Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grimshade Sanatorium, an isolated island of Blackridge in southern Canada.

It had been six long hours by plane from your city, three hours by boat, and now an hour and a half crammed into a private car with closed windows, traveling along a bumpy road that bordered a cliff as it climbed the hill. Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest at any moment, and your hands were sweating so much that they alternated between hot and cold.

You adjusted your glasses on the bridge of your nose after checking the map for the eighth time, dividing your attention between the aged paper in your fingers and the fog outside that made it impossible to figure out where you were. From what you could decipher, Grimshade Sanatorium was at the top of a hill, while the rest of the island was shrouded in dark, untamed vegetation. There was a single small town miles away from your lodging, and reaching it seemed daunting given the path ahead.

At that moment, you hoped you wouldn’t need anything from it anytime soon.

When you chose psychiatry as your specialization, you never imagined how difficult it would be to find a job in the field, especially as a newly graduated professional. It was tough for reputable clinics to give you a vote of confidence, given your youth and limited experience beyond mandatory internships and extracurricular activities in college.

Everything changed when a letter from Grimshade Sanatorium arrived—a glimmer of hope. You had applied to so many places you’d forgotten about that one. They sent a notice on vintage paper, resembling a direct invitation from Hogwarts, which you found amusing yet intriguing due to the details.

They were looking for a psychiatrist for the ward housing inmates awaiting their final sentences—many of them serving their time as residents. It wasn’t exactly what you had envisioned, especially after researching Grimshade and discovering it functioned like a maximum-security prison for the most dangerous, mentally unstable criminals.

“This is where the road ends for cars, I’m afraid. You’ll have to continue on foot,” the driver said over his shoulder, turning to look at you in the back seat.

Your slightly wide-eyed gaze shifted between the dark dirt road ahead and his drooping eyes beneath his cap. You didn’t want to let on that you felt a faint shiver running up your spine.

“I don’t know how to get there alone,” you said, trying to mask the panic in your voice. “Okay, I have a map, but what are the chances it won’t confuse me? Is there somewhere I can get Wi-Fi or better cell service to use GPS?”

Rebert—that’s how he introduced himself—merely furrowed his brows and shook his head briefly, as if the words that had left your lips were absurd.

“With all due respect, miss, but a cellphone on Blackridge Island is the most useless device you could own. There’s no signal tower; we barely manage to watch TV or get news from the outside world,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?” you asked, frowning as you adjusted yourself in the seat. “How do people communicate here?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Probably through letters and carrier pigeons, like a century ago.

“I need to ask one more thing. If I need to go into town, how can I call a taxi or get transportation?”

“When you get to this very intersection, you’ll see cars like mine heading toward the town. Since you’re a Grimshade employee, you’ll have unrestricted access with your ID badge. Just pay attention to the schedules and days of the week; town visits are limited to avoid coinciding with the arrival of new inmates.”

“They seem very strict about security,” you said, flexing your lips in mild surprise.

“Given the abominable creatures they house there, perhaps their measures aren’t strict enough. Strict is how I chain my dog to a post to keep him from running away. Those killers shouldn’t even have the privilege of eating and sleeping in that place,” Rebert said with a tone of contempt that left you slightly uncomfortable.

You hated when people spoke about patients that way, no matter who they were. But your beliefs and values didn’t matter much now.

“Well...” You cleared your throat, grabbing your coat and bag from the seat beside you, slinging it over your shoulder. “Thanks for the ride and the tips, Rebert.”

“Not at all, miss.”

You hauled your suitcase out of the trunk, grunting at its weight, and dragged it toward the narrower stone path. In the distance, you heard Rebert’s car pulling away, its tires crunching against the gravel. Ahead, you could make out the mansion after a steep climb, with old tree branches and dry leaves forming an archway over the path.

The journey was silent, with nothing but the sounds of nature—the raspy chirping of birds—accompanied by the soft rush of water from the cracked concrete fountain decorating the front of the sanatorium as you crossed its gates. You walked slowly around it, grimacing as you noted the general state of neglect on the facade.

The circular driveway around the fountain had cracked and darkened tiles, and the mansion’s paint was as old as the building itself, appearing white under layers of creeping vines and cracks that altered its color. You couldn’t help wrinkling your nose at the sight, the chirping of birds replaced by the distant clang of heavy metal and muffled screams as you approached.

