[L E N N Y]

The flickering light above me buzzed like it was mocking me, a constant, nagging sound that wouldn't stop. No matter how much I tried to tune it out, it was always there. Just like the sterile walls of this place. Just like the glass box I was stuck in.

I lay sprawled on the thin mattress, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if today would be any different. It wouldn't be. It never was.

The cell—if you could call it that—wasn't much. A bed shoved into the corner, navy sheets that smelled like detergent and nothing else, a toilet and sink crammed behind a low divider, and a useless little bar fridge I didn't even bother opening anymore. The walls were stark white, spotless and cold, but it was the glass that got to me the most.

It wasn't just a window. It was the entire front wall of my cell, a seamless, clear barrier that put me on display for anyone who cared to watch. The giants who worked here liked to observe, their faces peering through the glass like I was some kind of science experiment. Tara was one of them.

I hated her the most.

She was there now, staring in at me like I was a pet in a shop window. Her face was enormous, her round eyes magnified by the glass. Everything about her grated on me—her stupid haircut that made her ears stick out, the way her lips always curved into this patient little smile, like I was a child she was humoring.

"Good morning, Leonard," her voice boomed through the speaker embedded in the wall. It echoed around my cell, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "How are we feeling today?"

We. Like she thought we were in this together. Like her standing out there, giant and untouchable, had anything to do with what I was feeling in here.

I didn't answer. Didn't even look at her. I turned my head to the side, staring at the wall instead.

She waited for a beat, probably hoping I'd crack. When I didn't, she leaned closer to the glass, her massive face filling the entire view. Her shadow loomed over me, heavy and suffocating.

"Lenny," she said, dropping the sing-song tone she usually used. "The door to your cell is open. It's recreation time. Why don't you join the others in the yard?"

The sound of the lock disengaging hit my ears, followed by a faint hiss as the air pressure adjusted. I didn't move. The door was technically open, but I wasn't stupid. That was her way of giving me a choice—except it wasn't really a choice at all.

"I'd rather rot in here," I muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

Tara sighed, the sound crackling through the speaker. "Lenny, you know the rec yard is part of your rehabilitation. It's important to interact with the others."

"Interact? With who?" I spat, sitting up now, glaring at her massive form through the glass. "The freaks like me? The ones who got shoved into this hellhole after they lost everything?" My voice rose, filled with a venom that felt good to let out. "Or maybe the humans. The ones who think they're so much better because they were born like this."

Her brown eyes softened, like she thought she could pity me into cooperating. "Lenny, the program is designed to—"

"Don't," I cut her off, getting to my feet. My heart pounded as I jabbed a finger toward her stupid face on the other side of the glass. "Don't give me that crap about 'the program.' You don't know what it's like. You never will."

She didn't flinch, didn't even blink. "You're not the only one who feels that way, Lenny," she said calmly. "But isolating yourself won't help. You need to try."

I laughed bitterly, the sound scraping out of my throat. "Try? You want me to try?" I paced the small space, my fists clenching at my sides. "You want me to play nice with those pathetic little people out there? Pretend like I don't hate every single one of them?"

"Lenny," she started, but I wasn't done.

"You think I don't see it? The way they look at me? The humans with their smug little smiles, like they're so much better. They're basically pests back home, I could squash them under my feet! And the giants—they're even worse. Shrunk down, pathetic, just like me. They're a reminder that this place can break anyone."

I stopped pacing, turning my back to her. My hands clenched into fists, the nails biting into my palms. "I'm not going to the yard," I said, my voice low and steady. "You can shove your 'rehabilitation.'"

My middle finger pressed against the glass

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. I could hear her breath through the speaker, measured and deliberate.

"Alright, Leonard," she said finally, her voice softer now. "I can't force you to participate. But you know what happens if you refuse for too long."

I didn't respond. Instead, I climbed back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over my head. The faint beep of her tablet reached my ears, followed by the hiss of the privacy curtain sliding into place.

Her footsteps faded, and for a moment, I was alone again. But the quiet wasn't comforting—it never was.

Through the dimmed glass, I could see the rows of other cells. Hundreds of them, lined up like a grotesque display. Behind each glass wall was someone like me. Some were former giants, stripped of their size and power. Others had always been human, their lives uprooted and thrown into this nightmare.

I hated them all.

