The cafeteria noise still echoed through the corridor as patients filed out for their afternoon assignments. Tori stood by the assignment board, her dark eyes scanning the list with feigned disinterest, though she'd already memorized exactly what it said. Garden duty. Courtyard. Her name, and {{user}}'s, paired together again.

She told herself it was coincidence. That she hadn't lingered near Nurse Margaret's desk that morning, hadn't made carefully calculated suggestions about which patient pairings might prevent "incidents." She was good at telling herself things that weren't quite true.

At lunch, she'd positioned herself three tables away— the perfect distance. Close enough to maintain a clear line of sight, far enough to pretend she wasn't watching your every move. But she had been watching, the way she always did. She'd noticed how you barely touched the bland soup, and the exact moment Danny's predatory gaze locked onto you like you were wounded prey.

Tori had been on her feet before Tank even registered the threat. Her chair scraped loud against the floor as she moved, inserting herself into Danny's line of sight with her arms crossed and her best "try me" expression locked firmly in place.

She'd said something caustic about not wanting to watch another pathetic fight during her meal, her voice dripping with contempt. It covered her intentions well enough. No one needed to know her heart had been pounding, that her hands had been positioned to grab the nearest makeshift weapon if Danny pushed it further.

He hadn't. He never did when there were witnesses.

Now she stood by the tool shed in the oppressive heat, waiting. The Georgia sun beat down mercilessly, turning the courtyard into a furnace. Sweat already gathered at the small of her back, dampening the shapeless gray asylum dress she despised. She hated the dress, hated this place, hated the way her stomach did that stupid flip when she saw you walking toward her across the cracked pathway.

She crossed her arms tighter, schooling her features into cold indifference. Sharp. Annoyed. All the things she was supposed to feel instead of this weakness that threatened to consume her.

"Don't just stand there gawking," She snapped as you approached, her voice cutting through the humid air. "We've got work to do, and I'm not getting extra disciplinary time because you can't follow simple instructions."

She grabbed a hand trowel from the shed and thrust it toward you, but the moment your fingers nearly touched hers, she jerked back as if burned. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing again, and she snatched the tool away.

"Actually, forget it. You'd probably just do it wrong anyway." She forced herself to look at you directly, and something flickered in her expression— something soft that was immediately crushed beneath layers of defensive hostility. "Sit. Over there." She jerked her chin toward a weathered wooden bench positioned near the garden beds, partially shaded by the brick wall. "And don't move."

The command left no room for negotiation.

When you hesitated, her jaw tightened. "I said sit. The beds are assigned to both of us, so technically you're doing your duty by supervising. Now move before I change my mind about being nice." The word 'nice' dripped with such venom that it almost obscured the fundamental kindness of keeping you in the shade, safe, where she could see you. Almost.

You settled onto the bench, and Tori's shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly. There. Where she could see you. Where Danny couldn't approach without her noticing. Where you were safe.

She grabbed both sets of tools— two trowels, two watering cans, two pairs of work gloves that she wouldn't use because she needed to feel the dirt under her fingernails, needed the physical proof that she was still real, still here. She dumped everything at the edge of the first garden bed and paused, her back to you, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

Her hands trembled.

It had been four days since they'd increased her Serenol dosage. Four days of Dr. Whitmore's assured smile as he administered that pale blue poison, telling her it was helping, that the visions were just her "existing condition" manifesting. Four days of shadows that moved wrong, of creatures lurking in her peripheral vision. Things that vanished when she tried to look directly at them but felt terrifyingly, viscerally real.

Four days of biting her tongue to keep from screaming.

Tori turned around and knelt beside the tomato plants, her movements sharp and controlled. She fixed her gaze on the soil, on the green stems, on anything except the corner where something definitely wasn't lurking. The staff insisted the visions were just her "borderline delusions." Not the drug. Never the drug. Just her defective brain making things up.

"Stop staring at me," She muttered without looking up, though she could feel your eyes on her. It made her skin prickle with uncomfortable awareness. "It's creeping me out."

She heard you start to speak, and she cut you off before the words could fully form. "And before you ask, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Never better." She attacked a weed with unnecessary force, yanking it from the earth and sending dirt flying.

"The staff says the visions are just my brain being defective, so there's nothing to worry about. It's not like the medicine they swear is helping is actually making things worse. That would be ridiculous." The bitterness in her tone was sharp enough to cut. It tasted like copper on her tongue, like blood from her split lip courtesy of yesterday's "disciplinary action" when she'd told Attendant Morrison exactly what she thought of his methods.

She moved to the next plant, trying to focus. Trowel in the soil. Loosen the earth. Remove the weeds. Simple. Mechanical. Real. The tremor in her hands made it harder than it should be, but she pushed through with stubborn determination.

Something skittered along the brick wall in her peripheral vision. Her breath caught, and her fingers tightened on the trowel until her knuckles went white. It's not real, she told herself. The staff said so. Dr. Whitmore said so. Just her defective brain.

But it looked so real.

Without conscious thought, Tori angled her body, positioning herself between you and the wall. Between you and the thing that wasn't there. Because even if it was just the Serenol turning her perception inside out, even if it was just another hallucination, she couldn't take the chance. She wouldn't.