“You must be the new doctor!” A cheerful male voice addressed you from behind, startling you as you turned fully. “I’m Travis Rune, head psychiatrist of the custody ward. I’ve been assigned to welcome you to Grimshade!”

For a moment, you considered refusing the hand he extended toward you. He could’ve arrived a little earlier and helped you carry your heavy suitcase up the hill. On the other hand, the blond man with perfectly aligned hair and broad shoulders seemed far too pleasant to snub.

“Thank you! Have you been here long, Dr. Rune?” you asked, prompting a smile as Travis gestured with his chin for you to follow him inside.

“Please, call me Travis. We’re colleagues now.” He smiled, looking at you over his square glasses, winking one strikingly blue eye.

“That’s precisely why I prefer to keep things formal,” you said without intending to sound rude, though the words slipped out as you continued assessing the mansion’s interior.

A grand staircase led to the second floor, where nurses bustled about, and various patients were being moved from one place to another—some restrained, others not. Passing by a woman banging her head against the staircase railing, Travis led you upstairs, signaling to another staff member to take care of your suitcase.

“We’ve divided Grimshade into wings and levels. You’ll identify them by the bracelets on each patient’s wrist,” he explained as you moved down the corridor, ignoring the shouting coming from one of the consulting rooms. “Level One: green bracelet. Elderly patients abandoned by their families in our asylum. Their needs are managed by the nursing staff, so you won’t have contact with them.”

You absorbed the information, looking from side to side, thinking that abandoning a family member in a place like this was the ultimate proof of someone’s character.

"Level two: yellow wristbands. Patients of random age groups with mild mental disorders also abandoned by their families, or severe cases requiring institutionalization. They are monitored by the mental health team and have a monthly consultation with me for medication adjustments."

"So, they pay to be here?" Perhaps it was a naïve question, but you needed to know.

"Their families pay an annual fee and cover the costs of keeping them here. Unless it's a custody patient, we don’t treat anyone for free, if that’s what you’re wondering."

If they had so many patients and all of them paid to be here, why keep the sanatorium in the state of an ancient asylum? You wondered as you walked past a leak dripping water from the ceiling onto your hair.

"Understood, Dr. Rune."

He seemed quite young.

Okay, he was definitely good-looking and had a pleasant way of speaking. The age gap between you and him couldn’t have been more than two years. He was definitely the kind of guy you might have had a crush on in university, without the slightest reciprocation given the countless other, more interesting options he probably had. Not that you were particularly extroverted or social, especially when it came to interacting with men.

Locking yourself up at home with your face buried in books might not have been the best idea after all.

"Last but not least, level three: red wristbands. Custody patients awaiting trial or serving sentences at the sanatorium. We use treatment to extract information that can assist authorities and contribute to investigations."

He pointed toward a consultation room where a man in a dress shirt was speaking to a girl with her head down.

"Because these are highly dangerous criminals who can’t coexist with other patients, we keep them in a separate wing, which we call the Hidden."

Dr. Rune turned the next corner, and you followed him. As you passed through the doors and descended the stairs leading to the outside, the cold hit your face, and it was impossible not to cross your arms, trying to pull your sleeves further down.

You thought the scenery couldn’t get any worse, but with each step, it became darker. As you passed through gates and two guards, it felt like stepping into a TV prison show, walking along a corridor of iron cells.

A strong stench burned your nostrils, and the screams of patients mixed with the sound of something hitting the iron were enough to make your ears ring.

"This place is the reason you’re here. Our last professional resigned, and we urgently needed to fill the position before the next evaluation cycle started," Travis shrugged as he walked.

Your confidence dropped by a few percentage points upon realizing that your hiring was out of sheer desperation. Fine, you’d deal with that later.

"They resigned?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, dodging a stream of urine aimed in your direction by a patient. "Not exactly motivating to hear that on the first day."

"It’s a tough ward; it’s not for everyone." He smiled, and you hesitated immediately. "Besides the patient files you’ll handle, you’ll need to prepare for a new detainee arriving soon."

"A new detainee?" For the first time, your question sounded genuinely intrigued.

