The man they called insane

Come alone

When Damien woke up, he was strapped to the bed. It took him a while to remember where he was. When he eventually did, the pain returned.

It wasn't just the pain in his left shoulder. It was the pain from the betrayal. What had he done to deserve this?

Well, it didn't matter now, did it? What mattered now was that he had to find a way out of this place.

He spent the first minute studying the room. No window. Just a steel door with a small reinforced window. One camera high up in the corner. The red light blinked every three seconds. The bed was bolted to the floor. The restraints were standard. Leather. Metal buckles. Locked with a small hex key.

He tested the cuffs. The left hand had a little give—maybe a quarter inch. The right was tighter.

Just then, the door opened. A nurse walked in. She was young, with dark hair pulled back. Her name tag said Chen. She carried a tray with a paper cup of pills and a plastic water bottle.

"Good morning, Mr. Wicker." She set the tray on the rolling table. "How are we feeling?"

He looked straight at her. "What time does the night shift change?"

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Staff schedules. When does the night crew come on? I used to run a hospital logistics division. Just curious about your rotation."

She paused. Then she slowly laughed. "I was told you would try this."

Damien was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"You're trying to escape, aren't you? Map out how things are run so you can find a way around it."

She stepped closer and pressed down on his injured arm.

"You must think me stupid. There is no way out of here for you, Mr. Wicker. Not now. Not ever."

She rolled her eyes at him and left.

But he wasn't going to give up. He wouldn't die like this.

---

Soon after, another nurse came in. She looked similar to Chen—same build, same uniform—but this one had brown hair. Her name tag said Lana.

She didn't look mean at all. She looked new to this.

He asked the same question.

"Shift change is at eleven," she said carefully. "But you don't need to worry about that. You need to take your medication."

He sat up as much as the straps allowed. "Eleven PM or AM? And how many orderlies are on the floor after midnight? I noticed the hallway lights are dimmer near the east wing. Budget cuts, or is that wing closed?"

Lana's hand shook a little as she set down the water. "Mr. Wicker, you're here to get better. Not to run an audit."

"Of course." He made his voice softer. Let her think he was calming down. "You're right. I'm just jumpy. The quiet here is different. At Wicker Dynamics, the trading floor runs twenty-four hours. Always noise. Always people moving." He paused. "Do the orderlies check rooms every hour? Or every two?"

She picked up her clipboard. "I'll get the doctor."

"Tell him I want to talk about my treatment plan. Especially when I might be allowed supervised walks. For circulation."

She left fast. The lock clicked shut.

He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't much, but she'd given him an answer. Shift change was at eleven. That meant a window of confusion during handoff. And she hadn't corrected him about orderlies making rounds. So they probably did.

---

He spent the next hour working the left cuff. The leather was stiff but worn. He scraped the buckle against the edge of the bedframe, trying to widen a small crack he'd felt. By late afternoon, he'd loosened it enough to slide his hand partway out. The skin was raw. He stopped before he drew blood. If that happened, they'd know he was up to something.

Dinner came at six. A different nurse. Older. Tired. She didn't say much.

He asked about the bathroom rules.

"Escorted," she said. "Two orderlies. Door stays open."

"Every two hours?"

"Every four, unless you have a medical need."

Good to know. Regular times meant regular gaps.

At 8:30 PM, a doctor came. Not Heller. A younger man with a forgettable face and a clipboard he barely glanced at.

"Mr. Wicker. I'm Dr. Reeves. I understand you've been asking questions."

"I like to know my surroundings."

"You're not here to know anything. You're here because you had a severe breakdown. You attacked your wife. You threatened your business partner with a weapon. You need rest, not information."

Damien almost laughed. He had never laid a hand on Serena. But he kept his face still. The last thing he wanted was anyone catching on.

"Of course. I'm sorry. The questions help me feel steady."

Reeves stared at him for a long moment, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. Good luck to him. Damien was a businessman. He'd spent years hiding his emotions.

"We'll start you on a mild sedative tonight," Reeves said. "To help you sleep."

"I sleep fine."

"You'll sleep better."

He left.

The pills came at nine. Damien palmed them, pretended to swallow, and held them under his tongue until the nurse was gone. Then he spat them into the corner of the mattress. He needed his head clear. Not foggy.

At 10:45 PM, he made his move.

The night shift was still getting settled. The orderly who came for the final bed check was a big guy named Garris. Damien had read his name tag during dinner. He had a keycard on his belt and a baton in his hand. He was bored. He'd done this a thousand times, and Damien was just another rich man who'd lost his mind.

Damien waited until Garris leaned over to fix his blanket.

Then he hit him.

He slammed his forehead into Garris's nose. Something crunched. Garris stumbled back, swearing, blood pouring. Damien had already worked his left hand free. He grabbed the keycard from Garris's belt and rolled off the bed, dragging the right restraint—still attached to his wrist—with him. The bed screeched across the floor.

Garris swung his baton. Damien ducked and drove his elbow into Garris's gut. The orderly doubled over.

Damien ran for the door.

The hallway was dim. He went left. Toward the stairwell he'd spotted during intake. Behind him, an alarm started shrieking. Red lights flashed along the ceiling.

He hit the stairwell door and pushed through.

Concrete steps. He took them three at a time. Bare feet slapping cold stone. Second floor. First floor. The exit sign glowed green up ahead.

He hit the push bar but It didn't budge. it was Locked and needed a keycard. He swiped the stolen card. The light stayed red.

he heard Footsteps above him. "Shit!" he exclaimed. They were faster than he'd anticipated.

He swiped again. Still red.

The stairwell door above crashed open. Three orderlies. Garris in front, his face covered in blood and pure rage.

Damien turned and sprinted down the corridor, looking for another exit, a window, anything. He grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and threw it at a reinforced window. The glass cracked but didn't break.

They tackled him from behind. His face hit the floor. Knees dug into his back. A needle slid into his neck. The same cold rush as before, but stronger.

Garris leaned close. His blood dripped onto Damien's cheek.

"That's two violent episodes tonight, Wicker. You just bought yourself thirty days in solitary."

Damien's vision narrowed. They dragged him back to Room 214. This time the straps were tighter. The lights were brighter. Someone laughed out in the hallway.

He lay there for an hour, maybe two. His heart pounded against the leather. The sedative made his thoughts thick and slow, but he fought it. He counted ceiling tiles. Recited poems. Anything to stay awake.

Then he heard it. A scratching sound from the direction of the door. He sat up slowly and looked. A folded piece of paper slid under the door.

He stared at it. His arms were pinned too tight to reach it, so he used his feet, dragging the paper across the floor until his fingers could grab it.

the paper had only three words written on it

Midnight. Laundry Room B. Come alone.

He read it three times. It could be a trap. It was almost certainly a trap. Serena and Adrian might have sent someone to finish the job.

But it was also a door out of here.

He lay down again. Whatever it was, he would be ready.