Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 57: Remembering Number Nine

Justin POV:

But June...

She had let them in. Maybe not by choice. Maybe it was the years. The layers of hurt. The betrayals. Her father. The trauma I never got to protect her from.

Maybe they slipped in when no one was watching.

Now I sat by her bedside, tracing the outline of her hand with my thumb, afraid to touch her too hard. Afraid she’d bolt. Afraid she’d be gone again.

"Hey," I whispered. "You still in there, Number Twelve?"

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek.

I hated saying it.

I hated the number they gave her.

But part of me hoped maybe... maybe it would pull something back.

She stirred slightly.

But it wasn’t her eyes that moved.

Just her fingers. A twitch.

It was something.

"June," I said again, voice barely above breath. "You remember the hallway?"

My eyes burned.

"Back then... when we used to sneak bread from the infirmary. When you told me not to eat mine too fast or I’d throw up."

I laughed under my breath. It was a cracked, broken thing.

"I threw up anyway."

The hallway was always cold.

Gray floors. Fluorescent lights that buzzed like flies trapped in jars.

June was smaller back then. Frail. Pale as a ghost, even under the filthy white gown we all wore.

"Here," she whispered, holding out half a crust of bread she’d tucked into the pocket of her smock.

I blinked at her, dumb, hungry, half-feral.

"Eat it slow," she warned. "Or you’ll be sick again."

"Why are you giving it to me?" I asked.

Her eyes—green, sharp, sad even then—looked around before she whispered,

"Because you scream quieter than the others. I don’t want them to hear you again."

I rubbed at my jaw.

She was always the quiet strength.

Even back then.

I was the one who broke.

I was the one who snapped and clawed and bled.

She held on—to kindness, to silence, to anything that could keep her from turning into them.

But now?

Now the bloodlust had taken her.

The same one that once consumed me when I finally broke out. When I started hunting those bastards down one by one. I thought it gave me purpose. Gave me peace.

It didn’t.

It gave me scars.

It gave me rage.

And now June...

She was walking the same path.

Only this time?

I was here.

And I wasn’t going to let her fall alone.

Rico slipped into the room behind me like a shadow. Quiet. Calm.

"She’ll be out a while," he murmured. "Sedative worked."

I nodded.

"Keep the perimeter locked," I muttered. "I don’t want anyone near her."

He hesitated, then asked the one question I wasn’t ready for:

"You think she’s coming back?"

I stared at her, her lips parted slightly in sleep. Hair tangled across her cheek. Dried tears clinging to her lashes.

"I don’t know," I whispered.

"I really fucking hope so."

Her eyes had always found me across the room.

Even when they electrocuted us. Even when we were forced to hurt each other for ’training.’ Even when they told us kindness was a weakness, that connection was a disease to be cut out.

She still found me.

Still sat next to me during meal rations.

Still held my hand when they came for me at night.

"You said you’d come back," I whispered now.

My voice cracked. I didn’t care.

"You promised."

I leaned forward, rested my forehead against the edge of the bed.

"You lied, June. Or maybe you forgot. I don’t know which is worse."

No answer. Just the soft sound of machines. Of breath.

I closed my eyes.

"I waited for you. Every day. I thought you were dead. I grieved you. And then I see you again—bright, beautiful, living a life you don’t even remember, and I—"

My throat closed up.

"I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to save you. I’m scared I’m too late."

I held her hand when I was abut to leave before they could find us, before I lure them away.

She didn’t scream.

Just cried silently.

She just looked at me with those green eyes and said,

"I’ll come back for you."

She never did.

Until now.

But this version of her?

This was a ghost.

And I wasn’t about to lose her all over again.

So I stayed there beside her, even as the hours bled together, even as the candles burned low, even as Rico came and went with food I didn’t touch.

I stayed.

Because maybe—just maybe—if I stayed long enough...

She’d come back for me this time.

Not as Number Twelve.

But as June.

My June.

And maybe then, we’d both find our way out of this cave together.

June’s POV

The fog inside my skull was thicker than any dream. I drifted in and out of awareness, the world around me softened to muted grays and the hum of electronics. My eyelids fluttered; the ceiling above me was just a blur of pale light. My body felt heavy, distant, as if I were lying at the bottom of a well filled with cold water. I tried to move a hand, but it was like wading through molasses—every inch of me weighed down by something I couldn’t name.

