“Is Elara… someone important to you, Doctor Thorne?” Isadora’s breath hitched. A tremor, barely perceptible, ran through her. She clutched the lapels of her worn tweed jacket. “Yes,” she managed, voice thin. Elias Thorne, seated opposite her in the sanatorium’s decaying parlour, watched her. His eyes, the colour of deep shadow, were disconcertingly lucid. A slow nod. “Then I shall endeavour to secure her regard.” “No, you mustn’t—” Her protest died. He had already turned, his gaze now fixed on Nurse Mallory, standing by the mantel. “Nurse Mallory,” he said, his tone unnervingly calm, “I regret to inform you I may not honour the arrangements made prior to my… dormancy.” Nurse Mallory, a woman carved from granite and pragmatism, simply raised an eyebrow. “I surmised as much,” she replied, completely unruffled. “Doctor Thorne mentioned I was rather gentle, quite polite,” Elias continued, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. “Indeed, you were,” Mallory affirmed, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips as she glanced at Isadora. The doctor felt a hot flush creep up her neck. Mallory knew. Knew she had painted a gentler portrait of him during his catatonia, a tactical deception to maintain control. “It seems it will require… time,” Elias stated, “for me to conform to the man Doctor Thorne remembers.” “I understand, naturally.” Mallory’s gaze remained steady, assessing. “But not excessive time. Doctor Thorne assured me the inertia of my true self would expedite the process.” Isadora flinched. A sudden chill snaked down her spine, unrelated to the damp air. Had she truly said that, or had her words been twisted, reinterpreted by this awakening intellect? “Doctor Thorne,” Elias began, his voice dropping, “when might I commence my duties?” “Your… duties?” Isadora’s eyes widened, her professional composure fracturing. A slight frown creased his brow. “Does it not strike you as unfair? You, shouldering the entirety of this asylum’s burden alone?” “No, not at all. You must rest. Focus entirely on your recovery, Elias Thorne. It would alleviate my… concerns.” Isadora rubbed her palms on her trousers, the wool rough against her skin. Her hands felt clammy. “Elias.” He corrected her. “Pardon?” He leaned back, his arm extending along the worn velvet of the sofa’s crest. “Simply Elias,” he reiterated, his voice a low thrum. He lowered his head, fixing her with a stare that penetrated the flimsy armour of her stoicism. Those eyes, so profound and fathomless, felt more menacing than any blade. Isadora stiffened, as if an unseen hand pressed a cold steel edge to her throat. The colour drained from her face. Elias observed her pallor, then, with an abrupt movement, buried his face in his forearm. Yet, the sharp peak of his left eyebrow remained visible, a tell-tale arc of concealed emotion. “Do you no longer perceive me as a man?” She could not move. Her fingers curled into tight fists. The atmosphere shifted, grew heavy, suffused with a dangerous current. It was the same chilling current she’d felt the night she first found him, half-buried in the peat, his eyes glinting in the dark, rain-slicked moors. He pressed a finger to his temple. “A simpleton, then. Possessed of but a single thought.” Isadora remained silent. Her tongue felt thick, useless. “Your face.” She felt as though she sat upon a precarious precipice, every movement fraught with peril. “You cannot comprehend the sensation, Doctor Thorne,” he continued, his voice a low growl. “It is… maddening. All that remains in this skull is the indistinct impression of a woman’s face. The terror that even that might fade… it is unbearable.” A pained grimace contorted his features. Isadora could not tear her gaze from him. He offered a dry, brittle laugh. She fought the illogical pang of pity that flickered within her. He was a patient. A beast. Not a man to pity. “Should that image vanish,” he mused, a disturbing calm settling over his features, “I confess, I might become a very… unpleasant husband.” His hand, strong and surprisingly delicate, reached out, grazing her cheek. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic captive. His fingertips were impossibly cold. The primal dread that seized her was absolute. She imagined the cold press of a surgical steel syringe against her skin, the taut constriction of a ligature. Her pulse roared in her ears, a frantic drumbeat after a hundred-yard dash. Observing Isadora’s rigid posture, Mallory murmured to herself, a quiet, almost clinical observation. “He is not merely… unwell.” Mallory retrieved a small, antique cellular device from her apron pocket. She began scrolling through its contacts, her lips pursed. One must ascertain the truth of Elias Thorne. --- That night, Isadora found refuge in her laboratory on the first floor. Dust motes danced in the anemic lamplight. She immersed herself in the meticulous order of her notes, the familiar comfort of tinctures and instruments. A staunch resolve hardened within her: she would not share quarters with that man tonight. She yearned to bolt the door leading to the upper floors, seal it forever against the unsettling presence. But the ancient, warped wood offered no security. The lock mechanism was broken, shattered by Elias himself during one of his earlier, strength-testing moments. Later, a sliver of curiosity, or perhaps morbid fascination, drew her towards his room. Through the slightly ajar door, she glimpsed him. He moved with a primal, fluid grace. Bare-chested, his skin gleamed with sweat, a sheen of exertion. Loose trousers clung to his powerful legs. He performed a series of press-ups, slow and deliberate, without a single ragged breath. Muscles rippled across his broad back, a curved midline bisecting his spine. Veins pulsed, taut as rope under the skin of his arms. His recovery was alarming, unnaturally swift. The vegetative husk she’d discovered on the moors had vanished, replaced by a being of formidable, animalistic vigour. She understood flora, the quiet, predictable rhythm of growth and decay. Not beasts. Not this creature of instinct and disturbing power. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, its resonant toll dragging Isadora from her detached observation. She retreated to her own austere bedroom, latching the door with a weak, brass bolt. Her breath came in ragged gasps. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Since twilight, a singular, obsessive thought had consumed her: how to avoid his presence in the hours of darkness. Mere seconds passed. A soft, insistent knock sounded at her door. “Doctor Thorne,” Elias’s voice called, muffled by the wood. A shadow stretched beneath the door, where the paint had peeled away from the floorboards. The precise outline of his feet. For the first time, Isadora felt a chilling apprehension regarding the flimsy nature of her bedroom door, its poor, unyielding lock. Isadora yanked the heavy wool blanket over her, pressing it against her ears. *Go back!* she silently pleaded, a desperate mantra. But mercy had always eluded her, even in childhood’s darkest hours. Her silent prayers remained unanswered. The doorknob began to rattle, violently, as if it might tear free from its ancient fittings. Isadora bit her lip until she tasted copper. She feigned sleep, her body rigid beneath the blanket. “Doctor Thorne, open the door.” She trembled. His voice was toneless, utterly devoid of inflection. Had she seen his eyes, she might have found some small, perverse comfort in their menace. But the dispassionate drone was, somehow, worse. It spoke of absolute, unwavering intent. A suffocating silence descended. Minutes crawled past, each one stretching into an eternity. A faint creak of the floorboards outside her door. Isadora flung aside the blanket, slipping from her bed. When the sounds of his retreat finally receded, a gasp of air tore from her lungs. *The woman claiming to be his wife avoids her husband.* What perception would he form of this avoidance? The chiming of the clock jolted her. Her body moved, unbidden, drawn by a morbid curiosity. She pressed her ear to the cool wood of the door. “Did you genuinely believe I had departed?” His voice, low and resonant, was right there, on the other side. Waiting.

A Beast in the Asylum