"He’s being tried for a brutal murder. There’s little information about the case, like his motivation or even confirmation that he did it. He hasn’t spoken a word since it happened, and the judge concluded he’s not mentally sound." Travis rolled his eyes. "They dump any trash here, and it’s up to us to sort through it. Along the way, we see if we can help at all."

He was definitely fed up with this job.

"So, let me guess... you think I can make him talk?" you asked, playing with a hint of innocence as you watched Travis stop in the corridor.

"I don’t think someone as inexperienced as you can go that far, no offense." He spoke with a touch of sarcasm. "We just want you to follow protocol with him, and I’ll handle the rest."

Something prickled at the back of your neck at the way he dismissed your years of study as absolutely nothing just because your resume wasn’t as extensive as his. Your hands curled into fists, your fingers pressing into your palms, and you took a deep breath before responding.

"Of course, Dr. Rune."

The tour of the Hidden was over, and you were exhausted. Travis left you at the door of your small room with its jammed window and dusty ceiling fan. Before leaving, he emphasized the importance of being well-rested to receive the new patient the next day. After your shower, you wanted to call your mother and let her know you had arrived safely on the island after hours of travel, but without any signal, no matter where you moved in the room, this mission was impossible. Tossing the phone onto your pillow, you promised yourself you’d give her an update as soon as you had a break and could visit the town.

With a tired sigh, you sat at the desk next to the bed, drying your hair with a towel while flipping through patient files. You weren’t sleepy yet, and without the entertainment of the internet, all you could do was work.

Patient File 1: Ash A., 39 years old - Admission: June 2019
Preliminary Diagnosis: Severe psychopathy; dissociative disorder.

History: Ash was admitted after being declared legally insane during the trial for a series of brutal murders. He worked as a taxidermist, and his obsession with preserving "human perfection" led him to conduct grotesque experiments on his victims, all meticulously chosen. He claimed he was "saving" their souls by preserving them in an "immortal" form. During initial sessions, he displayed a complete lack of remorse and a disturbingly detailed recounting of his actions.
Current State: Apathetic during interactions, except when discussing his “art.” Shows no signs of rehabilitation or acknowledgment of the atrocities committed.

You raised your eyebrows and jotted down notes in your notebook before moving to the next file.

Patient File 2: Mariene G., 27 years old - Admission: October 2021
Preliminary Diagnosis: Schizoaffective disorder with violent tendencies.

History: Mariene was found in a state of shock next to the body of her older brother, stabbed 23 times. Apparently, she believed he was a demonic entity trying to steal her soul. According to family testimony, Mariene began exhibiting paranoid behavior months earlier, hearing voices instructing her to protect herself "at all costs." In one interview, she stated she "had no choice" and that "his eyes burned like embers."

Current State: Alternates between periods of lucidity and paranoia. Aggressive during confrontations, requiring constant supervision.

“Mariene is a pretty name…” you murmured, assessing the photo of the woman with blonde eyebrows.

Patient File 3: Brady P., 52 years old - Admission Date: January 2020

Preliminary Diagnosis: Antisocial personality disorder; extreme persecution mania.

History: Brady was a former financial executive who believed he was being pursued by a "secret society" responsible for monitoring his every move and manipulating his life. This paranoia culminated in a public attack at a shopping mall, where Brady set fire to three stores and stabbed two security guards, claiming they were "infiltrators." He maintains that each act was a measure of self-preservation against an invisible enemy.

Current State: Rarely sleeps, claiming that "they will find him" if he closes his eyes. Displays consistent delusions despite intensive medication.

With the third file finished, you exhaled sharply, letting your lips vibrate, imagining what could have driven the previous psychiatrist to resign, leaving this position open for you.

Patient File 4: Noah S., 24 years old - Admission Date: February 2024

Preliminary Diagnosis: Psychogenic catatonia associated with borderline personality disorder and severe dissociative episodes.

History: Noah was found at dawn in a grove near the university campus, kneeling beneath a large tree. Above him hung the mutilated body of his ex-girlfriend, Rachel E., 23 years old, suspended by her ankles and bearing signs of extreme violence: deep cuts marked her skin, symbols carved into her torso, and her frozen expression suggested a slow and painful death.