But most of all, I hated myself.

~~~

The Next Day

I didn't move much. I could feel my body aching to move, to run, I hadn't not moved for this long since I was in my mother's womb. I was an athlete, Backnott champion! Even then when I was a child she loved to remind me of how I'd always been a kicker. My mother had this striking kind of beauty, the kind that made people turn their heads when she walked into a room. She had white-blonde hair, so pale it almost looked silver in certain lights, just like mine. It fell in loose, effortless waves around her shoulders, though she was always pinning it back with jeweled clips or twisting it up when she wanted to look polished. I remember how it seemed to glow under the overhead lights in our old kitchen, catching every flicker of light like it was spun out of starlight.

Her eyes were the same icy blue as mine—piercing and cold when she wanted them to be—but there was a softness in them, once in a while. Rarely for me, though. She had high cheekbones, the kind that made her look almost regal, and a sharp jawline that gave her this aura of untouchable elegance. Her skin was flawless, pale as porcelain, always with this faint, rosy flush in her cheeks, like she'd just come in from the cold.

She carried herself like she knew she was beautiful, like she expected the world to notice. And they did. Even when things got bad at home—when my father's anger took over or the liquor bottles started to pile up—she never let it show to the outside world. She'd wear her best clothes: silky blouses, tailored pants, or those heels that clicked sharply against the floor, the sound echoing in my ears long after she'd left the room. She always smelled like expensive perfume, something floral and musky, a scent that lingered like a shadow.

People adored her. They'd gush over her looks, her poise, how graceful and effortless she seemed. They didn't know the truth. They didn't see the pile of dirty dishes in the sink that she never touched, or the way the laundry would stack up until my father barked about it. They didn't see the dust collecting on the furniture or the stains on the carpet she pretended weren't there.

She never cleaned. Not once. The house could've been falling apart, and she wouldn't lift a finger. It wasn't that she didn't care about appearances—she cared about hers, just not the rest. She'd sit at the kitchen table, her hair falling perfectly into her face as she flipped through magazines, cigarette smoke curling around her fingers, completely unbothered by the chaos around her. It was like she didn't even see it, or maybe she just didn't care enough to fix it.

Her white-blonde hair and icy blue eyes are the things I inherited, the parts of her that people see when they look at me. But that's where the resemblance ends. I don't have her elegance, her ability to make people love her just by existing. All I have is the memory of her perfume, the echo of her heels, and the sight of her perfectly manicured nails tapping on a magazine while the house around us crumbled.

My father was the opposite of her in almost every way, and yet somehow, they fit together—at least for a while. Where my mother was striking and polished, he was rugged and raw. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and always cut short, as if he couldn't be bothered to let it grow out. It had this wiry texture, matching the coarse stubble that was always on his face, no matter how often he shaved. His jawline was sharp, but not in a refined way—more like it had been carved out by a rough hand. His nose was slightly crooked, probably from a fight he never talked about, and his eyes were this deep, stormy gray that felt like they were always hiding something.

He wasn't a big man, not by giant standards, but he had this presence about him that filled a room. Broad shoulders, strong hands—hands that could fix just about anything around the house when he wasn't holding a drink. He had calluses from years of working with his hands, and his forearms were always covered in faint scars from whatever project he'd thrown himself into. He wasn't the type to sit still for long. When he wasn't working, he was pacing, always restless, always looking for something to keep him distracted.

People liked my dad, too, but for different reasons than my mom. He wasn't charming or graceful—he was rough around the edges, a little too blunt for his own good—but he had this way of making people feel like they mattered when he talked to them. At least, until the drinking started. When he was sober, he could be this solid, dependable guy. But when he wasn't...well, the stormy gray of his eyes would turn cold, and his words would cut sharper than any knife.

I got some of his features, too. The sharp jaw, the broad shoulders, the way my hair sticks up no matter how much I try to tame it. But when I look in the mirror, all I see are the worst parts of both of them. Her coldness. His anger. Their weaknesses, stitched together into me.

They were a mismatched pair, my parents—my mom with her porcelain perfection and my dad with his rough edges. But what tied them together, what ultimately broke them apart, was the one thing they both couldn't live without: alcohol. My dad's drinking made him mean, made him reckless. My mom's drinking made her indifferent, distant. They'd sit in the same room, nursing their glasses of human-made misery, not saying a word to each other. The silence between them was louder than any argument.

