I watch as Nelson Tower comes into view, the bus turning onto the street just beyond it.
“Business District,” the automatic PA system announces as I reach up and press the stop button.
“Please remain seated until the bus comes to a complete stop.”
I stay where I am, eyes fixed on the building as the bus slows, the doors hissing open a moment later.
I step off onto the pavement.
Up close, Nelson Tower feels… bigger.
More official.
Like the kind of place you don’t just walk into unless you belong there.
I shift my weight slightly, adjusting the strap of my bag.
I have no idea what’s about to happen.
No idea who I’m supposed to meet.
This could be the worst decision of my life.
I hesitate for a second—
then start walking.
I pull on the door handle and step into the lobby.
It’s… calm.
Too calm.
There’s a piano player in the corner, playing something soft that fills the space without being loud, and for a second I just stand there, taking it in.
I don’t belong here.
I make my way over to the reception desk. The woman behind it is typing aggressively on her keyboard, barely looking up until I stop in front of her.
“Welcome to Nelson Tower, how can I help you?” she says, her tone careful even as her fingers keep moving.
“Hi,” I say, shifting slightly. “I’m here to see Elliot?”
It sounds stupid out loud. Like I’ve walked into the wrong place and someone’s about to tell me to leave.
She pauses, looks up properly this time, giving me a quick once-over before returning to her screen.
“Take a seat in the reception area. Someone will be down shortly.”
I nod and step away, heading over to a small seating area off to the side. I sink into one of the sofas, glancing around again.
Everything’s too clean. Too quiet.
I guess this really is something.
“Hi there.”
I look up.
It’s the man from yesterday.
Up close, he looks younger than I first thought.
He offers a hand. “Please, come upstairs with me.”
I hesitate for half a second before taking it, then stand and follow him toward the elevators. The doors slide open, and we step inside.
The doors close behind us, and the lift begins to rise.
The elevator comes to a stop, and the doors slide open.
I step out after him—and pause.
It opens straight into an apartment.
Not just any apartment. A large one. Open, clean, everything placed like it belongs there. The layout doesn’t make much sense from where I’m standing, but it still looks… expensive.
I don’t move for a second.
“Please, make yourself at home,” he says, already taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up. “Would you like something to eat? Or a drink?”
He heads toward the kitchen.
“No, thanks—” I hesitate. “Maybe just some water… or juice.”
He smiles slightly, opening the fridge and pulling out a silver cylindrical can. He sets it down in front of me, along with a paper straw.
“Have a can of pop.”
I nod, picking it up. It’s just a normal local brand—cheap, nothing special—but still one of those that tastes better than it should.
It feels out of place here.
He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d drink this.
More like the boy from yesterday.
“You’ve got a curious look,” he says, watching me. “Are you thinking about yesterday?”
I glance up, then nod carefully.
“I thought so.”
He reaches for a document file from the counter.
“Would you like to get straight to the reason I brought you here?”
“Yes. Please.”
I follow him as he turns, leading the way down a narrow corridor at the side of the apartment. At the end, he opens a door into what looks like an office.
A very expensive one.
There’s a desk in the centre of the room, a sleek computer already on, a document open on the screen.
Behind it, a large bookshelf lines the wall—filled with thick, dusty books.
Law books, maybe?
No.
I look closer.
Medical.
Textbooks.
Most of them are covered in a thin layer of dust, untouched for a while—but one stands out.
The DSM-5.
No dust at all.
So… not a lawyer.
A doctor. Or more likely—
A psychologist.
I take a seat as he settles into his chair, typing for a moment before turning back to me.
“So,” he says, folding his hands slightly, “before we begin—do you know who I am?”
I shake my head. “No. But I’m guessing… some kind of doctor. Or a psychologist. Maybe both.”
He tilts his head slightly. “What makes you say that?”
I nod toward the shelf behind him. “The books. Most of them haven’t been touched in a while—but that one has.” I gesture slightly. “The DSM-5.”
I shift in my chair. “Either you’ve decided to clean just that book… or you’ve been using it a lot.”
There’s a pause.
Then he smiles.
“That’s quite impressive.”
“I’m Dr. Elliot Hunt,” he says. “Chief of Psychiatry—and a board-certified emergency physician—at William-Hunt Memorial Hospital.”
He opens the file in front of him and sets it on the desk between us.
“I’m currently conducting an experimental programme aimed at improving the treatment of trauma-based conditions in young people—without relying on medication.”
I stay quiet, listening.
“Primarily, we focus on conditions such as depression, PTSD, complex PTSD, and other disorders linked to adverse childhood experiences.”
I nod slowly.
Then it clicks.
“The boy yesterday,” I say. “In the park.”
He watches me carefully.
“You’re using some kind of regression,” I continue. “Letting them go back to a less stressful state… replacing bad memories with better ones.”
A small grin spreads across his face.
“Yes,” he says. “You’re exactly right.”
He leans back slightly.
“Typically, this form of treatment would follow something like EMDR. If that proves ineffective, we move to this as an alternative approach.”
He taps the file lightly.
“Right now, we’re still in the testing phase.”
“We run small groups—four patients at a time. It allows for individual attention while still giving us enough data to evaluate the results.”
I glance down at the file as he turns a page.
“Currently, we’re in Phase One,” he continues. “A less controlled environment—designed to replicate real-world conditions. Later phases become more structured.”
The page settles.
My eyes catch the heading.