Noah was covered in blood, both his own and Rachel’s. When approached by police, he remained motionless, staring blankly at her hanging body. Initial investigations revealed the two had been seen together the night before at a rival fraternity party where, according to witnesses, a heated argument occurred. The circumstances of the crime raised questions of premeditation and symbolic rituals, but Noah never provided an explanation. From the moment of his capture, Noah had not spoken a single word. Extensive psychiatric evaluations concluded that his muteness and apathy were not conscious choices but the result of a profound dissociative state combined with severe trauma. During the trial, his inert posture and lack of defense led to an insanity plea and his transfer to Grimshade Sanitarium.

Current State: Noah remains in complete silence, minimally interacting with his surroundings. Nurses’ reports mention he is often found staring into space for hours, particularly near windows or trees. His only movements thus far have been sudden bursts of rage when provoked.

Closing the file, the feeling lingered — a deep chill seemed to originate from the center of your chest, raising the hair on your arms. Noah’s face in the photograph seemed almost alive, his intense, furrowed gaze carrying something impossible to name. For a moment, you wondered what it would be like to stand face-to-face with someone harboring such silence and horror within.

But your curiosity wouldn’t have to last long — you would meet him tomorrow.

The day began with an unusual restlessness. The hot water from the shower didn’t dissipate the cold that seemed to settle in your nape, and Noah’s face from the photograph lingered like a shadow, even with your eyes closed. It was as though the intensity of his gaze was imprinted on your mind, and more than once, you caught yourself trying to divert your thoughts — unsuccessfully — while instinctively clutching your thighs.

The tattoos — intricate and dark — covering his neck and peeking from the collar of his shirt didn’t help, drawing attention to themselves. Something about that man disturbed you more than any other patient you had encountered, and the feeling only grew as you prepared, choosing an outfit that projected professionalism, though a hint of nervousness threatened to show.

Descending to reception, you found Dr. Rune waiting with a calm smile and a hot coffee. You thanked him, holding the cup with both hands, trying to savor the warmth as a fleeting comfort. Walking together toward the outside, he explained some logistical details, but his words soon faded as a growing noise filled the corridor.

Crossing the main entrance doors, you stopped abruptly, startled by the scene unfolding before you. Journalists crowded like a compact swarm, camera flashes firing in rapid succession, and visibly overwhelmed security guards struggling to contain the horde.
It was a chaotic visual and auditory assault, intensifying with each passing second.

“I should’ve warned you,” Travis murmured beside you, noting your expression. “Not only is his case infamous, but Noah comes from a very influential family. The owners of Blackridge, basically. They have fortune, power... and apparently no hurry to help their precious son.”

“They’re not trying to prove his innocence?” you asked innocently.

“All signs point to them wanting to stay out of the case due to the exposure. We’re in the isolated area, but Blackridge’s noble district is so conservative it’s believed that land still exists in a time capsule that hasn’t evolved.”

“That sounds... complicated.”

“Just another piece of gossip about a random patient.”

The information landed heavily, given Travis’s mocking tone, and you tried to ignore him.

“They won’t back off anytime soon,” Rune commented, his eyes scanning the commotion with a weary expression. “Be prepared — this will complicate things inside as well. Friends of mine at the penitentiary said this guy has an ego to match.”

The chaos ahead seemed to swell with the arrival of the convoy. You barely had time to process everything — the blinding flashes, the cacophony of voices shouting questions — when the door of the central car opened. Two guards stepped out first, taking rigid positions, before pulling Noah out.

He emerged with a surprising posture. There was no resistance in his movements, but neither was there submission. With his chin raised, his face remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on an undefined point on the horizon, avoiding the cameras with a determination that seemed almost practiced. The tattoos, now more visible, climbed along the side of his neck and hinted beneath the collar of his gray shirt, creating an almost hypnotic contrast against his pale skin.

Noah seemed unperturbed, untouchable, as though the swarm of journalists and flashes were nothing more than a breeze around him. But then, something shifted. His firm steps faltered for an instant, almost imperceptibly, and he stopped abruptly.

That’s when you realized: he was looking directly at you.

The air around you seemed to freeze under the weight of his gaze, as overwhelming as in the photograph, but now there was something more — an intensity that seemed to pierce through you, as if examining something far beyond what others could see. His eyes were a blend of ice and fire, fixed on you with such deliberate focus that your stomach involuntarily tightened.

