhile, Arya found herself momentarily distracted, admiring the woman's striking beauty. *Oh, so that's where Alwin gets his superhuman DNA,* Arya thought wryly.
"But after waking up from the coma, he changed," Ranti went on, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "From someone obsessed with having it all to someone determined to end it all. But one thing stayed the same—he’s always been a monster since the day he was born."
Her words hung heavily in the air as they walked down the long hospital corridor toward Alwin’s room. The silence between them grew, thick and suffocating.
"Once he's stable," Ranti finally said, her voice cold and resolute, "Alwin will be transferred to a psychiatric institution for further treatment."
"No, don't," Arya interrupted, her voice unexpectedly firm after the long silence. "I may not have known Alwin for long, but I can tell he’s not a monster. If you trust me, give me one month. I promise I can make a difference."
"A month?" Ranti stared at Arya in disbelief. She had spent her entire life trying, and failing, to change Alwin. Yet here was this young woman, asking for just one month. The shock was evident in her eyes.
Arya nodded with quiet determination. "One month. And if within that time Alwin acts out again, you can go ahead with your plan."
Ranti’s eyes narrowed, doubt flickering behind them, but she couldn't deny the fire in Arya’s gaze.
"A month?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, as if testing the weight of that word. She had spent years battling Alwin’s darkness, and now this stranger thought she could change him in mere weeks.
"Yes," Arya confirmed with a steady voice. "Just one month. And if he relapses, I won’t stand in your way."
Ranti studied Arya's face carefully, searching for any signs of hesitation. "Are you sure you can handle this?" she asked, her voice softer, almost pleading.
Arya nodded once more, her eyes unwavering. "I'm sure. Just give me this chance, Ma'am. I’ll do my best."
For the first time in years, Ranti felt something flicker within her—a tiny ember of hope.
*
Alwin’s eyes narrowed, his muscles tensing against the nylon straps that held him down.
“If I’m not a monster, then who the hell do you think I am?” Alwin challenged, leaning forward as much as the restraints would allow. He glared at Arya, who stood with her arms crossed, her posture firm and unyielding.
They were almost eye-to-eye, despite Alwin’s height of 190 cm as a former swimmer. Arya, at around 186 cm, had a solid, athletic build that contrasted sharply with Alwin's gaunt frame — weakened by two years in a coma. His once-muscular body had shriveled, leaving behind nothing but a shadow of his former strength.
A flicker of frustration crossed Alwin’s face when he tried to move again, only to be stopped by the tightening straps that bound his wrists to the cold metal rails of the hospital bed. “Fuck,” he spat, jerking uselessly against his restraints.
Arya watched him with an expression of detached amusement, unmoved by the hostility emanating from Alwin. She leaned closer, closing the distance between them until their faces were mere millimeters apart.
“You’re not a monster, Alwin,” she said softly, her voice like a whisper against his skin. “You’re a sociopath. And trust me, that’s far worse. Poor monsters—they’re getting a bad name just by being compared to you.”
Alwin’s lips curled into a derisive grin. He tilted his head, letting out a low, mocking laugh. It was then that Arya noticed something peculiar—two sharp canines, slightly elongated, glinting among his otherwise perfect teeth.
A sudden, unexpected heat surged through Arya’s veins. Her thoughts became a whirlwind of primal desire. An image flashed in her mind—her ripping out the cords attached to Alwin’s chest, tearing off his hospital gown, and devouring his chapped lips with reckless abandon.
What would it feel like?
The thought clawed at her, desperate to break free. For a moment, Arya was no longer standing in that sterile hospital room; she was lost in a fever dream of raw, unrestrained passion.
“Hey!” Alwin’s voice broke through her reverie, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the haze. “HEY!” he shouted again, louder this time, yanking her back to reality.
Arya blinked, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to regain her composure. She inhaled deeply, clearing the fog clouding her mind. She needed to stay focused. The mission had to be accomplished—her plans were too important to be sidetracked by... whatever that had just been.
“Where the hell did your mind wander off to?” Alwin sneered, his eyes narrowing. “Seriously, daydreaming in the middle of a conversation?”
Closing her eyes for a second, Arya straightened up, her expression hardening once more. “Yeah, anyway... once you're deemed stable, you’re getting transferred to a mental institution. Minimum rehab time is six months, but it could be longer—a year, maybe even several years. Hell, it could be a life sentence. What you did... that attempt was classified as a fatal suicide attempt. You won’t walk away unscathed this time. So, enjoy your new life behind walls.”
“Or...”
Alwin’s brows furrowed. “Or what?”
“Or,” Arya continued with a sly smile, “you join my club. I can vouch for your freedom because, let’s just say, I’m pretty persuasive. Your mother? Yeah, I’ve already got her eating out of my hand.”
“Tch…” Alwin turned his face away, biting back the urge to scream.
Arya’s grin widened. She stepped closer, running her fingers through Alwin’s disheveled brown hair with an almost affectionate roughness. “Think it over, Alwin. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She paused, her tone dropping to a playful whisper. “And by the way, you look pretty hot all tied up like this. I might just keep you that way if you join me.”
A crimson flush of fury painted Alwin’s pale cheeks. “You perverted bastard!”
Arya merely laughed, unfazed, turning on her heel with a casual wave over her shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, Looney!” she called back, her laughter echoing through the sterile corridor as she disappeared from view.
Alwin watched her go, his chest heaving with a mix of anger and something he couldn’t quite place. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the cold, clinical silence of his room.
Who the hell is this girl?
*
