Regulated

Balin looked at himself in the mirror and no longer recognized the face staring back at him.

He was disgusted with the person he’d become.

His recent failed marriage left him with stomach cramps he hadn’t felt since middle school. Balin hated middle school. The anxiety of transitioning from a child to the expectation of a young adult, and the responsibility that came with it, had literally made him sick. This was the same feeling.

He analyzed the reasons with his therapist. That’s when he made the connection: the dissolution of his marriage wasn’t a release from responsibility. It was the acceptance of a new form of it. He was now responsible for regulating himself. There was no one left to blame for his reckless behavior. He had become the source of his own chaos, and the recognition of that fact made his stomach sink even deeper.

His therapist recommended he take time to sit in silence with these realizations. Perhaps a vacation or a wellness retreat. Some time off and a separation from everything familiar and triggering might do his nervous system good. He could practice meditation or try yoga. Anything that might quiet his mind and ease his discomfort.

He should seek solitude and listen to his feelings while processing his new circumstances. All with the goal of living, for the first time maybe ever, an intentional life.

So when the email came—A 14-day nervous system reset retreat nestled in the Himalayan foothills—he booked it before his brain could argue.

No Wi-Fi. No signal. No distractions. No external reminders of his failures.

Just peace.

⸻

The journey in was longer than expected.

From Kathmandu, a battered jeep carried him through winding mountain roads, the air thinning as the landscape grew quieter with every mile. Villages faded into scattered homes, then into nothing at all. Eventually, even the road gave up, turning into a narrow dirt path.

By the time they arrived, the sun had already begun slipping behind the peaks.

The retreat sat in a shallow valley, surrounded by steep ridges that rose like walls. Pine trees crowded the edges, their dark silhouettes unmoving in the evening wind.

A wooden sign hung crooked near the entrance:

ANANDA WELLNESS CLINIC

Below it, hand-painted:

Discover what’s inside you.

Balin almost laughed.

⸻

There were eight guests.

He counted them during dinner.

A woman in her forties named Lila, soft-spoken, her eyes constantly scanning the room. A young couple with dreadlocks, more interested in each other than anything else. A tall, stoic man named Victor, who barely spoke and wore a hand-me-down watch that looked older than he was. Two middle-aged women who had come together, whispering constantly—though loudly enough for anyone to hear. And a quiet older man with a gentle smile that came too easily, making it unsettling.

And Balin.

And then there was the staff.

Only three of them.

A woman named Mira, who led the sessions. She didn’t look like the meditation counselor Balin expected. She was rigid, more like a doctor or a scientist. A particularly ugly man who cooked but never spoke. And another, slink-like man who seemed to exist only at the edges—moving supplies, opening doors, appearing and disappearing as if he had no fixed place.

No one mentioned it.

Three staff for a place this remote. Eight guests. No visible road back out.

Balin felt it then.

A small shift in his chest.

Not anxiety.

Something quieter.

An intuition.

Something about this place was off.

⸻

The first few days followed a strict rhythm.

Wake before sunrise.

Breathwork.

Cold immersion in a narrow stream that cut through the valley.

Silent meals.

Long hours of “regulation practices”—body scans, guided stillness, slow movement.

Phones were locked away upon arrival.

“No external noise,” Mira had said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

At first, it worked.

Balin felt his body soften. The constant ache in his stomach eased. His thoughts slowed, like they were moving through molasses. His body hummed with what felt like the vibrations of the universe.

Stillness crept in.

And with it… something else.

⸻

On the fourth night, one of the guests didn’t show up for dinner.

The older man. The one with the unsettling smile.

No one asked at first.

People tend to assume explanations before they assume danger.

“He must have left early,” one of the women whispered. “Maybe something came up.”

But no one had seen him leave.

There was only one path in and out.

Balin had watched it that morning. No vehicles. No footsteps. Just wind moving through pine needles.

Mira noticed the empty seat.

“He connected to the pieces inside himself sooner than most,” she said simply.

No elaboration.

No emotion.

Just… finality.

⸻

The next morning, Balin walked past the man’s quarters.

His room was empty.

Not just unoccupied.

Empty.

The bed stripped. The luggage gone. No trace that anyone had ever been there.

Like he had been quietly erased.

⸻

The atmosphere shifted after that.

Subtle, but real.

The couple stopped laughing as much. The whispering women whispered less. Victor began watching the staff more closely, as if timing their movements with his watch.

Balin started counting again.

Seven guests.

Three staff.

Still no signal.

Still no road.

⸻

On the sixth day, the young couple disappeared.

Both of them.

This time, no explanation.

Mira didn’t bring it up.

Dinner was quieter.

No one asked.

It was as if they all understood something unspoken:

If you asked, you might not like the answer.

