Shanta W., M.Psi Psychological Clinic — One Month Ago
A young woman with shoulder-length wavy black hair—or maybe Patra just assumed all psychologists looked younger than they actually were—was explaining the side effects of the sleeping pills he used to take.
A year after Charlie married his stepmother, Charissa, Patra had become… overly energetic. Even if he stayed up past midnight listening to Apollo talk about the De Rucci family, he would still be the first to wake before dawn. Until one morning, Charissa woke up earlier than him and started making breakfast.
Patra had stood there, watching her busy herself before work—and felt like he'd failed. From the moment they first met, Charissa had admired how he handled all the household chores since his biological mother passed away. So, wanting to help her greet every sunrise without exhaustion, Patra bought sleeping pills.
He needed to fall asleep faster. Like most people, he didn't remember his dreams. Until his first year of college. Every night, he groaned in his sleep. Gasping for air.
Reacting to unfamiliar touches. Breaths that felt terrifyingly real.
Against the hollow of his neck. His chest. Hovering over lips that trembled and let out hoarse cries. When morning came, he was no longer the efficient son preparing breakfast ingredients. His sheets were a mess.
Panic turned into exhaustion. He always woke up damp—with an unbearable ache in his hips. He didn't understand it. And he never told Charlie, or even Charissa. After Dr. Shanta confiscated one opened bottle of his pills—and two unopened ones—his anxiety only worsened. His body trembled each night.
Even at the faint creak of his bed shifting under someone else's weight. "If you can describe how that person touched you—even the sound of their breathing—then it's not just a dream, Patra," Dr. Shanta said carefully. Patra stared at the floor, still trying to deny the explanation he himself had given ten minutes earlier. "Has Apollo ever been… overly attentive toward you?" she asked.
Patra shook his head firmly. "He treats me the same way he treats Artemis."
"Have you ever imagined… engaging in something more with Apollo?"
"Never crossed my mind."
He dragged both hands down his face, then let his body slide deeper into the soft armchair. He looked thinner now—like he wanted to disappear into the cushions. "We've only been tapering off your medication for three weeks—"
"Four," Patra corrected. "Today's the last session this month. It's been a full month without sleeping pills."
Dr. Shanta exhaled. She wasn't a psychiatrist. Yet the sounds Patra made in his sleep were answered by another voice in the darkness of his visions. Installing CCTV wasn't an option. Patra said Charlie monitored household expenses. And with four bodyguards stationed across the pavilion, questions would arise immediately.
"At the very least, we need to know whether this is hallucination or reality. I'll contact a colleague—he's a psychiatrist who just returned from Singapore. For now, record yourself while you sleep. Keep the footage strictly to yourself. Then tell me what you find."
---
Portia Residence — Minutes After Picking Patra Up
"Arte?! Where are you going?!" Blair shouted just as Patra was about to step inside.
"I've got a feeling Patra's friend hasn't been picked up yet!"
Blair frowned. "And what's that got to do with you?!"
Patra grabbed Blair's arm, stopping him from blocking Artemis as she got out of the car and casually took one of the boarding house tenants' motorbikes. Blair rolled his eyes. "She seriously can't ignore someone cute for once—" His sentence cut off when his nose collided with the back of Patra's head.
"Pat!" Blair hissed, rubbing his reddening nose. Patra turned, but the apology never came. Because standing there—with honey-brown hair once flowing past her waist now cut to shoulder-length, half-curled, dyed blonde so pale it almost looked white—was Anastashia Macbeth Wirjadinata as known as Tashi.
"Like cheese sago cookies," she said dryly when she caught them staring.
"Why'd you come home alone? Where's Lacy?" Blair asked.
The sweetness chuckle vanished from Tashi's face. "Not gonna try gray contacts too, Ta?" Patra teased, following her into the kitchen like she owned the place.
"I'm not your precious Billie Eilish, Pat. My eyes are blue. It's the only thing I have left from Mom." At the word Mom, Blair swallowed whatever sarcasm had been forming. Instead, Tashi turned sharply. "Why do you wanna know about Lacy?"
Blair faltered under her gaze. "To tell A-Arte."
Tashi sighed. "Lacy's trying to focus on her new job at an AI agency. Though honestly? She's forcing herself."
Patra, chopping carrots and mushrooms for Blair's meatball noodles, chimed in,
"Since when did Lacy care about tech? She's clueless."
"Since when do you know that?" Tashi shot back.
"Arte told me," Blair muttered.
"Lacy is Gita's stepsister," Tashi added lightly—only half the truth, waiting to see who would slip.
Patra ruined it. "Arte and Gita are both terrible at starting conversations. Pride level max. So they just spiral and marathon-watch Twilight." Tashi frowned that Patra just stopped her intention to keep confronting Blair's lies. "Sometimes Narnia," Patra added.
"Every June weekend?" Tashi guessed, finally just getting along with him. Patra nodded, but his thoughts drifted. Gita no longer waited for Artemis after school. No more lingering by the gates. No more shared silence. "Did Gita pull away because Arte dated Lacy?" he asked.
Tashi shrugged. "Not my classmate. Maybe Boris knows."
"AHH!" A glass shattered. Blair hissed in pain as hot water splashed over his hand. Patra rushed to grab a broom. While he cleaned the shards, Tashi pulled Blair to the living room sofa. His skin was red. Blistering. He'd overfilled the glass with boiling water.
Tashi returned with a bowl of ice water, tissues, and antibacterial ointment. Blair swallowed. Not because of her words this time—but because of her touch and fear that he got caught because instant reaction over his real name. "I guess lying consistently is hard," Tashi murmured while tending his burn. "Especially when you're the one being talked about."
Blair yanked his hand away. "I don't know what you're talking about." His voice shook. Her eyes didn't. Suddenly, Tashi grabbed him—fingers pressing between fabric and layered skirt. "Maybe if what happened in Artemis's room happens again… you'll realize your disguise means nothing to me, Boris."
Blair panicked. Patra's voice echoed from the doorway—someone was at the door. Blair tried to pry Tashi's hand away. "Let go! That hurts!" He shoved her back. She burst into laughter. Loud. Unhinged.
Meanwhile—Patra stood frozen at the open door. Apollo was still in his training clothes. Sweat trailing from his temple to his jaw. How could he forget? If Tashi was paper—Apollo was her book cover. Before Apollo could speak, Patra stepped aside. He didn't want to hear his voice. Not tonight.
Patra pointed toward the living room, let Apollo walked to the kitchen first. Patra will borrow Artemis's earphones. Apollo's voice couldn't be allowed inside his head while they watched a movie over dinner. If it did—he'd feel sick. And remember the session with his therapist.
In the kitchen, Patra grabbed the black plastic bag filled with broken glass. "Crazy bastard showed up at worst time," he muttered—hurling it into the trash.