His Perfect Lyra

Lyra's POV 

Am I really safe to choose the color I want? Is that what he said?

After all this—rules, systems, strict limits—and now he's letting me choose something?

That's ridiculous.

Those colors sitting there make me feel sick.

I remember the bedsheets now.

The first time: yellow. Back when everything felt… gentler. Like he picked my favorite color.

The second time: blue. That was after I wrecked the room. Screaming. Crying. Blue—like sadness.

The third: white. After I hurt him. After he left me locked up, nearly dead.

It feels like every color is part of some test. Like he's matching them to my actions, waiting to see how I'll react again.

Not this time.

He said, if I don't want it, don't do it.

So I put on my brave face, made eye contact, and said it clear:

"I don't want nail polish. So I won't pick a color."

For a second, I thought I won.

But then—

Silas reached into his bag. Pulled out another bottle.

Black.

"Unfortunately," he said, voice still soft, "I want your nails done. But since you won't pick, you get black today."

Ah. I see it now.

It was never really a choice. It's always what he wants in the end.

—

A few minutes later, my nails were clean, trimmed… and coated in glossy black.

I stared down at them, feeling sick.

Black. It's not my color. Too heavy.

It reminded me of… rebellion.

Like back when I was a teenager, trying to be tough, trying to fight back against everything.

That's what this was. His way of reminding me I'm still showing rebellion.

And he doesn't want that.

He wants me to be his good girl.

I can't let that happen. If I do, I'll never escape.

"Now," Silas said, voice cheerful like nothing was wrong. "Please let your nails dry. Don't move. I'll bring some clothes for you to pick."

Another choice?

I stayed put while he cleaned up, packed away the tools, then left.

Now… clothes. What next? Socks? Shoes?

When he came back, I didn't even get a good look at what he was carrying. I was still wearing what I had on—comfortable enough. I didn't want to dress up.

But Silas called me over anyway:

"Lyra, please come here. Choose which shirt you want to wear today."

I walked over, standing next to him while he laid three shirts out carefully on the bed:

• First: A soft blue shirt. Whale-blue, with a cartoon black duck on it, looking sad and lonely.

• Second: A black shirt. Cartoon duck again—but this time, holding a gold knife in its wing.

• Third: A dyed yellow and white shirt. No image. Just color.

What… is this? Custom shirts?

All of them too perfect. Too specific. Like everything else in here.

I froze up.

What if I pick the wrong one?

What if he's waiting to pull out something worse if I mess up?

But I had to choose.

The dyed one. Yellow and white. It felt safest. Natural. I pointed at it.

Silas gave a calm nod. Picked up the other two, folded them, and set them aside.

Ah… so he really does want me to change.

And then his words echoed back through my head:

'I don't want you to do things for yourself.'

Does that mean…

Will he dress me?

My stomach dropped.

But before I could even say anything, Silas came back with a quiet smile.

"You can go to the washroom to change, Lyra," he said gently, like he'd read my mind.

I grabbed the shirt and went. Changed fast.

When I came back out, he was on the couch, head turning as soon as he saw me.

That same smile again.

"Ah… that shirt looks pretty on you. Come sit. A movie's about to start."

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke.

"Why are you sitting so far away?"

His voice was calm, but there was something in it—like quiet disappointment.

"You'll hurt your ankle like that. I don't like seeing bruises on your body. If you want to sit far from me, that's fine… but don't hurt yourself."

Silas stood up, motioning toward the spot next to him.

It wasn't really a request.

So I moved. Sat where he wanted me.

And just like that, he sat where I was before. We'd switched places.

Then he held up two DVDs. One in each hand.

"A kid's movie or an old science movie?" he asked.

That again. The color thing.

The kid's movie cover was white and blue.

The old movie was black and yellow.

Same colors… just mixed differently. Another silent test.

I didn't know why, but I pointed at the kid's movie.

It felt safer. Softer.

Silas nodded like it didn't surprise him at all.

The movie started.

And for a while… that was it.

We just sat on the couch. No words. No rules. Just the movie playing.

But the whole time, my mind kept spinning.

There was still something I hadn't tried yet.

So I took the risk.

"Can we talk?"

I spoke quietly, turning my head to watch his reaction.

And, of course… he smiled.

Like he'd been waiting for me to ask all along.