Maggie's eyes opened to the sound of voices.

  She was sitting in a lecture hall this time, one of those big ones with tiered seating that curved around a central stage. The lights were bright, almost too bright, making everything feel washed out and slightly unreal.

  Around her, clusters of students sat scattered throughout the seats. All women, she noted. Maybe twenty of them, talking in small groups, their voices creating a low hum of conversation.

  Maggie rubbed her face. Her head ached dully, like she'd been sleeping too long. "Not again," she muttered.

  A girl in the seat next to her turned. "Sorry, what?"

  "Nothing." Maggie straightened in her chair, trying to orient herself. College campus. Lecture hall. Students. This seemed normal enough. "Did I miss something?"

  "Just the usual debate." The girl rolled her eyes. She had blonde hair pulled into a neat ponytail and looked like she'd never missed a class in her life. "Maria's on her soapbox again."

  Maggie glanced toward the front. A dark-haired woman stood near the podium, gesturing emphatically while a group of students listened intently.

  "What's she talking about?" Maggie asked.

  "That case. You know, the one that's been all over the news?" The blonde girl leaned closer, lowering her voice. "The guy with all the arrests who finally... you know. She's talking about systemic failure."

  Maggie's stomach dropped. "Systemic failure?"

  "Yeah. How the system failed to intervene properly." The girl shrugged. "I mean, seventeen arrests and he was still on the streets? That's a failure of rehabilitation, right? If we'd had proper mental health services, job programs, early intervention—"

  "What did he do?" Maggie interrupted.

  The girl blinked. "This time? He killed someone. Robbery gone wrong."

  Maggie's hands gripped the armrests.

  "Look, it's tragic," the girl continued. "For everyone. But that's Maria's point—seventeen arrests means the system kept failing him. Kept putting him back on the street without actual help. No rehab, no support, just revolving door justice. And now someone's dead because nobody intervened properly."

  "He had seventeen chances," Maggie said quietly.

  "Seventeen failures," the girl corrected. "Each arrest was a chance to actually help him, and nobody did. Just punishment, release, repeat. That's not justice—that's warehousing people until they explode."

  "Hey!" The dark-haired woman from the front—Maria—waved at them. "You two want to share?"

  Every head turned toward Maggie.

  Before she could object, Maria gestured them down. Maggie found herself standing, following the blonde girl to the center.

  Maria smiled. "We're discussing the Martinez case. The tragedy that could have been prevented with proper intervention. You look like you have thoughts?"

  "He killed someone," Maggie said.

  "After seventeen missed opportunities for real help," Maria said. "That's the tragedy. If we had proper social services, mental health support, job training—Martinez might never have been in that position."

  "Or maybe he's just violent," Maggie heard herself say.

  "Nobody's 'just' anything," a woman with red hair said gently. "People are products of their environment. Poverty, trauma, lack of opportunity—these things shape behavior. Martinez needed intervention, not incarceration."

  "He got intervention," Maggie said, louder now. "Seventeen times. And each time, someone like you probably said 'he just needs help.' Well, he got help. He got released. And he kept hurting people."

  "Because he didn't get real help," Maria insisted. "Just jail time and probation. That's not treatment. That's not addressing root causes."

  "And what about the person he killed?" Maggie felt heat building in her chest. "What about them? What about their family? Do they get second chances?"

  "Two wrongs don't make a right," the blonde girl said. "Punishment won't bring them back."

  "But it might stop him from killing someone else!"

  "Or," Maria said carefully, "proper rehabilitation from the start might have prevented all of this. That's what we're advocating for. Real intervention. Real support. Not just catch and release."

  Part of Maggie knew the argument made sense. System failure. Missed opportunities. Root causes.

  But another part—deeper, angrier—rejected every word.

  "So what happens now?" Maggie asked. "After he killed someone. What does your 'proper intervention' look like?"

  "Restorative justice," Maria said. "Treatment. Understanding what led to—"

  "He killed someone." Maggie's voice shook. "Someone who had a life. A family. A future. And you want to... what? Rehabilitate him? Give him therapy and job training and hope he feels bad about it?"

  "We want to prevent it from happening again," the redhead said. "To him and to others. That requires understanding, not vengeance."

  "It's not vengeance," Maggie snapped. "It's consequences. It's saying that at some point—maybe at murder—someone forfeits their right to another chance."

  "That's a dangerous line of thinking," a girl with glasses said. "Who decides who's beyond redemption?"

  "How about we start with murderers?" Maggie shot back.

  The circle had gone quiet. They stared at her with identical expressions—patient, understanding, slightly concerned.

  "I think you need to examine where this anger is coming from," the girl with glasses said carefully. "It sounds personal. And when things are personal, we can't think clearly about systemic issues."

  Maggie opened her mouth to respond, then stopped.

  And their faces...

  Maggie's breath caught. Their features were there, but too smooth. Too perfect. Like masks.

  "I need to go," she said.

  "But we haven't finished," Maria said. "Don't you think Martinez deserves another chance? With proper support this time?"

  The question hung in the air.

