Darn Stupid Brother You Are by Mairee

Chapter 93 (Cylan's POV) The message cat midnight and immediately pulledfrom a restless sleep. My phone vibrated once, and when I groggily opened my eyes, the screen glowed with another cryptic text from Emily. >>Cylan, you have to believe me. Dr. Joe is behind everything. He's the reason I'm locked up. Don't tell anyone especially him.<< I sat up quickly. The room was covered in darkness. My heart raced as I read the words again. The messages were becoming more frequent, more desperate. And with every new one, my mind flooded with questions. Where was Emily? Was she even safe? And most pressing of all, how could I help her without drawing attention to myself? The next day, I skipped breakfast and stayed in my room. I needed space to think, to plan. My desk was cluttered with scraps of paper, a notebook, and my phone, which buzzed with an energy that matched the chaos in my mind. I sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the pieces of my mental puzzle.

Step one: I needed to confirm Emily's identity. The texts seemed real, but in a place like this, paranoia ceasily. What if someone was using her nto baitinto something dangerous? I jotted down the times of each message, trying to find a pattern. Maybe she was being monitored and could only send them during specific times. Or maybe... no. My thoughts were spiraling again.

Step two: Find proof. Emily claimed Dr. Joe was responsible, but how could I prove it without putting myself at risk? If I could access the center's records, maybe I could find something her non a staff list, treatment records, anything. But how could I get close without raising suspicion? Step three: Enlist help? I hesitated here, my pen hanging over the paper. Who could I trust? Angel was too distracted with Thomas and Hendrix. Hande and Eddie had their own budding romance. Charlotte, too sweet and unsure of her place here. Could I really do this on my own? I sighed and dropped the pen, my head falling into my hands. My chest felt tight. I had to do something, but every option felt like a risk I couldn't afford. Still, Emily's voice or at least her words-echoed in my mind. Don't tell anyone. For now, this was my battle to fight.

(Hendrix's POV) I stared at the rows of small, clear bottles in front of me, each one filled with a strange, viscous liquid. My hands moved mechanically while I stacked them neatly on the shelf. The nurse who'd draggedinto helping her was chatting away about something meaningless, but I wasn't listening.

My mind was elsewhere. On Angel. On Thomas. On the ridiculous triangle I couldn't seem to escape. And most of all, on my father.

The memory of our last conversation played in my head, clear as day.

"Son, I need you to hearout," Travis had said over the phone. His voice had that familiar soft tone, the one he used when he was trying to break bad news gently. "This decision... it wasn't just mine. Dennis-" "Of course it was Dennis," I'd snapped, pacing the length of my dorm. "It's always Dennis. What does she have to do with any of this?" "She cares about you, Hendrix," Travis said, though even he didn't sound convinced. "She thought the center would... help." "Help?" I'd laughed bitterly. "You sentto a prison disguised as a wellness retreat. What part of this is 'helping,' Dad?" "She didn't want you to... go through what she did," he'd said quietly, almost as if it wasn't meant forto hear.

"What does that even mean?" I'd demanded, but Travis had clammed up, refusing to elaborate.

Now, as I stood in the cold storeroom, the memory bothered me. What was Dennis so afraid of? What had she been through? And why did it feel like every adult in my life was hiding something from me? "You've got nice hands, you know that?" I blinked, the nurse's voice cutting into my thoughts. She was leaning against the doorway with a sly smile on her lips.

"Excuse me?" I said flatly.

"Your hands," she repeated and took a step closer. "Strong, steady. You must've broken a few hearts, huh?" I sighed and turned back to the bottles. "I'm just here to help, not chat." "Oh, con," she purred. "A guy like you? You can't tellyou're not a little bit interested." "Not even a little," I muttered, stacked the last bottle and turning to leave. The disappointment on her face was obvious, but I didn't care. The oldmight've entertained her, flirted back just for the fun of it. But now? Now, everything felt hollow.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and made my way to the gym. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and rubber mats, and the rhythmic clanking of weights provided a comfortable distraction. I grabbed a dumbbell and started lifting. I used each rep to drown out the noise in my head.

But no matter how hard I tried, the questions remained. About Angel. About Travis. About Dennis and her cryptic warnings.

And most of all, about myself.

My mental state was worsening, and I could feel it in the way my chest Angem tightened whenever I saw Thomas. It was unbearable, watching laugh with him, kiss him, like none of it-none of them had ever mattered. My passive-aggressive remarks had becsharper, and my patience thinner. I avoided the group whenever possible and drifted further into my own dark thoughts. The conversations aroundblurred into meaningless noise. Even when I wasn't around Thomas, the tension sat heavy on my shoulders. I felt like an outsider, someone who didn't belong anymore-not in the group, not even in the shell of my own body. The truth was, I didn't know where I belonged.

My father's words replayed in my head on an endless loop.

"She didn't want you to go through what she did."

What the hell did that even mean? Dennis, my iron-willed, no-nonsense stepmother, had insisted I might have agreed, but I knew the decision had been hers. Why? Why was she so invested in his "treatment"? Was it just her usual obsession with control, or was there more to it? this center My dad we cto

It didn't make sense. What possible connection could Dennis have to this place? To Dr. Joe? My stomach got upset as I thought about it. I wanted F to shake the answers out of her, demand the truth, but even the idea of calling her felt like a losing battle. She wasn't the type to crack under pressure, not from me. Still, the suspicion wouldn't leave me. There was something there sthread I hadn't pulled yet. But every tI tried to pull it, my mind hit a wall. And in the back of my head, a darker thought whispered: What if the connection wasn't about him at all? What if it was about Angel?