Surviving the Apocalypse With My Yandere Ex-Girlfriend-Chapter 79: Easy street

Aubrey paced Dr. Tekashi’s office like a trapped animal.

Her boots kicked aside boxes of half-sorted medical supplies, vials clattering across the floor as she dragged her hands through her hair again and again, breathing sharp and uneven—too fast, too shallow. Like if she stopped moving, she’d break.

It hadn’t been clear at first—whether Adrian was just part of the group to her.

But now?

Now it was obvious to everyone in the room.

"Bunch of cowards," Adira snapped, voice cracking as she spun back toward them. "That’s what they are. I can’t believe it was so easy for them to abandon—"

"You shut the fuck up."

The words cut hard and fast.

Adira stiffened.

Aubrey stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Don’t you remember?" she shot back. "You were the first person to betray Adrian back in Chicago. The first. You’re the reason for half of this shit, and you wanna stand there acting like—..."

Adira didn’t say a word.

Her jaw clenched. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

The silence was loud.

Carl moved immediately, stepping between them before it could get uglier. He held up both hands, tired.

"Aubrey," he said carefully. "Calm down. I understand how you feel...but Adira’s changed. She wants to help just as much as you do."

Aubrey stared at him for a long second.

Then her eyes slid past him—back to Adira.

"Tch." She scoffed. "Fucking whatever."

And just like that, she turned and stormed out, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the shelves.

No one followed.

The room stayed frozen, the echo of her anger lingering in the air like smoke.

Carl dragged a hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes as if trying to erase the last minute entirely.

"...So," Terri muttered softly, almost afraid to be heard. "What’s the plan?"

Hale crossed his arms. "Bring the Crucible down. That’s what we were talking about before Adrian got captured."

Terri swallowed. "...I mean—just the five of us?"

The question hung there.

"You want to come?" Hale asked.

His voice was gruff. Direct. No padding.

Terri froze.

Her mouth opened—then closed. She looked away, shoulders curling in on themselves, fear written all over her face.

"It won’t work," Adira said quietly. She finally lifted her head. "We’ll need to rally at least some of these people if we want a fighting chance."

Hale exhaled through his nose. "That might take a moment."

"I’m afraid you don’t have a moment," a woman said from the doorway, "if you want to save your friend."

Every head snapped toward her.

She stood half-hidden in the doorframe, hands clasped tight in front of her like she might bolt at any second.

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?" Cherie spat.

"D—Dr—" the woman stammered, face flushing immediately.

"Her name is Dr. Josephine," Adira cut in, folding her arms, eyes narrowing.

"We caught her trying to fuck her infected husband in an abandoned house in St. Louis."

The words landed ugly.

Josephine’s face burned red. "T—that’s not entirely—why would you—"

"Why are you here?" Cherie interrupted. "Shouldn’t you be working on that Peter guy?"

"He’ll be alright," Josephine said quickly. "For now. But that’s not the real problem."

She drew in a shaky breath.

"They’re trying to put a neural lattice in your friend."

"...English, please?" Hale muttered.

"Another consciousness," she said. "Artificial. Layered over his own."

Silence.

"They’re putting him through extreme mental and physical trauma right now," Josephine continued, voice tight. "It makes the mind easier to compartmentalize. Easier to overwrite."

Carl’s eyes darkened. "And how exactly do you know all this?"

Josephine hesitated.

"...Because I used to work for the Crucible."

Gasps rippled through the room.

Adira scoffed sharply. "I should’ve killed you when I had the chance."

"That," Josephine said quietly, "would be a mistake."

Adira raised an eyebrow.

"I stopped working with them when they started experimenting on... younger minds," Josephine said.

"Oh wow. What a hero you fucking are."

"I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m saying I know their procedures."

A beat.

"And I know where they might be holding him."

No one spoke.

Josephine swallowed hard.

"And I don’t think you have much time," she finished, "before they put that thing inside his mind."

And just like that, the room felt smaller.

Samuel froze in the doorway, his pulse hammering in his ears. Beyond the thin partition, Adrian writhed under the ministrations of Vivian’s team. The scent of antiseptic and blood mixed, acrid and sharp, curling into his stomach.

