Double Rebirth

Clara Jones blinked her eyes open, her head throbbing as if someone had driven a pickaxe through her skull. The sterile smell of antiseptic burned her nostrils, and the flickering fluorescent lights above buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps. Slowly, the blurred outlines of the room came into focus: peeling beige walls, a rusted metal bed frame, and the faint hum of machinery.

Where the hell am I?

The last thing she remembered was colliding with another player during her college basketball game. A sharp elbow had caught her temple mid-dribble, and then—blackness. Now, she was lying on a stiff cot in a room that looked like it belonged in a horror movie. A cracked window revealed a sky choked with sickly orange smog, and the distant wail of sirens seeped through the walls.

Before she could sit up, a clipboard clattered to the floor beside her. A middle-aged nurse with frizzy gray hair scowled down at her. "Finally awake, are you? Quit lazing about—Dr. Bennett's been asking for you since dawn."Clara opened her mouth to protest, but her voice came out hoarse. "W-What...?"

The nurse rolled her eyes and tossed a crumpled uniform at her. "Get dressed. You've got rounds in Ward C. And don't forget the new transfer—Patient 07. Acts like a lost puppy, but Dr. Bennett says he's got some... quirks."

\\Twenty minutes later, Clara found herself wandering the off-white corridors of Hope Mental Health Hospital, her sneakers squeaking against linoleum. The place reeked of bleach and despair. Patients shuffled past in hospital gowns, their vacant stares trailing her like ghosts. One man in the corner muttered rhythmically about "the rats in the walls," while another sketched frantic symbols on a notepad.

"Intern Jones!" A sharp voice snapped behind her.

Clara turned to see a tall man in a lab coat—Dr. Bennett, according his badge—glaring at her through wire-rimmed glasses. His voice dripped with disdain. "You're late. Follow me. Now."

He led her to a reinforced steel door labeled WARD C: HIGH-RISK PATIENTS. Inside, a row of padded cells lined the hallway. Her stomach churned.

"Your first task," Dr. Bennett said, thrusting a medication cart toward her, "is to administer sedatives to Patient 07. He's been... agitated." His lips curled into a smirk. "Don't let the act fool you. The last nurse who tried to touch him ended up with a broken wrist."

Clara swallowed hard. Act? What act?

The doctor shoved her toward the last cell. The moment she stepped inside, her breath hitched.There, in the corner, sat a young man hunched beneath a steel table. His dark hair fell in tangles over hollow cheeks, and his hospital scrubs hung loose on his frame. But it was his eyes that froze her—piercing blue, like fractured ice, yet glazed with childlike confusion.

Henry Smith.

The name slammed into her mind like a bullet. Henry Smith—the psychotic yandere from Fatal Bindings of a Psychotic Lover, the apocalyptic romance novel she'd skimmed during her commute. The one who'd stabbed the heroine and himself in Chapter 1. Except now, he wasn't a fictional character. He was real. And he was staring right at her.

"Clara...?" His voice was a fragile whisper, as if testing her name.

Her pulse spiked. He knows my name. Oh God, he knows—But then Henry ducked his head, rocking back and forth. "N-No needles," he stammered, pressing himself against the wall. "Don't like needles. Go away!"

Clara hesitated. This wasn't the cold, calculating killer from the book. This Henry trembled like a cornered animal, his fingers clawing at his sleeves. Was this part of his "quirks"?

"Hey," she said softly, kneeling just out of reach. "I'm not here to hurt you. See?" She held up her empty hands. "No needles. Promise."

Henry peered at her through his lashes. For a split second, his gaze sharpened—a flicker of something darker, calculating—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Promise?" he echoed, voice wavering.

"Promise." She forced a smile. He's just a patient. A messed-up, traumatized patient. Then why did her instincts scream run?

Slowly, Henry crept out from under the table. His movements were jerky, erratic, like a marionette with cut strings. Up close, Clara noticed the scars on his wrists—jagged, self-inflicted lines that told stories of pain even the novel hadn't fleshed out.

"Clara... safe," he mumbled, tugging at her sleeve. His fingers were ice-cold. "You're... different."Her throat tightened. Oh, I'm very different. Because I'm not your Clara. The real Clara's probably dead in a ditch somewhere, thanks to you.

But she bit her tongue. The nurse's warning echoed in her mind: He's got some quirks. And if this world followed the novel's rules, she needed Henry alive. At least until she found the spatial ring—the "Golden Finger" her college bestie had ranted about during late-night novel debates. According to the book, the ring granted its wielder reality-bending powers. But to get it, she had to manipulate Henry.

God, this is messed up.

"Henry," she said carefully, "do you... have anything you want to show me? Maybe something shiny? A ring?"His head snapped up. For a heartbeat, his eyes burned with unnerving clarity. Then he blinked, and the childish daze returned. "Ring...?" He tilted his head. "Like... this?"

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a woven straw bracelet—crude, almost幼稚. Clara's hopes deflated."No, not like—"

Suddenly, Henry lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist. Clara stiffened, her heart slamming against her ribs. But he just buried his face against her scrubs, his voice muffled. "Stay. Stay with me. Please."

She stood frozen, torn between revulsion and pity. This wasn't the Henry who'd orchestrated a double suicide. This was a broken boy clinging to the first person who showed him kindness. But as his grip tightened, she felt it—a faint pulse of warmth against her hip.

The ring.

Henry wore it on a chain beneath his shirt, its silver band gleaming faintly. Her breath caught. So the "Golden Finger" wasn't a metaphor. It was here. All she had to do was get close enough to—

"Get your hands off her!"

A hand yanked her backward. Clara stumbled as Mike, the brawny orderly from Ward B, shoved himself between her and Henry. "You okay, new girl? Freak tried to bite Lisa yesterday."

Henry cowered, his shoulders shaking. "No bite... Didn't mean to..."

"Save it," Mike sneered. He grabbed Henry's arm, twisting it roughly. "Time for your meds, psycho."

"Wait!" Clara gasped. "He didn't hurt me. Let him—"

But Henry suddenly went limp, his eyes rolling back. Foam bubbled at his lips as he convulsed violently.Seizure. The word sliced through her panic. "Mike, get Dr. Bennett! Now!"

As the orderly stormed off, Clara knelt beside Henry, rolling him onto his side. His body writhed like a fish on a hook, but she held firm. Underneath the spasms, his fingers brushed hers—deliberately. And then he pressed something cold into her palm.

The chain. The ring.

Her eyes widened. Henry's gaze locked onto hers, clear and lucid, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile. No trace of the trembling man-child remained."Found you," he mouthed silently before his eyes fluttered shut.