Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 122: Horrors of the Past

June – POV

I freeze the second I see him.

He stands just inside the door, tall, crisp lab coat still smelling of chemicals even years later, silver name badge unreadable from the glare of the overhead lights.

It’s him.

"Hello, Number Twelve," he croons, almost sweetness in his voice. His mouth barely moves—he’s been doing this too long.

"You grew up... beautiful. My most successful project."

My stomach twists. My bones go cold. I taste bile and fear and hotel room tequila all at once.

Project. The word echoes like a guillotine. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

He steps inside, heels clicking on the tile. No one else is here. Just him. And me.

Inches between us that feel like miles.

"Did you ever give in to the voices?" he asks, eyes zooming in on my face so entirely I want to vanish into the wall.

I can’t speak. My throat tightens like I swallowed cotton.

He smiles—what he thinks is a kind expression.

Such a familiar look... From so long ago.

*******

Flashback: Five-Year-Old June

I’m four again—no, five. The room is white, endless. The taste of metal on my tongue. I’m strapped to a table, wrists spread wide across cold pads. I wear nothing but a filthy hospital gown.

He stands above me, clipboard in hand.

"Number Twelve," he says, voice flat as a scalpel. "Answer me."

I shake my head. I don’t know the answer. I can’t feel the needle prick going in. My eyelids flutter shut.

He forces my eyes open with a finger—pinches the skin so hard I cry out.

"What’s two plus two?" he asks.

I try. But there’s no memory. No math. I saw the formula in a textbook, but I can’t think. My head throbs. "F-f-three..."

I wince. Wrong.

He smiles—cruel. "Three," he says. "You inferior little teacher’s pet."

I bow my head.

That’s when he presses something cold to my forehead. Electrodes. I don’t scream—there’s nothing left to scream. Just electrical fire shooting through my skull until my vision fractures.

I pass out.

*******

(Present)

I blink. The memory recedes, but I feel that pain now—a phantom ache.

He’s still watching. Waiting for me to answer that damn question.

"I—I don’t—" My voice is brittle, like splintered glass.

He tuts. Moves closer. My eyes fill with tears, but I refuse to cry again.

"Did you?" he repeats, leaning so close I can feel his breath.

Give in to the voices.

They were so loud then.

So loud.

The whispers pulling me into madness.

They said I belonged to them.

They whispered he would make me perfect.

He said he was saving me.

I swallowed when he stepped back.

He folds his arms, smiling again.

"Do you see now?"

I shake my head.

He chortles.

And something in me fractures again.

*******

Flashback: Recess in the Facility

There’s no sun in the facility, but they tried to simulate a playground. Fake grass underfoot, a metal slide big enough to hold two kids.

We weren’t allowed to play.

To talk.

To breathe beyond permission.

We went in rows—marching, silent, staring at the floor.

I walked behind a girl named Claire—she smiled at me once. A mistake.

The guard with the cattle prod came behind her.

Zap.

Her leg jerked. She fell.

I ran anyway.

He caught me before I reached the wall, dragged me to the bench under the bell-shaped light—cold, glaring.

He picked up a syringe.

"Did you speak?" he asked, eyes empty.

I nodded.

He jabbed it into my thigh. It burned.

I didn’t cry.

No matter how much it hurt.

*******

(Present)

I shake, tears slipping down my cheeks.

He tilts his head. "Lovely," he says. "You survived."

I want to scream at him. To claw out his eyes.

Instead, I whisper: "Why are you here?"

He nods, expression warm—like he just found me again.

"To see how my favorite project is doing," he says. "I taught you to steel your mind. To silence the chaos. You did well."

His words—like acid.

I’m doing horribly.

Still hurting.

Still listening to those voices.

Behind them, deepest of all—there’s Justin’s voice.

Come for me.

I press my hands to my ribcage, pushing down the sobs, the fury.

He steps closer. "Do you remember Justin?" he asks quietly.

My breath stops.

"Oh, I saw you two." He laughs. "The little escape artist and the new big brother. Cute."

My pulse roars.

"How long did he watch before he took you away?" he asks. "I could’ve stopped him."

No. He didn’t.

Justin saved me.

Carried me through the fire of that place.

Because of him, I’m not here anymore.