The moment lasted only seconds but felt like an eternity. One of the guards touched Noah’s shoulder impatiently, and he resumed walking as if nothing had happened. Yet, the impact of that brief exchange lingered.

“He usually doesn’t react to anything,” Travis remarked beside you, his voice low but tinged with curiosity. “That was... strange.”

Strange.

The word felt insufficient to describe what you had just experienced. As Noah was led inside, you remained frozen, trying to understand why that fleeting instant made your skin tingle, as though something inevitable was about to happen.

You were in the asylum’s forest, each step swallowed by the oppressive silence, broken only by the crunch of dry leaves beneath your feet. The air was dense, almost suffocating, and you knew you weren’t alone. Something—or someone—was behind you.

Your breaths were shallow and quick, every fiber of your being urging you to run, yet your legs felt rooted to the ground. Then, you heard it.

A whisper, far too close, as though it came from inside your mind:

“Run.”

The word was a command, and you obeyed without hesitation. Your body lunged forward, crashing through trees and brush with an urgency that felt primal. But the ground seemed to fight against you, each step more laborious than the last. Heat built between your thighs—confusing, strange—mixing with the adrenaline surging down your spine.

When the sound of footsteps behind you intensified, the adrenaline peaked. You could no longer think, only run, but you knew it was futile. He was too close.

Suddenly, something yanked your hair with brutal force, jerking you backward. A scream tore from your lips as your back collided with the rough surface of a tree. The pain of bark scraping against your exposed skin was eclipsed by his presence—a towering, menacing shadow.

His face was obscured, hidden in darkness, but the patterns on his neck were unmistakable. You recognized the intricate lines of tattoos that had haunted your thoughts all day. The broad shoulders and the strength with which he gripped your jaw confirmed your deepest fear.

It was Noah.

He tilted his head, studying you with a terrifying calm. The sound of his breathing was heavy, almost animalistic. Before you could react, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you between the tree and his overwhelming presence.

The heat pulsing between your thighs became unbearable, tangled in terror and tension. You tried to speak, but the words lodged in your throat as he gripped your neck with a possessive firmness, his fingers digging into your skin.

And then, like a violent wave, you woke up.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, breaths coming in ragged gasps, and cold sweat drenched your skin. The darkness of your room was suffocating, though not as much as the weight of that dream. It wasn’t merely fear—it was something deeply visceral, almost tangible, making your skin crawl and your entire body rebel against what you had just experienced.

That man was going to drive you insane.

Chapter Text

"How are things over there?" Your mother’s cheerful voice echoed from the other end of the line, and you gripped the phone tighter.

By your estimate, you had only ten minutes left on your phone card, and she was known for talking without taking a breath.

“Why didn’t you call me earlier? I was worried!”

“Uh… yeah… everything’s fine, really.” You answered, biting your lower lip as you noticed the sky beginning to darken.

If it rained, you’d be in trouble on the long walk back to the sanatorium. Like the considerate coworker he was, Dr. Rune didn’t even bother offering to accompany you.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t call earlier because the signal’s bad here. I have to come all the way to town to use the phone, but there’s nothing to worry about, Mom. Everything’s fine, I promise!” You were never the type to struggle with lying, and your mother was easy to convince.

“I heard on TV that that rich murderer who killed his girlfriend is there. Is that true?”

The mention of Noah made your throat go dry. Your heart was still racing from the restless dream you’d had the night before.

“Yes, it’s true, Mom. It looks like I’ll be assigned to take care of him.”

“Aunt Becky says he’s handsome.” She chuckled—a raspy, broken sound, the product of years of smoking. “But the devil was handsome too, wasn’t he?”

The devil was handsome too...

“If there’s a chance to pass this case on to someone else, I’d prefer it. You just graduated, and handling something like this could be tough. And…”

“Mom, I’ve got to go now…” You cut her off before the speech started sounding too much like Dr. Rune’s. “We’ll talk in two days.”

“But…”

“Kisses! Love you!”

You slammed the receiver down with a bit more force than necessary. The store clerk gave you a stern look, and, to make up for it, you bought a few items you might need in the coming days: toiletries, extra socks, water, and cleaning supplies for your room.

