Chapter 4: The Idea
But, that's where he felt the safest.
One year later, Scott’s dorm room in upstate New York smelled of stale pizza and nervous sweat. The glow of his laptop illuminated the precarious towers of psychology textbooks and the frayed edge of his only comfort—the stuffed tiger in the little suit jacket, perched on the pillow. His phone buzzed against the cheap particleboard desk.
Luke (9:14 PM): Still up?
Scott’s fingers trembled slightly as he typed. The nightmares had been bad tonight, vivid replays of the axe and the feel of cold linoleum. Talking to Luke was the only thing that muted them.
Scott (9:15 PM): Yeah. Can’t sleep. Thinking about that stuff with my prof again.
Luke (9:15 PM): The one who said you were “trauma-obsessed”?
Scott (9:16 PM): Yeah. Said my paper on survival guilt was “fixated on graphic detail.” Asshole.
Luke (9:17 PM): He doesn’t know what you know. He’s never had to be strong like you. You want me to call?
Scott did. He always did. He hit the call button.
Luke’s voice was a low, steady rumble in his ear, a frequency that tuned out the static in his head. “Tell me what you wrote. The detail he didn’t like.”
“I wrote about the sound,” Scott said, pulling his knees to his chest. “The sound of the… the axe hitting the floor next to my head. How it wasn’t a thud. It was a shunk. Metal biting wood. He said it was gratuitous.”
“It’s truth,” Luke said, and Scott could picture him in his own apartment, probably cleaning a gun or just sitting in the dark. “Truth isn’t gratuitous. It’s just sharp. It cuts people who aren’t ready to hold it.”
They talked for an hour. Luke listened. He never offered platitudes. He offered validation, a mirror that reflected back a version of Scott who wasn’t broken, but forged. Sometimes the conversations wandered. Luke would ask about his classes, his shitty roommate, the guys he wasn’t dating. Scott would ask about the job, the city. The distance between them, once a buffer, had become a taut wire, humming with unspoken frequency.
Luke (11:23 PM): Got some news. There’s an opportunity. A detective spot opened up in your college town. I put in for it.
Scott stared at the text, his heartbeat quickening. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Scott (11:24 PM): Seriously? That’s huge. Would you… would you take it?
Luke (11:24 PM): I think I have to. The city’s chewing me up. I need a change. Be closer to… things that matter.
Scott didn’t ask what things. He already knew. He felt a confusing rush of dread and profound relief. Luke would be here. The one person who understood the shape of the hole inside him. The one who had seen him at his most shattered and hadn’t looked away.
When Luke’s transfer came through six weeks later, it felt inevitable. He rented a small house just off campus, a place with a basement that he said was good for storing gear. Scott helped him unpack boxes. The familiarity of Luke’s presence—the way he filled a space, the smell of his leather jacket—was a drug Scott had been craving.
He spent nights there when the dorm felt too loud or too quiet. They’d watch movies, sometimes not speaking at all. Luke’s presence was a containment field for his anxiety. One night, a particularly bad flashback left Scott shaking, curled on Luke’s couch. Luke didn’t speak. He just sat beside him, pulled Scott against his chest, and held him until the tremors subsided. Scott’s face was pressed into the soft cotton of Luke’s t-shirt, his ear against the steady, strong beat of his heart. Luke’s hand stroked his hair, his back, the touch firm and possessive.
“I’ve got you,” Luke murmured into the top of his head, his voice a vibration Scott felt in his bones. “Nothing’s going to get you. Not while I’m here.”
Scott believed him. In that moment, he would have believed anything.
But, that’s where he felt the safest. Luke’s hand was an anchor, holding him to the bed, to the world, when everything else wanted to float him into a numb, gray sky. He closed his eyes against the tears that came anyway.
“Rest,” Luke whispered, his thumb stroking the hollow of Scott’s throat once more before withdrawing. The sheet was pulled back up, a cold dismissal. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
He left as silently as he came. The tiger’s glass eyes watched Scott until the drugs pulled him under.
Luke sat on the edge of the bed. The digital clock cast a red glow. He stared at the black screen of his phone for a long time before picking it up.
Nancy answered on the second ring. “Have you rectified the situation?”
“Not yet.” Luke’s voice was flat. He could hear the soft clink of glass on the other end, ice in a drink. “He’s still in recovery. Still fragile.”
“Fragility is not our concern. Integration is.”
“I know.” Luke paused, choosing his words. The idea had been forming since he’d placed the tiger on the pillow. “My recent move… saving him… it’s given me an idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“He’s the odd one out. A male survivor in a pattern built for females. He’s an anomaly. But anomalies can be useful.” Luke stood, pacing the narrow strip of carpet. “You’re a licensed therapist. You could create a support group. A specialized one. For survivors of familial, targeted violence.”
A slow silence stretched on the line. He could almost hear her mind working, reassembling the shattered pieces of her design into a new, uglier shape.
“The Final Girls,” she said, her voice warming with dawning comprehension. “Dale. Michelle. Nikki. And Rebecca. You’re suggesting I gather them.”
“And Scott,” Luke added. “You bring them all together under one roof. Under your guidance. You provide the sanctified space for their shared trauma.” He stopped pacing. “It gives us both an in. Direct, sustained access. We observe them. We guide their narratives. We prepare them.”
Nancy’s exhale was a long, satisfied sound. “It’s elegant. The perfect cover. A therapist helming a curated group for the profoundly traumatized. No one would question it. Their grief makes them hungry for answers, for meaning. We can provide that.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll get the others to start the work,” she said, her tone brisk now, businesslike. “We have influences in the systems. Probation officers, social workers, even a judge. We can maneuver the girls. Subtle recommendations, conditional releases… we can funnel them toward New York. Toward me.”
Luke looked at his reflection in the dark motel window. His own eyes were depthless pits. “And Scott?”
“He’ll follow you, won’t he?” Nancy’s voice was a smirk.
“It’ll take time.”
“We have time. The bridge needs six. We have four now, and a candidate for the fifth. This group will be the crucible. Their shared suffering will amplify the signal. It will make them… ripe.” She took a sip of her drink. “You did well to salvage this, Lucas. This idea is better than the original design. More intimate.”
The praise felt cold, like a coin left in the snow. “I’ll handle Scott.”
“See that you do. And Lucas?” Her voice sharpened. “Don’t get attached to the anomaly. He’s a means to an end. A tool. Remember what he is.”
“I know what he is,” Luke said, and ended the call.
He stood in the silence. He saw Scott’s face, pale against the pillow, the absolute trust in his eyes. That look was a drug. It was a claim. Scott belonged to him in a way the others never could. He had plucked him from death’s mouth with his own hands.
He wouldn’t let Nancy, or the design, or any god take that away.