I stare at the ground, voice trembling: "He saved me."

"You should’ve stayed," the scientist says with a dark smile. "Imagine if he hadn’t saved you. You’d still belong to us."

He pulls a syringe from his pocket.

My lips go dry.

He hovers it in front of me—the tip glinting light.

I don’t move.

He sighs. "I always liked the way you survived." He hovers again. Pauses. Smiles.

And that’s what saves me.

He steps back, tucks the syringe away.

"You did so well, Number Twelve," he says. "You always were my best."

He turns and walks out.

The door clicks shut.

I fall.

Alone Again

Locked in a room with my past.

My breath echoes against the walls.

I’ve been a victim all my life.

Taken. Tested. Broken.

But today?

I’m not.

I whisper to the door:

"Justin—help me."

My whole body hums—like it’s trying to vibrate out of existence. The floor is cold. My breath fogs in front of me even though I know the room isn’t cold.

No.

I’m cold.

Inside. In my bones. In my heart.

I wrap my arms around myself. Tight. Like I can keep from unraveling.

The walls breathe. I swear they do. In and out. In and out. I squeeze my eyes shut.

He was here.

He spoke to me.

He remembered me.

He still had the syringe.

He still called me Number Twelve.

I gag, crawling to the wall and vomiting nothing. My stomach is empty. My soul is emptier.

******

Flashback: Alone in the Room

Age 6.

They left me in the dark.

That was the punishment when I didn’t respond fast enough.

They turned off the lights. Not just in the room—in me.

"No one’s coming," the voice had said back then. Not his voice. One of the guards. They always said it with a smile.

No one’s coming.

They repeated it while strapping me down.

"No one’s coming."

My fingers dug into the metal restraints.

The lights buzzed. Then flickered.

A flash of light, a needle, and then—

Darkness.

*****

I claw at my skin, now. Present. Now. Now.

I’m not six.

I’m not strapped down.

I’m not helpless.

I’m not...

I curl into a ball on the floor.

The voices in my head, the ones that had gone silent when I met Justin, when I let myself feel safe, when I started to feel whole—they’re back.

Only now they’re louder. Hungrier. Clearer.

"He left you," one hisses.

"He won’t come," another whispers, soothing like a lover.

"He’ll come," I mutter back.

They giggle. Mocking. Hollow.

"Do you know how many he couldn’t save?" one taunts.

I press my palms to my ears, screaming into the floor. "He’ll come! He always comes!"

But the door doesn’t open.

The room doesn’t change.

The monsters inside me feed.

I don’t know how long I lie there. Minutes? Hours?

Time doesn’t work right in this place. Like it never did back then.

My fingers find a crack in the wall. I claw at it until they bleed. Until my nails snap.

"June," one voice says—so clear I think it’s Justin.

I sit up, wild-eyed.

He’s not there.

Of course not.

Just the camera blinking red in the corner.

I stare up at it.

"Is this what you want?" I whisper.

"Want to see me fall apart again?"

I stand slowly. My knees crack. My back aches. I feel like I’ve aged ten years in ten hours.

My fingers trail over my arms—each scar mapped like a storybook no one should read.

******

Flashback: Meeting Justin

He’d come into the facility like a shadow.

I was ten.

He was twelve.

He wasn’t supposed to speak to me.

But he did.

He passed me a note once when the guards weren’t looking. It had one word.

"Hi."

Just... Hi.

Like we weren’t ghosts.

Like we were still human.

It was the first time I remembered smiling.

Even if it was small. Even if it didn’t last.

Justin always had that in him.

Hope.

Even when he had nothing else.

The memory warms me—just for a second.

I whisper it to myself. "Hi."

A choked laugh slips out.

"Hi, Justin," I say louder, voice breaking. "Remember me? I’m back in the fucking nightmare. Isn’t that funny?"

I talk to the wall. To the camera. To the ghosts.

"I made it out. I lived. I made a new life. I wore designer shoes and drank expensive cocktails and pretended I wasn’t this broken little girl inside."

Silence answers.

I drag myself to the corner of the room and curl up again. This time, I don’t scream.

I just rock.

"I don’t want to be Number Twelve," I whisper.

Over and over again.

Like a prayer.

Like a spell.

Like a curse.