  Maggie wanted to say yes. Part of her knew that was the right answer. The compassionate answer. The answer good people gave.

  But something inside her recoiled violently. Because if she said yes—if she agreed that seventeen chances plus murder still wasn't enough—it felt like betraying someone.

  Like saying their death didn't matter.

  "No," Maggie said. "He doesn't."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The women's expressions didn't change. Just kept staring with those too-smooth faces.

  "I see," Maria said softly. "Thank you for sharing."

  Dismissal was clear. Maggie grabbed her bag and left.

  As she climbed the stairs toward the door, she could feel their eyes on her back. But they didn't follow. Didn't call out. Just watched in silence as she left.

  Maggie pushed through the lecture hall doors and stopped in the hallway, breathing hard. Her hands were shaking.

  What the fuck was that?

  The hallway stretched ahead of her, fluorescent lights humming overhead. It looked normal enough. A few doors. A bulletin board covered in flyers.

  She started walking, trying to shake off the unease crawling up her spine.

  · · ·

  "Well, that was entertaining."

  Maggie spun around, fists raised.

  A tall man leaned against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed. He wore a white lab coat over dark clothes, glasses perked on his nose. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, and he was looking at her with an expression of mild amusement.

  "Jesus fucking Christ!" Maggie's heart was hammering. "Where did you come from?"

  "I was passing by." He gestured vaguely down the hallway. "Heard quite the debate going on in there. You've got a set of lungs on you."

  "You were eavesdropping?"

  "The door was open. Not really eavesdropping if you're broadcasting to the whole building." He tilted his head. "Passionate about criminal justice, are we?"

  "I'm passionate about not being an idiot," Maggie snapped. "Unlike those women in there who think murderers just need a hug and some therapy."

  "Ah yes, the classic 'thoughts and prayers' approach to crime prevention." He pushed off from the wall. "Very effective. Right up there with abstinence-only education and trickle-down economics."

  Despite herself, Maggie felt her lips twitch. "You're mocking them."

  "I'm mocking the idea that good intentions are a substitute for common sense. Though I have to say, you were pretty harsh in there."

  "Someone had to be." Maggie's jaw tightened. "They were sitting around acting like the real victim was the guy with seventeen arrests, not the person he killed."

  "And that bothered you."

  "Of course it bothered me! How could it not bother anyone with half a brain?"

  "I mean specifically," he said, studying her. "It looked personal."

  Maggie's stomach twisted. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Really? Because you looked ready to either cry or start throwing punches."

  "Well, I wasn't." She turned to walk away. "Nice talking to you, random eavesdropping guy."

  "Mark."

  She paused. "What?"

  "My name. Since we're having a conversation." He fell into step beside her. "And you are?"

  "Leaving," Maggie said flatly.

  "Unusual name. Your parents must be creative."

  She couldn't help it—she laughed. Short, surprised. "You're annoying."

  "I've been told." He smiled slightly. "But seriously. You okay? That seemed intense."

  Maggie slowed. Looked at him properly. He seemed genuinely concerned beneath the sarcasm. Something about him felt familiar, though she couldn't place it.

  "I'm fine," she said. "Just... those women got under my skin."

  "The ones in there?" Mark glanced back at the lecture hall. "Spouting platitudes about restorative justice?"

  Maggie frowned. "You make it sound like they weren't even real people."

  "Were they?" He asked it casually, but his eyes were sharp behind his glasses.

  "What kind of question is that?"

  "An honest one." He studied her. "Did any of them actually engage with what you were saying? Or did they just... repeat the same talking points? Like automatons?"

  Maggie opened her mouth to argue. Stopped. Thought about it.

  The women had all said similar things. Had all stared with identical expressions. Had all looked at her with those too-smooth faces...

  "You noticed it too," Mark said quietly. "Didn't you? Something wrong with them."

  "I am confused," Maggie admitted. "About a lot of things, actually."

  "Such as?"

  She opened her mouth—then closed it. Looked down the hallway. Then back at him.

  "Look, I gotta go." She turned toward the end of the hallway.

  "Go?" Mark's voice carried a note of amusement. "Where are you going?"

  "I don't know. Home?"

  "Yeah?" He fell into step beside her again, hands in his pockets. "And where is that?"

  Maggie kept walking. Didn't answer. Because the truth was she had no idea. No address came to mind. No image of a front door or a bedroom or a street she recognized.

  "Maggie."

  She stopped. Turned back.

  "How do you know my—"

  "You don't remember where you live, do you." Mark was watching her with that same calm, steady look. Not mocking this time. Something quieter. It wasn't a question.

  Her jaw tightened. "I'm fine."

  "I'm not saying you're not." He shrugged. "But you don't. And you don't remember how you got here. Or what you were doing before you walked into that lecture hall."

  "I..." She trailed off. Looked back toward the lecture hall. "Those women. They were real, right? That debate actually happened?"

  "It happened." Mark watched her. "But they weren't real. You created them."

  Maggie stared at him. "What?"

