Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 23: A Glimpse Into The Past

Justin's POV

This was it. This was our only chance.

I shoved the vent open, hoisted Number 12 up, and pushed her inside. My heart pounded against my ribs as I climbed in after her, just as the guard's footsteps echoed from down the hall. I barely managed to close the vent cover behind me before he walked past, muttering to himself.

We didn't stop. We couldn't stop.

"Crawl," I whispered harshly, urging her forward.

She was small, making it easier for her to move quickly through the narrow metal tunnel. I followed right behind her, my body tense with adrenaline. The alarms hadn't gone off yet, but I knew they would. We had minutes before they realized we were missing.

We crawled through the vents until we reached the trash room. The smell of rotting food, chemicals, and God knows what else hit us immediately, but I didn't care. This was our way out.

I pushed open the vent and dropped down first, landing in a crouch. Then I reached up and helped her down, her tiny hands clutching onto mine as I guided her.

"Get in," I whispered, pointing to a large trash bag.

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"They won't check the trash if they think we're still inside." I started piling garbage on top of her to hide her, working quickly but carefully.

She whimpered, fear creeping into her expression. "Number 9—"

"Listen to me." I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. "You have to do this. If they catch us, they'll never let us try again."

I could hear footsteps—multiple footsteps—getting closer. They were coming this way.

I knew what I had to do.

I knew we both wouldn't make it out of here.

And I wasn't going to let her get caught.

I had already failed once.

Number 3.

I was seven when I first tried to escape, but that time, I wasn't with Number 12. I was with Number 3, a twelve-year-old girl who had taken care of me like a big sister. We had planned for months, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

We were caught before we even made it to the outer halls.

I never saw Number 3 again for weeks.

I didn't know what they did to her, but when she came back, she wasn't her anymore. She was broken. Empty. A shell of who she used to be.

They got to her.

They tortured her until there was nothing left. She later ran mad.

They didn't spare me either. But I refused to break. My hatred, my rage—it kept me going.

And I would not let that happen to Number 12.

I crouched in front of her, gripping her shoulders. "If you get out, find help. Come back for me. Come back for the others."

Her lower lip trembled. Tears welled up in her big, scared eyes. "No, I-I don't want to go alone! What if you don't make it?"

"I will." It was a lie. I didn't know if I would. But she had to believe it.

She shook her head, grabbing onto my sleeve. "Please—"

"There's no time!" I hissed. I wiped a tear off her cheek, forcing myself to stay calm. "Promise me. Promise me you'll come back with help."

She sobbed, nodding quickly. "I p-promise."

That was all I needed.

I covered her completely, making sure not even a piece of her hair was visible. The footsteps were right there.

I turned and ran.

I climbed back into the vent, making as much noise as possible heading another way. I needed them to hear me. I needed them to think we were escaping in the opposite direction.

I crawled fast, banging the metal walls just enough to make it sound like two people were moving.

And then—

The alarms went off.

The entire facility had went into lockdown.

Doors slammed shut. Security flooded the hallways.

I heard shouting. Commands being barked.

I just hoped—prayed—that they wouldn't check the damn trash bags.

That the truck would leave before they realized.

That she would get out.

And that, somehow... she would keep her promise.

I was captured after nearly three hours of crawling through vents, dodging guards, and leading them away from the trash room. They were puzzled when they found me alone, confused that Number 12 wasn't with me.

That meant she got out.

I had to believe that.

I had to hope the garbage truck had already left.

And then real hell began.

I opened my eyes, forcing myself to push the memories away. But they came anyway.

The punishments. The torture. The experiments.

They were furious. Furious that one of their test subjects had escaped. Furious that I had outsmarted them. Furious that they had lost their precious "Number 12."

They made me pay for it.

I clenched my jaw, my fists tightening as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, the only sound being the slow, steady breathing of June, who was fast asleep beside me.

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June.

Number 12.

She escaped.

And she never came back.

Hatred curled in my chest like a living thing, burning me from the inside out.

She left me to suffer.

While I was locked away in a nightmare, while I was being broken and rebuilt into something inhuman—she was out there. Free.

Adopted by rich, loving parents. Living a privileged life.

While I was drowning in pain, she was thriving.

I turned my head, my cold gaze landing on her sleeping form. Her face was peaceful, lips slightly parted, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

She doesn't even remember.

She forgot all of it.

Forgot me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing the rage down, shoving it deep where it belonged.

She might have forgotten.

But I never did.

And now that she was back in my life, whether she realized it or not...

She would pay for leaving me behind.

I woke up with a heaviness in my chest, my throat dry and burning.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I ran a hand through my hair before standing up, quietly making my way to the kitchen. The cold tile chilled my bare feet, but I barely felt it. My mind was elsewhere—stuck in a past I couldn't escape.

I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with cold water from the fridge, taking slow sips as I leaned against the counter. But no matter how much I drank, the bitterness in my throat wouldn't go away.

Why the fuck did I have to remember that?

Why now?

Was it the voices in my head?

Were they mocking me?

Laughing at the pathetic fool who had just fucked the very same girl who left him to die?

My grip on the glass tightened.

June.

Number 12.

The girl who promised to come back.

The girl who never did.

And yet here I was, touching her, claiming her, letting her into my space as if she wasn't the reason I had been left behind in that hellhole.

I set the glass down on the counter, my jaw clenching as the memories clawed at me again.

She didn't even remember.

She had no fucking idea who I was.

And maybe that was for the best.

Because when she did remember...

She'd realize she could never run far enough to escape me.