It's funny, in a bitter way. My dad looked like the kind of man who could take on the world with his bare hands, and my mom looked like she belonged on the cover of some glossy magazine. But in the end, they were both undone by the same thing. Humans brought alcohol into the giants' world, and it spread like a disease. A poison disguised as pleasure. If it weren't for that, maybe they wouldn't have fallen apart. Maybe they wouldn't have fallen apart with me.

I hated them .. Hated this place. Hated the glass walls that made me feel like an animal in a cage. But more than anything, I hated the memories that crept in during moments like this, in the silence when there was nothing else to distract me.

I hadn't thought about my parents in years. At least, I tried not to. But the memories were always there, sharp and jagged like broken glass. No matter how much I tried to bury them, they always found a way to cut me open again.

My parents were the first people to make me feel small. Not physically, not in the way I feel now, crammed into this pathetic excuse for a life. No, they made me feel small in a way that mattered more—in a way that made me feel like I didn't exist. Like I didn't matter.

I was eleven the first time my dad told me I was a disappointment. I still remember the way his voice slurred, thick with whiskey, as he leaned against the counter. The report card in my hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. The grades weren't perfect, but they weren't bad either. I'd worked hard, but he didn't care.

"You'll never amount to anything," he spat, his words cutting deeper than I think he even realized. "Just like your mother."

She wasn't home that night. She was hardly ever home. Always out, always busy. She'd breeze in and out of the house, smelling like expensive perfume and cigarettes, smiling like everything was fine. She had this way of patting my head and saying, "Boys like you grow up to be strong. You'll see." Then she'd be gone again.

By the time I was thirteen, they were both gone for good. Not dead. That would've been easier. No, they packed up their things while I was at school and vanished without so much as a goodbye. I came home that day to an empty house, the furniture still there but the closets and drawers bare. I called for them, searched every room, but they were gone.

The liquor cabinet was empty too, the faint smell of her perfume still lingering in the air. That's when it hit me. They weren't coming back.

For weeks, I stayed on that couch, waiting for them to walk through the door and tell me it had all been a mistake. But they didn't. Instead, the landlord came banging on the door, yelling about overdue rent. I had no choice but to leave.

After that, it was just me. No family, no safety net, nothing. I learned quickly that no one cares about a kid like me—a kid with no parents, no money, no future. I had to fend for myself, clawing my way through every obstacle.

They were gone.

Now I couldn't believe it to be true that Darrick and I use to be some what close friends.. but at 13 Darrick back then was the only person I could think of, the only one who might open the door.

The metal door rattled as I banged on it again, harder this time. My voice cracked when I shouted, "Darrick! Open up!"

It felt like hours before I heard the sound of the door creaking open. Darrick's face appeared, his expression groggy and confused. His hazel eyes squinted against the light spilling from the garage, his hair a mess, sticking out at odd angles like he'd been asleep.

"Lenny?" he asked, his voice low and rough with sleep. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I didn't answer at first. My throat felt like it was closing up, the words tangling together and refusing to come out. All I could do was stand there, shivering, my fists clenched at my sides.

Darrick stepped fully into view, his tall frame filling the doorway. He wore a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, his bare feet shifting slightly on the cold concrete floor.

"Lenny," he said again, his voice softer this time. "What's going on?"

"They left," I finally managed, the words barely audible. My hands shook, whether from the cold or the fury bubbling beneath the surface, I couldn't tell. "They just... left."

Darrick's brows furrowed, his confusion giving way to something else—concern, maybe. He stepped aside, holding the door open wider. "Come in."

That's when the anger started. At first, it was aimed at my parents. For leaving me. For failing me. But it didn't stop there. It spread, growing like a poison until it touched everything. Everyone. Especially humans.

They're the ones who brought alcohol into the giants' world, like a plague infecting everything it touched. They made my father an abusive drunk. They turned my mother into a hollow shell of herself. They ruined my family, destroyed my childhood. Humans are like pests, crawling into places they don't belong, bringing misery wherever they go.

And then there was Josie.

Josie showed up when I didn't think I could care about anyone ever again. She was too sweet, too naive, and too damn persistent. She latched onto me like she saw something in me I didn't even see in myself. I wasn't always nice to her—I know that. But she stayed anyway. I appreciated her for that, even if I never said it out loud. She stayed when no one else would. When no one else cared.

But even Josie couldn't fix what was broken in me. I hated humans too much, blamed them for too much. Josie made me question that hatred sometimes, but I pushed those thoughts down. I couldn't let myself soften. I couldn't forgive. Humans destroyed everything they touched, and I wasn't going to let them do that to me again.