  "The debate. The women. All of it." He said it matter-of-factly. "You were angry. Hurting. Your subconscious needed to process that, so it manifested a scenario where you could win."

  "That's..." She shook her head. "No. They were talking. Arguing back. They had opinions—"

  "Strawman opinions. The kind of extreme positions that are easy to tear down. You made them say exactly what you needed them to say so you'd know you were right."

  Maggie thought about Maria. About the blonde girl. About how they'd all defended the same position in slightly different words. How none of them had actually engaged with her points, just... repeated their talking points.

  "That's kind of pathetic," she said quietly.

  "It's human," Mark corrected. "Sometimes we need to win an argument. Even if it's against ourselves." He studied her. "But the anger you felt? That was real. That wasn't your subconscious. That's connected to something."

  Maggie looked at him—really looked. The lab coat. The glasses. The way he kept asking questions like he already knew the answers. "Are you some kind of med student or something?"

  "Why, does the coat give it away?"

  "It's a pretty big hint."

  "Let's just say I have a professional interest in how people's minds work." He left it at that.

  Maggie's hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was wrong, that she just hadn't thought about it yet, that it would come back in a minute.

  But she'd already tried. On the way out of the lecture hall, in the back of her mind, pushing past the anger. Nothing.

  "So what," she said, quieter now. "What does that mean?"

  "I don't know," Mark said. "But I think it means there's something you're not remembering. And that debate in there—" he nodded back toward the lecture hall, "—it got under your skin for a reason. You felt something. Something real."

  Maggie looked at him. "The case. The seventeen arrests."

  "Yeah. That."

  "It felt..." She pressed her lips together, trying to find the words. "It felt like it mattered. Not just because it's wrong. Because it's... connected. To something. To me." She paused, frowning. "And when they wanted me to agree with them—that he deserved another chance—it felt like... betrayal. Like I'd be betraying someone."

  Mark nodded slowly. "So let's figure out who."

  "How?"

  "Start with what you know." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You said seventeen chances. You said the system failed the victim, not the guy. And that betrayal—agreeing with those women."

  "Betrayal of who?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?"

  Maggie's throat tightened. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking again—the same way they had in the lecture hall, when Maria had asked her to agree.

  "I know..." She struggled for words. "I know that what those women were saying was wrong. I know that some people don't deserve infinite chances. I know that actions have to have consequences, otherwise nothing means anything."

  "Good. What else?"

  "I know that..." She paused, something sharp piercing through the fog in her mind. "I know that seventeen is too many chances. I know that someone died because people kept giving someone chances they didn't deserve."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I don't know. I just—" Her chest felt tight. "It feels true. Like it's important. Like it matters to me personally somehow."

  Mark nodded slowly. "That's good. That's progress."

  "Progress toward what?"

  "Toward remembering."

  "Remembering what?"

  "That's what you need to figure out." He studied her for a moment. "Keep pulling on it. That feeling. The one that says this is personal. Follow it."

  Maggie closed her eyes. Tried to reach for it—that sharp, aching thing in her chest that flared every time someone mentioned the case. The seventeen arrests. The person who died.

  Something flickered.

  Not an image. Not a memory. Just a feeling—heavy and warm and devastating all at once. Like staring into something vast and terrible.

  She pushed harder.

  And then—

  A man's silhouette. Strong shoulders. A warm laugh.

  News footage. A mugshot. Someone's voice saying "seventeen prior arrests" with disgust and grief.

  The word started forming in her mind. Three letters. Simple. Devastating.

  Dad.

  "No!" Maggie recoiled from the thought like it burned. The feeling hit her all at once—grief so sharp and sudden it stole the breath from her lungs. "No, I don't want to remember. I don't want to—"

  "Maggie." Mark stepped closer, his voice firm. "You need to face this. Whatever it is—you need to remember it and face it."

  "I said I don't want to!" She pressed her hands against her temples, shaking her head. "Stop. Just—stop pushing."

  "If you don't do it now—"

  "I don't care!" Her voice cracked. "I don't want to know. I don't want any of it."

  Mark watched her for a beat. His eyes went flat—resignation settling in.

  "Shit," he said quietly. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

  "Wake up. Now."

  But nothing happened.

  The world kept flickering, but Maggie wasn't rising toward consciousness. She was sinking.

  "Maggie, listen to me—" Mark stepped closer, concern clear on his face now. "You need to wake up. Right now. Don't go deeper—"

  "Make it stop!" She could feel tears on her face, and instead of fighting to stay or fighting to wake up, she was doing something else entirely—retreating inward, diving away from the pain. "I don't want to remember!"

  "No, no, no—" Mark snapped his fingers again, more urgently. "Wake up! Maggie, wake up!"

  But it was too late.

  She'd already let go, already chosen to escape reality over the pain of remembering. And once that choice was made, there was no pulling her back.

  The world didn't dissolve gently this time. It shattered.

  The hallway fractured around her like broken glass, pieces falling away into darkness. And Maggie fell with them—not up toward waking, but down, down, down into something deeper and darker than before.

  The last thing she heard was Mark's voice, distant and frustrated:

  "Goddammit..."