The next morning, footsteps echoed down the basement stairs.
Light spilled in as the door opened.
My body felt awful.
I had barely slept.
My muscles were stiff from sitting tied to a chair for hours.
Sweat clung to my skin, and the humiliation of being unable to move had taken its toll.
I kept my head lowered, trying to ignore the discomfort and the shame.
The masked man stepped in first.
The bunny mask stared at me with its painted smile.
"Doctor's appointment in three hours,"
he said calmly.
No emotion.
Just information.
He tilted his chin slightly toward me with two fingers, forcing me to look up.
My father stepped behind him and began untying the ropes.
The pressure around my wrists loosened. When the ropes finally fell away, I rubbed my skin gently.
Red marks remained, but nothing serious.
Uncle Gregory tossed a folded bundle of clothes toward me.
They landed on the floor near my feet.
"Don't try to trick us,"
the masked man warned, his voice low and steady.
"I just want clarification,"
I replied quietly.
It wasn't a challenge.
Not anymore.
Just words meant to keep everything controlled.
They exchanged a glance.
Then, without another comment, they left the room again, closing the door behind them.
Alone.
I exhaled slowly.
This was the moment to think clearly.
I stood up carefully, stretching my arms to restore circulation.
My mind stayed focused.
Calm.
Observing.
They were taking me to a hospital.
That meant witnesses.
Protocols.
Documentation.
Structure.
That could work in my favor.
I picked up the clothes and unfolded them.
Feminine.
Simple, clean, neutral tones.
I paused only for a second.
Then I nodded to myself.
It didn't matter.
Not right now.
Clothing was clothing.
Identity wasn't fabric.
If playing along gave me access to information, I would play along.
I changed quickly, folding my old clothes neatly instead of throwing them aside. That small act helped me feel in control.
When I was done, I stood in the basement room, adjusting the new outfit.
No resistance.
No confrontation.
Just compliance—strategic compliance.
The door opened again.
My father stepped in briefly, checking my appearance.
"Good,"
he said simply.
No sarcasm.
No praise.
Just acknowledgment.
I kept my expression neutral.
Inside, though, my thoughts were sharp.
Three hours.
That meant time to observe.
Time to prepare mentally.
Time to gather every question I needed to ask the doctor.
I met my father's eyes calmly.
"I still want clarity,"
I reminded him.
He studied me for a moment, then nodded once.
"You'll get it."
The door closed again.
I stood there alone for a few seconds before sitting down carefully on the chair—not tied this time.
I exhaled slowly.
Hospital visit.
Doctor consultation.
Information.
Jake Morrow wasn't fighting blindly anymore.
This time, he would listen.
And listening could be the strongest weapon of all.