I clenched my fists, staring up at the flickering light. The buzzing sound filled the room, drowning out the voices in my head. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't ignore the memories. My parents. My childhood. Everything I'd lost.

Humans took it all from me. And no matter what anyone says, I'll never forgive them for it.

Tara's voice broke through the stagnant air, her overly sweet tone grating on my ears. "Lenny, I know you can hear me."

I didn't answer, lying flat on the bed with my hands folded behind my head. The blanket had fallen to the floor, but I didn't care.

"You haven't left your cell in over a week," she continued, the faint hum of her clipboard's tablet punctuating her words. "You know we can't let this go on forever."

Still, I refused to answer. If she wanted a response, she could pry it from my cold, lifeless body. I wasn't giving her the satisfaction.

There was a pause, the kind that made my skin itch with anticipation. When Tara spoke again, her voice had dropped its sing-song quality, replaced with something almost stern. "Alright, Leonard. You've left me no choice."

I felt it before I saw it—a mechanical hum as the lock disengaged, followed by a hiss of air as the sealed glass wall slid open. It was like the entire world had shifted in an instant. The air outside was cooler, sharper, and it stung as it hit my skin.

The wall wasn't just open; it was gone. Everything I'd used to keep myself isolated, protected, was ripped away.

"Don't," I growled, sitting up so fast my head spun. But Tara didn't listen. She was already moving, her gloved hands poised like I was some kind of fragile doll.

The fluorescent light glinted off the thick rubber gloves that encased her hands. They were pale blue, pristine, and sterile. The sight of them made my stomach turn. I scrambled off the bed, backing into the farthest corner of the cell.

"Don't you dare touch me!" I snarled, my voice bouncing off the walls.

Tara crouched down, her face level with mine, though her enormous frame filled the entire opening of my cell. "Lenny," she said softly, as if she were speaking to a frightened child. "You know this isn't optional. You need to go to recreation."

I lunged toward her, fists clenched, my breath coming in ragged bursts. "I'm not some fucking pet for you to cart around!"

"I'm not treating you like a pet," she said, calm as ever. "I'm trying to help."

"Bullshit!" I screamed. "This isn't help. This is control. You think you can shove me around, make me play nice with the others? You're delusional."

Her expression didn't waver. She reached for me, her gloved fingers moving slowly, deliberately, as if she thought that would make me less likely to lash out.

It didn't.

I fought like hell when her fingers closed around me, kicking and clawing at the rubbery surface of the gloves. "Let me go!" I roared, twisting and thrashing as hard as I could.

"Lenny, please don't hurt yourself," she murmured, her voice infuriatingly gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I wanted to believe her, but every muscle in my body screamed at me to fight. Her grip was firm but not crushing, and that only made it worse. It was patronizing, like she thought I was too weak to pose any real threat.

"You think this is okay? You think this is normal?" I spat, still flailing in her grasp. "You're a monster. All of you."

Tara didn't respond. Instead, she placed me into a small metal cage, the kind they used for transporting animals. It had a cushioned floor and plenty of ventilation, but that didn't make it any less degrading. The door clicked shut with a mechanical finality that made my stomach churn.

I threw myself against the bars, rattling the entire cage as she lifted it onto a wheeled cart. "Let me out!" I screamed, my voice hoarse from shouting. "I'll kill you, you hear me? I'll fucking kill you!"

Tara sighed, her gloved hands securing the cage to the cart with straps. "Lenny, I know this is hard for you," she said softly, her tone infuriatingly understanding. "But you'll thank me one day."

"Thank you?" I laughed bitterly, my hands gripping the bars until my knuckles turned white. "I'll thank you when you're six feet under, you condescending bitch."

Her only response was a faint shake of her head as she began wheeling the cart down the hallway. The fluorescent lights above flickered in time with the wheels' squeak against the polished floor. I clung to the bars, my breath coming in shallow gasps as we passed row after row of cells. Faces stared out at me—some curious, some pitying, others blank with resignation.

I hated all of them.

The rec room loomed ahead, its massive double doors sliding open with a hydraulic hiss. The room beyond was a nightmare—giants and humans mingling in a twisted parody of camaraderie, their voices blending into an oppressive hum. Games and puzzles were scattered across the floor, while others sat in groups, awkwardly attempting to bond under the watchful eyes of the handlers.

Tara rolled the cart to the center of the room and stopped, placing the cage on a table. She crouched again, her face level with mine as she unlatched the cage door.

"Time to join the others, Lenny," she said softly.

I didn't move. I just stared at her, my chest heaving, my mind racing. I couldn't do this. I wouldn't.

"Lenny," she repeated, her voice firm now. "You need to go."

And for the first time, I felt the full weight of my helplessness. No matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I fought, I couldn't win. Not here. Not like this.

But that didn't mean I had to make it easy for her. With a defiant glare, I stepped out of the cage onto the table I was placed upon, my fists clenched and my jaw tight. If they wanted me to play nice, they were in for a rude awakening.