He pressed his hand against the doorframe, trying to steady himself. His chest throbbed—pain radiating from the scar Vivian had carved into him weeks ago. It wasn’t just memory; it felt alive, a cruel echo.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The voice cut straight through Samuel’s panic.

He froze, caught mid-step, body taut like a drawn bow.

"You’re on outside guard duty. You shouldn’t be here," the soldier said, eyes narrowing.

"...Sorry," Samuel stammered. "I was just...checking on my girlfriend. She’s supposed to be in one of these—"

"Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. If you don’t want Vivian to know about your insubordination, you best leave."

The words landed heavy. Samuel’s stomach twisted, a knot of fear and frustration. He took a shallow step back—but something shifted. Somewhere in the adjacent room, Naomi moved.

Ropes strained against her wrists and ankles, rough against skin reddened by tension. She flexed her fingers, testing the knots. They’d underestimated her. They’d left her just tight enough to seem helpless, loose enough for opportunity.

Samuel’s eyes flicked to her, silently counting the seconds. One slip of the guard, one mistake, and they could both be gone.

He swallowed hard. The guards outside were completely unaware that the prisoner they thought subdued was already planning her escape—and that Samuel, standing at the threshold, might just be the key.

A bead of sweat ran down his temple. He had to make a choice: retreat now, or risk everything to give Naomi—and maybe Adrian—a shot at surviving this.

They never asked me to lie down.

They guided me there—hands firm, precise, almost gentle. Like they were afraid bruises would contaminate whatever data they were so desperate to preserve.

Cold metal kissed the back of my knees. Then my spine. Then the base of my skull.

Restraints clicked shut one by one.

Wrists. Ankles. Chest. Forehead.

Last came my mouth.

A molded guard slid between my teeth, prying my jaw open just enough to keep my tongue pinned and my throat exposed. Straps tightened behind my head. I tried to inhale sharply—couldn’t. Tried to curse—nothing came out but a muffled, wet sound swallowed by plastic.

No screaming.

By design.

My pulse roared in my ears as headphones were fitted over me, sealing tight. The world dulled for half a second—

Then music.

A chipper, synthetic pop song blasted from the speakers. Cheerful, ridiculously bright, almost comical against the sterility of the lab. My pulse jumped, my muscles tensed.

What the actual fuck was this...?

My stomach twisted as the volume increased just enough to drown out everything but the bassline and my own breathing. I couldn’t hear them.

But I could see them.

White coats moved in and out of my vision. Clipboards. Tablets. Calm mouths forming careful words. I focused hard—reading lips the way I’d learned to in juvie, the way you do when you don’t want guards knowing what you’re planning.

—heart rate elevated but stable—

—cortisol spike expected—

—don’t sedate yet—

A metal tray slid into view.

Needle.

Long. Clear. Viscous fluid catching the light.

My breath hitched. My whole body strained instinctively against the restraints, muscles screaming to move, to do something—

The needle stopped inches from my skin.

Paused.

Withdrawn.

They were watching my reaction.

Logging it.

I had realized soon enough that it was Pharrell Williams playing in my ears. These people were fucking pyschos.

My vision blurred.

Then—

Movement in my periphery.

Someone stepped closer to my line of sight.

Vivian.

She smiled like this was a friendly visit. Like she hadn’t watched me get bolted to a table.

She lifted her hand.

And waved.

A small, cheerful gesture. Fingers wiggling.

My chest convulsed. I tried to thrash, to spit the guard out, to make any sound that could reach her—but my body betrayed me. All I could do was stare.

Vivian leaned in just enough for me to see her lips clearly.

Hi, Adrian.

She straightened, hands folding behind her back, eyes gleaming with something close to excitement.

Behind her, a machine powered on.

Low hum. Steady. Patient.

One of the doctors spoke—slow, deliberate. I caught every syllable.

—baseline personality confirmed—

Another voice followed.

—proceed with compartmentalization prep—

Vivian tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle she’d already solved.

I finally understood then.

They weren’t here to hurt me.

Pain was inefficient.

No—

They were here to decide which parts of me were worth keeping.

Clap along, they said, as if happiness could be forced through wires and speakers.

The screen above me flickered to life.

And somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the panic and the rage, something colder settled in—

The realization that whatever walked out of this room...

Might still have my face.