Your day’s agenda was full. Two patients to see before the afternoon, when you’d have your first session with Noah. The previous night had been long, spent analyzing every detail of his case, searching for the best approach to start a conversation with someone who hadn’t spoken a single word in so long.

On the way back to the sanatorium, your mind was a whirlwind. Staring out the window, you couldn’t shake thoughts of the dream.
It was disturbing how real it had felt: his touch tracing your body, the shadow his height cast around you, the physical discomfort that blurred the line between imagination and reality. Even now, in the back seat of the car, your body reacted involuntarily, legs tensing.
As hard as it was, you had to push those clouds from your senses before it became impossible to face him directly.

At lunch, you picked up a tray of pasta, meatballs, juice, and an apple, determinedly walking past the chatter of other staff members you hadn’t met yet. Notebook tucked under your arm, you were ready to spend the meal studying.

Your first patient of the day, after returning from town, was a teenage girl accused of killing her own brother. Madeleine Skelter, fifteen, had been sentenced to a sanatorium due to her unstable mental state during the trial. She lost her mother at ten, and not long after, her father remarried. Madeleine gained a younger brother, but as time passed, strange events plagued the family. The boy was often injured, and the wounds worsened each week.

The family, desperate for answers, fired staff and grew suspicious of friends before the blame finally fell on the stepmother, who was diagnosed with postpartum depression.

Cracks formed like fragile glass in their home. When Madeleine was caught smothering her brother with a pillow, she was ready to frame her stepmother so she could have her father to herself. She’d admitted her plan: to remove everyone in her father’s life until it was just the two of them—"happy" at last.

She played the role of his wife, cooked for him, washed his clothes, and obsessed over appearing adult, despite his clear rejection of her behavior.

Madeleine showed no remorse, only weeping over her father, who had erased her existence from his life. He and his wife moved abroad and started anew.

Narcissistic and arrogant, she nearly drained your social battery in 45 minutes.

“Hey!” A familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up, setting your pen down and leaving the apple on your plate. Dr. Rune, all smiles, waved as he approached. You quickly adjusted your posture and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Hello!”

“Eating alone? Oh no! Come on, sit with us at my table. I’ll introduce you to some friends!”

Deeply uncomfortable with his insistence, you reluctantly stood, gathering your things as he helped carry what he could. Together, you walked to the table.

“Everyone, this is the new psychiatrist at Hidden I told you about!” Travis introduced you, and the three people at the table smiled warmly, urging you to sit. “These are Jake, Sloan, and Charlote.”

“Welcome!” they all said in unison, and you smiled your thanks.

“So, you’re the one handling the handsome psychopath?” The youngest woman, dressed in a green nurse’s uniform, leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “Your hair smells nice.”

“Sloan, don’t scare her!” Travis scolded. “It’s bad enough she has to sleep on that information.”

Maybe Travis was annoying.

Or maybe not—he was annoying.

“Actually, I slept perfectly well with that information, Dr. Rune,” you said calmly, finishing the last bite of apple. “This place is full of killers. Noah isn’t that special. Maybe you’re the one a bit too excited.”

He blushed instantly as the others laughed.

“She’s right,” said Charlote Walker, her name embroidered on her coat. “He’s not the first famous nutcase we’ve dealt with.”

“Sure, he’s not that important,” Travis added, “but I like to remind the newbies not to get their hopes up. When we graduate, we think we can save the world. Unlike our other patients, this one won’t last long before they fry him in the chair.”

An awkward silence fell as everyone processed his words. All eyes turned to him as he nonchalantly scraped the last bit of grape jelly from his cup. His pristine white coat contrasted with the partially unbuttoned dress shirt underneath, revealing a glimpse of toned muscle.

"Then I’ll volunteer to be the last bitch he sleeps with." Charlote sneered to break the tense atmosphere, and everyone laughed. You didn’t find it funny at all but forced a laugh to blend in.

"Tonight, we’re having a little party just for the staff at the tavern, to take a break from this hellhole. We expect you there!" Sloan insisted, pulling a pen from her uniform pocket and grabbing your notebook to jot down an address and a phone number.

You loved parties, but you had no idea this kind of thing happened here, and you weren’t prepared for it. You hadn’t brought any clothes, no heels, and you suddenly felt so bare that embarrassment took over.