Resident (Patient) Procurement Procedure.
Control residents are procured under stricter conditions. Each candidate is carefully researched to ensure suitability for their assigned control classification. Selection is conducted through monitored channels, including adoption agencies, group homes, and affiliated care institutions, to maintain consistency in background and developmental history.
All residents are evaluated prior to intake and assigned accordingly.
Control Group A:
Residents show no significant outward signs of trauma-related behavioural regression.69Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3EpN2Dctc0
They present as highly functional, independent, and emotionally restrained, often demonstrating advanced maturity relative to their age.69Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Ek3o0WNOv
These individuals typically exhibit strong coping mechanisms, though such mechanisms may rely on suppression, avoidance, or over-assumption of responsibility.
Control Group B:
Residents display identifiable symptoms associated with trauma-based conditions, including but not limited to anxiety, emotional dysregulation, depressive tendencies, or maladaptive coping behaviours.69Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPozjZzaaHv
These individuals may demonstrate difficulty maintaining routine, forming stable attachments, or regulating emotional responses in high-stress environments.69Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ0YSbRBTPu
He turns the page.
“Now, regarding random residents,” he says. “For the sake of balance within the experiment, some participants are selected at random. A basic profile is created—nothing extensive. They’re approached in a natural, uncontrolled manner to maintain fairness.”
He taps the page lightly.
“Once they agree to participate, a full clinical profile is developed. That allows us to better understand the resident moving forward.”
He closes the file.
“You were selected at random,” he adds, “though your name came with a recommendation from one of our current residents.”
I frown slightly. “Oh?”
“Yes,” he says. “Tyler. He mentioned he’d known you for some time. Thought you might… benefit from being here.”
For a second, I don’t say anything.
Tyler.
I hadn’t heard that name in over a year. One day he was just… gone. No explanation. No goodbye. I’d assumed he’d been fostered, moved on like everyone else eventually does.
So he was here.
This whole time.
Something clicks into place.
“The boy from yesterday…” I say slowly.
I look up at him.
“That was Tyler?”
He doesn’t answer straight away.
For a moment, it feels like he’s trying to move past it.
“Should you choose to participate,” he says instead, “you would reside here, rent-free, for the next year as part of the programme. You’d attend biweekly therapy sessions with a psychiatrist—someone on my team, not myself.”
He pauses briefly.
“You would also select an age range you feel comfortable regressing to. If maintaining that state proves difficult, we have methods to assist—including medication designed to encourage the appropriate cognitive and emotional responses.”
I watch him.
He still hasn’t answered.
Why avoid it?
“I have questions,” I say.
He nods slightly. “Of course.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” I ask. “I get the idea—regression, acting younger—but what does that actually mean?”
“Hm.”
He reaches over, pulling another file from a cabinet beside the bookshelf.
“Largely, we allow for freedom,” he says. “You can play, watch television, engage in activities appropriate to your selected age. We provide the environment—you respond to it. Our team observes, records, and intervenes only when necessary.”
“So… outside of what you’ve already said, I’m basically free to do what I want? Within reason?”
“Yes,” he replies with a small smile. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with the integrity of the experiment.”
I nod slowly.
Then I shift slightly in my chair.
“What do you mean by age?” I ask. “I get that it’s regression, but ‘act like a child’ is pretty vague.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s deciding how much to say.
“Age, in this context, refers to a functional developmental state,” he says. “Not just behaviour—but cognition, emotional processing, dependency, routine.”
He leans back slightly.
“If you were to choose, for example, eight years old, your environment, expectations, and daily structure would reflect that. Your responsibilities would be reduced accordingly. You would be encouraged to think, act, and engage with the world as an eight-year-old would.”
I frown slightly. “Encouraged how?”
“A combination of environmental reinforcement, routine structuring… and, if necessary, clinical support.”
He doesn’t elaborate on that.
“You’re not just pretending,” he adds. “The goal is immersion. The closer the mind aligns with the selected developmental stage, the more effective the process becomes.”
I sit there for a moment.
“So I’d just… live like that?” I ask.
“For the duration of your participation,” he says. “Yes.”
There’s a pause.
“And if I don’t… do it right?”
His smile returns—small, controlled.
“That’s what we’re here to help with.”
I think back to last night.
The boy in the park.
“Will I be expected to wear… that kind of thing?” I ask. “Like what he was wearing yesterday?”
He doesn’t react much.
“As with everything else, nothing is forced,” he says calmly. “However, we’ve found that appropriate clothing can help residents maintain a more consistent headspace.”
I glance down at my hands.
That’s not a no.
There’s a pause.
“I’ll do it,” I say finally, the words coming out quieter than I expected. “But I have one request.”
His attention sharpens slightly. “Go on.”
“I’d like you to make a donation to the group home.”
I hesitate, then push through.
“I know it’s probably not your concern, and I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but… those kids matter. If I leave, some of them won’t have anyone looking out for them.”
For a moment, he just watches me.
Then he makes a small note in his book.
“We operate with a three-day acclimation period,” he says. “If you decide not to continue after that, you are free to leave.”
He pauses briefly.
“Regardless of your decision, I will arrange for a donation to be made.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.
“Thank you.”
He closes the file.
“Then we’ll begin shortly.”
I nod, though I’m not sure what I’ve just agreed to.
As I follow him out of the office, that same thought lingers at the back of my mind.
I have no idea what I’m walking into.69Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm2JBJu5S47
and then Add to home screen.