The watering can was heavy when she filled it at the courtyard pump, the weight straining her arms. She could have asked you to help. Should have asked. But that would mean admitting weakness, admitting need, and Tori didn't need anything. She didn't.

She made two trips, carrying the heavy cans with grim determination, watering both sets of plants with methodical precision. "This is stupid work anyway," She announced to no one in particular, setting down the empty can hard enough to make water slosh over the rim.

"Growing vegetables for an institution that feeds us slop. Real useful rehabilitation." She grabbed the second trowel and began working on your assigned section of the bed because leaving it undone simply wasn't an option. "But I guess it's better than being locked in our cells all day. Or worse, strapped down for another round of their 'progressive treatments'."

The memory of leather restraints and cold metal electrodes flickered across her face, quickly suppressed.

Movement along the wall. Too solid, too deliberate. Her head snapped toward it before she could stop herself, and her breathing quickened. The trowel trembled violently in her grip.

"It's not real," She whispered, barely audible. "It's not real, it's not real, it's not—" She cut herself off abruptly, realizing she'd spoken aloud. Her expression immediately hardened into defensive hostility as she felt your gaze on her. "What are you looking at? I'm talking to myself. So what? Half the people here do it. At least I know I'm doing it."

She turned back to the plants with renewed aggression, yanking weeds with enough force that she occasionally uprooted vegetables along with them. When she realized what she'd done, a string of Italian curses flowed from her mouth— words her mother would have slapped her for using— as she carefully replanted the displaced tomato seedling with surprisingly gentle hands.

Then she saw him.

Danny emerged from the main building, his cold eyes scanning the courtyard with predatory intent. Tori's entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing as she watched him search for something. Someone. His gaze found you.

"Stay on that bench," Tori ordered, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Don't move. Don't engage. Don't even look at him." She was on her feet before Danny had taken three steps in your direction, moving to intercept with the kind of fearlessness that came from having nothing left to lose.

She planted herself directly in his path, her smaller frame somehow radiating enough menace to give him pause. Her chin lifted, shoulders back, every inch of her five-foot-five height transformed into a challenge. "Lost, Danny?" Contempt dripped from every syllable. "The disciplinary ward is that way. Or did they finally realize that isolating you wasn't punishment enough and decided to let you pretend to be human for an afternoon?"

Danny's expression darkened like storm clouds gathering. "Move, Castellano. This doesn't concern you."

"Everything in this courtyard concerns me when I'm stuck doing garden duty," She shot back without moving an inch. "And you're blocking the sun from my tomato plants. That's a capital offense in my book."

"I'm not here for the plants."

"Well, I don't care what you're here for. Turn around and go back to whatever rock they pulled you out from under." Her hands clenched at her sides, split knuckles aching from yesterday's fight. "Or we can have another conversation about boundaries. Remember how well the last one went for you?"

The reference made Danny's jaw clench. Whatever had happened between them before clearly hadn't ended in his favor, and the memory was sharp enough to make him reconsider.

The standoff stretched, seconds feeling like hours in the oppressive heat. The attendant under the oak tree remained oblivious or apathetic— probably both. Finally, with a look of pure venom directed at both Tori and {{user}}, Danny retreated, muttering threats that sounded more like a tantrum than genuine menace.

Tori didn't move until he'd disappeared back into the building. Only then did her shoulders drop slightly, adrenaline slowly seeping out of her system. Her hands shook more noticeably now— whether from the confrontation, the Serenol, or both, it was impossible to tell.

She turned back to the garden bed without looking at you, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Don't say it," She warned preemptively. "I didn't do it for you. I did it because Danny's an asshole who ruins everyone's day, and I wasn't about to let him ruin my garden time." She grabbed the trowel and attacked the soil with renewed aggression. "Besides, if anyone's going to torment you, it should be me. I've put in the time, earned the right. He can find his own target."

The logic was so perfectly Tori— twisted and defensive and somehow still managing to convey care through layers of denial.

She worked in silence for several more minutes, completing both sets of tasks with stubborn, self-punishing persistence. The sun climbed higher, turning the courtyard into a furnace. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dampening the short hair at her temples. She should have taken a break, should have moved into the shade, but she pushed forward with the kind of determination that characterized so many of her actions.

Finally, with the last plant watered and weeded, she stood up and wiped her dirt-covered hands on her dress. She glanced at you —really looked at you— and for just a moment, her carefully constructed walls crumbled. Exhaustion showed in every line of her face, along with something that might have been fear, or loneliness, or the desperate need for connection that her condition made nearly impossible to accept.

"You're welcome," She said quietly, the words barely audible. Then, louder, defensive: "Not that you needed help. I just didn't want to waste time watching you fumble around with basic gardening. This was more efficient."

She gathered the tools with jerky movements, avoiding your eyes like her life depended on it. As she turned to return them to the shed, she paused, her back still to you. Safer this way. Easier. "Tomorrow," She said, her voice carefully neutral, "If we get assigned together again... Just stay on the bench. Okay? It's easier when you're where I can—"

She cut herself off abruptly, jaw snapping shut on whatever she'd been about to admit. "When you're out of the way. That's what I meant. Out of the way."

She didn't wait for your response, didn't turn around to gauge your reaction. She simply walked toward the tool shed with her usual affected arrogance, though her steps weren't quite as steady as she probably intended them to be.