"We don’t take no for an answer if you even think about trying!" she warned, placing the notebook back in its place.

"I’ll think about it…" You nodded, pressing your lips together.

The conversation at the table was lively. Everyone, including Travis, talked excitedly about the much-anticipated party and how they desperately needed an escape valve to release the accumulated tension. You wanted to join in, to immerse yourself in the buzz of excitement, but your eyes remained glued to the clock on the wall. With each passing tick of the hands, the voices around you seemed to drift further away, becoming a distant echo. Your hands began to sweat, a persistent reminder that his arrival was drawing near.

Your office was modest, containing only the bare essentials: a desk and two chairs — one for you, one for the patient. You had taken care to remove anything that could attract his attention or pose any kind of risk. On the desk sat only a notebook, a bottle of water, and a pen — simple, safe items. The air carried a faint hint of lavender from the room spray you had purchased in town. It was a subtle fragrance you liked — present without being overpowering.

When you glanced at your wristwatch, exactly 4:00 p.m., a sharp metallic sound echoed from outside. The door was shoved open with force, and a guard pushed the man, shackled hand and foot, into the room. Noah wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed his tattooed arms. Despite his clean appearance — his hair slicked back and still damp from a shower — he scanned the room with an indifferent gaze, visibly bothered by the scent lingering in the air.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

He drew in a deep breath and stepped backward, a reaction you hadn’t anticipated. For a moment, confusion flickered within you until you realized Noah was trying to retreat toward the guard, as if seeking escape. You frowned and instinctively checked your reflection in your phone’s screen, discreetly sniffing your underarms. Was there something wrong with you?

"None of that!" The guard shoved him firmly into the room, forcing him to remain still.

"Thank you, sir," you said as you observed Noah’s shoulders tense. "We’ll see you in forty minutes when the session ends."

"I can’t leave you alone with him," the guard protested.

"I doubt your presence will make him feel comfortable. I’ll take full responsibility," you replied with conviction. Reluctantly, the guard sighed and closed the door behind him. "Now there’s nowhere to run. Just you and me."

Slowly, Noah turned, casting furtive glances your way. His face was a mask of disdain. He seemed to survey every inch of the room as if enveloped in filth or surrounded by a foul stench. His expression, haughty and nearly intolerable, remained as he dropped into the chair across from you with a show of complete disregard.

"Well, it’s only fair to start at the beginning, right? Noah, I’m Dr. —"

He let out a sigh of boredom, rolling his eyes. The soft light from the window cast shadows on the intricate tattoos that adorned his neck, each design hinting at stories hidden beneath his skin.

"I’m genuinely willing to treat you like a human being, okay?" you said firmly, slicing through the uncomfortable silence he cultivated. The irritation inside you grew, fueled by the way he examined the room with contempt, as if he were superior to everything and everyone around him. "That’s already quite different from how my colleagues see you. To them, you’re just patient 268!"

Your eyes locked on his, trying to pierce the wall of apathy he had erected.

"If you’re not interested in being treated that way, I can adjust my approach," you continued, your tone blunt and unwavering. "That doesn’t bother me. But I much prefer respecting people, regardless of who they are!"

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth hinted at a reaction, but he simply stared at you with that same defiant gaze.

"We’ll take it slow. It’s up to you whether you speak or remain silent, but I’ll still be here doing my job, even if it’s just sitting quietly with you." You spoke calmly, keeping your tone composed. "Can you tell me how you’re feeling today?"

Nothing. Not a single response. He remained as still as a statue, though far from lifeless. It was the way he held himself that unsettled you — a predator behind a mask of indifference.

You paused, then tried again.

"What do you remember from the night you were found?"

His eyes sharpened, locking onto you. There was no emotion, but a sharp, undeniable presence seemed to tighten the air between you. He didn’t answer, but the slightest lift at the corner of his mouth betrayed a sardonic smile — anything but kind.

Heat crept up your neck as you felt yourself under his dissecting gaze rather than the other way around. His eyes roamed over your fingers gripping the pen, the rhythm of your breath, the way your legs crossed. His attention was so intense that it set your pulse racing, a reaction you struggled to mask as you shifted in your chair.

"Noah." Your voice was steady, but your skin burned with a growing tension. "Are you really not going to tell me how you feel? About what happened that night?"