The ease Balin had begun to feel tightened again.

⸻

Sleep became difficult.

The valley was too quiet at night.

No distant cars. No city hum. Not even animals.

Just… absence.

But sometimes—

Movement.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

Just the faint suggestion that something was shifting outside the cabins.

Once, Balin thought he heard dragging. Something heavy, pulled across dirt.

He told himself the silence was playing tricks on him. His mind, desperate to escape the stillness, was inventing noise.

⸻

On the eighth day, Victor didn’t show up.

That’s when it broke.

“Where is everyone?” Lila asked, her voice sharp now, stripped of its softness.

Mira held her gaze a moment too long.

“They leave when they are ready.”

“That can’t be true,” Balin said before he could stop himself.

The room turned toward him.

“They didn’t leave,” he continued, his voice quieter now but steadier. “There’s nowhere to go. No one’s come in. No one’s gone out.”

Silence stretched.

Then Mira smiled.

Not warm.

Not reassuring.

Just… controlled.

“You are resisting the process.”

⸻

That night, Balin didn’t sleep.

He waited.

Watched the window.

Counted breaths.

Tried to keep his nervous system calm like they’d taught him.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

Inhale—

A shadow moved past the window.

Not imagined.

Real.

He froze.

Listened.

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Then another sound.

Closer.

A door opening.

Not his.

Someone else’s.

A muffled struggle.

A voice—cut off too quickly.

Then silence.

⸻

Something inside him snapped into place.

Not panic.

Clarity.

Stillness, finally.

But not the kind they promised.

This felt like the evolutionary purpose of anxiety.

⸻

He moved.

Quietly.

Out the door, into the cold night air.

The valley felt different now.

Not peaceful.

Isolated.

Contained.

Like something designed to keep things in, not out.

A thought hit him:

Maybe he wasn’t meant to escape.

⸻

He followed the sound.

Toward the far edge of the retreat.

Toward a structure he hadn’t noticed before.

Half-buried in the slope.

No lights.

No markings.

Just a metal door.

Slightly open.

He peered inside.

⸻

Inside, the air was wrong.

Sterile.

Sharp.

Not incense and herbs.

Something clinical.

Something clean in a way that felt violent.

He stepped forward.

And then he saw it.

Tables.

Equipment.

Covered shapes.

Too still to be anything else.

A hand slipped from beneath one of the sheets.

Familiar.

Victor’s watch still wrapped around the wrist.

On another table his vital organs sat neatly arranged.

⸻

Balin didn’t scream.

Didn’t run.

His body stayed perfectly still.

Because now he understood.

The breathwork.

The fasting.

The cold exposure.

They weren’t healing them.

They were preparing them.

Optimizing the body.

For harvest.

⸻

“You weren’t supposed to see this yet.”

Mira.

Behind him.

Calm as ever.

⸻

He turned slowly.

Every movement mattered now.

Every breath.

Every decision.

⸻

“You came here to get in touch with what’s inside you,” she said.

“I can show you exactly what’s inside you.”

⸻

For the first time in his life, Balin didn’t fight the feeling rising in his chest.

Didn’t try to regulate it.

Didn’t try to soften it.

He let it be what it was.

Sharp.

Focused.

Alive.

Now was the moment.

Fight or flight.

⸻

He chose.

⸻

He moved.

Not toward the exit.

There wasn’t one.

But deeper into the room.

Grabbing the first thing he could find.

Metal.

Cold.

Real.

He drove the scalpel into Mira’s head.

Her body dropped instantly.

⸻

Balin ran.

Back to his room.

Grabbing anything that might help him survive.

No one was coming.

Not this far out.

⸻

He passed the whispering women’s room.

Their bodies lay still in their beds.

A red light flashed in the hallway.

An alarm.

Silent. Deadly.

⸻

He broke into the administration office.

Papers scattered.

Drawers ripped open.

He found a phone.

3% battery.

He almost laughed.

Three percent.

About the same as his chances.

⸻

Outside, the slink-like man blocked his path.

Balin swung his backpack into the man’s face.

Stunned.

Then tackled him.

They hit the ground hard.

The man went limp.

⸻

Balin didn’t stop.

He ran.

Into the night.

Cold air tearing through his lungs.

Alive in a way that hurt.

⸻

A spotlight snapped on.

A tower.

Of course.

The cook.

Watching.

Waiting.

⸻

Balin ran for the trees.

Made it.

Darkness swallowed him.

For a moment, safety.

Then—

Howling.

Wolves.

Distant.

Closing.

⸻

Balin did the math.

And chose the wolves.

⸻

Eventually, his body gave out.

He collapsed in the forest.

Gasping.

Shaking.

Empty.

⸻

And for the first time—

His mind was quiet.

Not peaceful.

Not safe.

But clear.