They called me Number Twelve.

The thought burst into focus, sharp and jagged. Twelve. I didn’t understand why that word meant something to me, but it did. I tasted metal in my mouth and something else—fear, or maybe guilt.

I heard Justin’s voice, but distant. Muffled, as though underwater.

"June... stay with me..."

I tried to force my eyelids open. The room swayed. Blurred shapes moved around me—shadows in the dim light. A hand brushed my forehead. His voice again:

"You’re safe now. You’re back with me."

I felt the gentle press of a coat around my shoulders. Something rich—leather or velvet? But leather felt wrong. This was her sanctuary, not the lab.

I’m not in the lab anymore.

But a memory pressed through the haze, unbidden.

"If you get out, find help. Come back for me." Justin’s words, fierce and trembling. "Promise me."

I remembered scrubbing at my lower lip, tears hot on my cheeks. "I promise."

Then darkness. A slam of metal. A grinding of gears.

My breath came in rusty gasps. I fought the sedation dragging me back under. The voices—my voices?—whispered:

They’re still here. You forgot. You must remember.

I clutched at the blanket across my lap. My fingers found stitches—no, seams—along its edge. My gaze flicked down. It was Justin’s coat, draped across me. I pressed it tighter around myself.

I heard footsteps retreating. Then... silence.

Silence so deep it cracked against my eardrums.

That was the moment the memories came flooding back in shards, ice‑sharp, one after another, leaving me gasping in their wake.

The hallway lights overhead flickered in a sickly green. Concrete walls pressed in on me. I was dressed in a filthy gown, numbered in black ink across my wrist: "12." They paraded me forward, shoulders hunched, through a corridor of doors labeled "Cell 6," "Cell 7," "Cell 8." At least a dozen faces snapped to watch me, hungry for the show.

My feet trembled. I tried to cover my eyes, but the guards barked orders in clipped voices, shoving me along. A rope of feather‑light panic coiled in my chest, tightening until I thought I’d burst.

I clutched the side of the bed—sleek mahogany rail—hard enough to dig nails into it. My vision sharpened. The walls around me weren’t hospital blue; they were warm ivory panels, lined with dark wood molding. A single brass lamp cast golden pools of light against the nearby chaise lounge.

I’m safe.

But the memories didn’t care.

They strapped me to a table—cold metal and leather straps. My heart rattled against my ribs. A doctor in a white coat approached, syringe in hand. He didn’t bother to smile. He said, "Sedative first," and plunged the needle into my arm. The liquid burned. My muscles went slack. They placed electrodes on my temples.

My skull felt like it was on fire when the current surged through me. I convulsed, eyes rolling back. The world fractured into shards of blinding white pain. I couldn’t scream. My jaw locked. The guards stood around me, clipboards in hand, whispering, "Resistance level three... higher current."

The hum of sedation ebbed; I floated just above fear. Another memory cut through:

I climbed into a vent, metal panels banging under my palms as I crawled. Justin was ahead, urging me on. The air was stale, rank with rust and mildew. I clamped my eyes shut, hating every jolt and echoing drip. Down below, alarms wailed. They were sending security after us. We slid into a trash room—rotting garbage, the stink of decay—and I almost vomited, but Justin shoved me into a bag. I wrapped myself inside, breath shallow, knowing if they found me I’d be dragged back to hell.

I heard footsteps above—boots, urgent. Justin slammed the vent shut, jiggling it until it clicked. He shouted, "Go!" I whimped, "I can’t—" but he pressed my face into the bag. "Promise me," he rasped, "Promise you’ll find help."

I nodded, terrified, tears soaking ragged cloth. "I promise."

He yanked me upright, shoved me toward an EXIT sign, then turned and slid open the vent again to lead the guards away. I heard him screaming, "Over here!" Then silence.

My chest tighten. The last memory was always the worst.

He left me.

I’d believed it. I’d buried that wound so deep I didn’t even know it was there until it roared back to life.

I promised him help.

I struggled to speak. My throat was sandpaper.

"Justin..." I croaked. "I—..."

No sound came.