The psychiatric ward smelled of bleach and despair. Every hallway hummed with fluorescent lights, buzzing like angry insects. Ty's shoes squeaked as they dragged him past locked doors, each one concealing someone broken, someone forgotten.
The nurses didn't meet his eyes. That pleased him. Fear was the only honest emotion people had.
His room was a box—four white walls, a narrow bed bolted to the floor, a mirror screwed above the sink. Tucked neatly away, almost unseenable, was a small camrea with a faint red glow emitting from it. They told him the camera's where for his own safety. Ty knew better. It was for watching. Reminding him he was always being observed.
He leaned close to the glass. His reflection grinned back—sharp, defiant. "They can't cage me," he whispered.
The reflection's grin widened.
For the first time, Ty wondered if it was agreeing—or perchance it was waiting.