---
There was cheering—but it felt far away, like it was happening underwater.
The stage was soaked in red light. Not just theatrical. It was thick.
Overwhelming. Like heat.
Like blood behind closed eyelids after crying too long.
Two dancers moved beneath it. One in emerald green, delicate and graceful, with thin limbs and silent confidence. His suit shimmered with tiny mirrors and stones, his heels striking the stage in precise rhythm. He danced with a soft, haunting elegance—feminine, but not fragile. His expression was calm and Professional.
The other wore royal blue. SorenSolace.
He was taller. Commanding. Effortless.
Every move he made set the crowd on fire.
"Woohoo!" "Aghhh!!" "Soren!"
The theater echoed with screams. All eyes were locked on him. He had that kind of presence—the kind that pulled people in without trying.
But the dancer in green kept going, unfazed by the lack of attention. His movements were just as perfect, just as powerful. And he was smiling—like he was holding something inside and wouldn't let it out.
The music played on. A folk tune, reworked into something aching and slow. It told the story of enemies falling in love. The choreography reflected that—push and pull, tension and tenderness. Two opposites trying to become one.
And then something changed.
The sound of his heels grew louder. Not graceful taps anymore—but harsh, metallic thuds. They echoed beneath the music, sharp and strange. Like something was off. Like something was waiting.
The dancer in green kept spinning. Faster. Higher.
Soren moved toward him for the final moment of the routine, arms open, about to catch him.
But what came instead was silence—and then a snap.
Click. Snap. Schlink.
Something shot out from beneath the dancer's heel.
A blade.
It wasn't small. It wasn't subtle. It was heavy, violent, and meant to kill.
And it did.
Krshhh—ploosh.
The knife tore straight through Soren's neck. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed upward in a thick, horrible arc. For a second, the crowd didn't make a sound. They couldn't.
Soren's head hit the floor. His body stayed standing—just for a moment—like it hadn't realized it was dead.
The dancer in green kept turning, his face frozen in a strange smile. His teeth were stained red. His eyes looked lost. Blank. As if he didn't know where he was anymore—or who.
And then he collapsed.
Just like that. Crumbled to the stage.
And someone finally screamed:
"SOREN!!"
---
Noah woke up with a gasp.
His face was pressed to his desk. His shirt stuck to his skin with sweat. His fingers were clenched into his palms so tightly they left marks.
The video was still playing. Frozen.
Soren mid-fall.
Blood in the air.
Noah had watched it again and again.
It had been all over the news, everywhere online.
The performance that ended in murder.
The death of a star.
The destruction of Rowan Hale.
People called it art turned violence.
A planned assassination.
Madness on display.
But Noah wasn't sure.
Each time he watched it, he noticed something new.
The way Rowan moved. The silence in his smile. The way his body danced like it was trying to say something no one else could understand.
This wasn't just a crime.
It was something deeper.
A message.
A breakdown.
A scream inside a performance.
And tomorrow, Noah would meet him.
Rowan Hale.
The dancer with the blade in his heel.
The boy who had vanished behind the headlines.
Noah leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.
But even in the dark, he could still hear the music.
Still feel the rhythm of the heels.
Still wonder:
Had he really woken up at all?
--
The television glowed quietly in the break room—mounted just above the snack counter, framed by humming vending machines and half-drunk mugs of tea. The lights were dimmed for shift change, and a few nurses lingered in silence, watching the screen as if hypnotized. The voice of the news anchor was calm, composed, but beneath her polished tone, something uneasy thrummed.
"Perched above the Atlantic cliffs of Halifax, the Merin Private Asylum & Hospital is no ordinary facility. It's a fortress of medicine—nine floors in total, seven above ground and two beneath—built for complete psychiatric containment. Every inch is high-security, state-funded, and family-run by the legendary Merin medical dynasty."
A cut to aerial footage showed sleek glass walls wrapped in winter fog, guarded gates, rooftop helipads, and the shadowed outline of the sprawling Northlight Tower stretching upward like a monolith.
"With over 150 patients at any time, the hospital divides its wings by severity and specialty: Wards 2 and 3 are general psych; Ward 4 treats addiction, eating disorders, and trauma. Juvenile and behavioral cases are housed on 5. Ward 6, restricted to court-ordered psychiatric cases, includes forensic patients and violent offenders."
"But very few people—staff or otherwise—have clearance for the seventh floor."
The screen cut to a still photo of the top floor's sealed doors: polished steel with biometric locks and no windows. A faint number glowed on its surface: 127-G7I4.
"Rowan Hale now occupies the hospital's most private suite: the Northlight Wing. Soundproof. Isolated. Observed twenty-four hours a day."
Someone in the room—an older nurse named Janette—shook her head. "Still can't believe they brought him here."
Another, a junior orderly with rings under his eyes, muttered, "Feels like a ghost's moving in."
A young Nurse said in concerned tone "What if he started committing murder here as well?"
"The transfer came by direct court order after Hale was deemed unfit for standard imprisonment. Psychological evaluation is ongoing. All sessions will be supervised by Director Noah Merin."
The screen dimmed as the segment ended. The room fell quiet again.
Silence, as always, settled like dust in Merin Asylum. In the air. In the walls.
Two floors above, that silence grew heavier.
A sensor light blinked red outside the sealed suite. A security camera turned, adjusted, and stilled again.
And inside the room marked 127-G7I4, beneath pale lights and reinforced glass, Rowan Hale lay motionless on a narrow bed, one arm draped across his face like a child hiding from a nightmare. The world could scream as loud as it wanted outside.
He didn't hear it anymore.
---
The sliding doors of the staff room hissed open, and a hush rippled through the gathered nurses and orderlies like a sudden breeze through tall grass. The television screen flickered out with a quiet click, voices swallowed mid-sentence as Noah Merin stepped in from the main reception.
He didn't comment—just gave the room a passing glance, then walked calmly toward the coffee machine, the soft thud of his shoes absorbed by the sterile floors. The faint scent of eucalyptus clung to him, as always, like memory.
"Don't listen to the over-exaggerated gibberish of TV reporters," he said lightly, smiling as he poured a clean stream of coffee into his cup. His voice held that rare balance between warmth and clinical coolness. "He's a patient. Like every patient here. Yes, it's a special case—because we still don't know if it was premeditated murder or not—but Rowan Hale is too weak right now, mentally and physically, to do harm to anyone. Rest easy. What he needs… is help."
There was a pause, then the low rumble of a voice from one of the recliners near the wall. Dr. Simone Baird, the senior trauma therapist, folded his arms with a skeptical look.
"Yeah, well… who commits murder in front of thousands of people?" he muttered. "If I were going to kill someone, I'd think twice before doing it on live international television. It was a couple's dance final, wasn't it? And there were rumors… Soren and Rowan… dating. Scandals. Drama. Doesn't exactly scream cold-blooded killer."
"Hmm," said Nurse Alina from beside the sink, tying her dark curls back into a bun. "Too much spotlight on our hospital lately. But at least it's getting recognition. Good or bad, the Merin name's all over the news." She turned, gaze steady on Noah. "And whether he did it or not… that's for the court to decide. Our job is to treat him. Right, Director?"
Noah took a slow sip from his cup, then looked up at them—his winter-grey eyes calm, unreadable.
"Exactly," he said. "Treatment. Dignity. Boundaries. That's what we offer. No matter what the world says."
And with that, he turned and walked out—leaving behind silence once more, broken only by the quiet hum of the coffee machine.
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