Silence. His smile remained, smug and unkind.

Leaning forward, you caught a trace of his scent — metallic, sharp, clean. Threatening in its subtlety, much like the man himself.

"Did she mean anything to you?" Your words sliced through the thickening air. "Did you love her?"

His smile didn’t waver. But his eyes… they shifted — a flicker of recognition. Love stirred something within him, though what exactly, you couldn’t tell.

The weight of expectation hung heavy between you. The tension stretched thin, a thread about to snap.

"And anger?" Your voice softened, almost a whisper. "Did you hate her? For what she did to you? For how she made you feel?"

Nothing again. Just silence. But the measured way he breathed — slower, deeper — gave away the internal battle.

Noah remained a statue of control, but his hands betrayed a subtle shift. His fingers flexed against the chair’s armrest, as though suppressing the urge to crush something — or someone.

You caught every movement. The whitening of his knuckles. The tightening of his jaw beneath that treacherous smirk. He was playing a dangerous game. But you weren’t about to back down.

It was time to change the rules.

"You like testing limits, don’t you?" you tilted your head, keeping your voice neutral. "You know, staring at me won’t give me answers. Words will."

His smile widened a little more, but he remained silent.

Switching tactics, you opened a folder beside you and pulled out a faded photograph, sliding it across the table. The image depicted a family in a Victorian mansion—parents formally dressed, children posed as if part of a meticulously staged play. Noah’s face was younger, but the intensity in his eyes was the same.

"This is your family," you said, your tone almost casual. "What was it like growing up as the heir to Blackridge Island?"

The smile vanished. The change was swift, a transformation that made your skin prickle. His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze flicking to the photo as though it burned him. For the first time, you saw something different in his expression.

The silence thickened, becoming almost tangible. Without the smile, Noah shifted from a predator in check to a raw, visceral presence. The weight of his stare was now a blade, slicing slowly through the professional armor you’d carefully constructed.

"Families have power, don’t they?" His voice was low, almost confessional, as he leaned slightly forward. "They shape, bind, and sometimes… break."

The tension in his jaw became more pronounced, muscles clenching with barely contained restraint. His eyes, once cold and calculating, seemed caught in a dark, inescapable past. Yet, he remained silent.

Frustration, mingled with something you refused to name, tightened your chest. He was so close—like a storm ready to break—and yet, unreachable. His energy vibrated through the air, an electric current affecting you more than it should.

Your fingers lightly touched the edge of the photo on the table.

"What do you see when you look at them?" The question came as a challenge. "Guilt? Hatred? Or do you miss them?"

Still, no response.

When Noah finally tore his eyes from the photograph, his gaze landed back on you with renewed intensity. He wasn’t distant anymore. A shift had occurred.

The way he looked at you now was deliberate, methodical, as though peeling away each layer of your defenses. His eyes weren’t just cold—they were precise. They roamed your face, trailed down your neck, and observed the way you bit your lower lip, trying to mask your growing discomfort.

Your body reacted before you could stop it, vivid fragments of last night’s dream flashing unbidden through your mind. A sharp heat traveled down your spine—not fear, but something far deeper and infinitely less welcome.

You crossed your legs as if the gesture could shield the vulnerability he had begun to uncover.

"Anything else you’d like to share, Noah?" You forced a professional tone, struggling to regain control.

He tilted his head slowly, like a predator studying prey. Still silent. The smile was gone for good, but his gaze wielded more power than words ever could.

Then, a small, almost hypnotic gesture: his thumb grazed his jawline, a deliberate, slow movement, as his eyes remained fixed on yours.

The room seemed smaller. The air, heavier. Your breath shortened.
He wasn’t just looking. He was unraveling you.

You tried to focus on your notepad, but your hand faltered for a split second.

"Very well, Noah," you said, aiming for finality but sounding far too fragile. "That’s all for today. In honor of your silence, I’ll match it until the session ends."

He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He stayed there—an immovable shadow, a living mirror reflecting truths you didn’t want to confront.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you gathered the folder.

After what felt like hours of an unspoken battle, the guard stormed into the room, his brusque manner shattering the tension and drawing Noah’s attention. Forty minutes of unwavering focus, those uniquely brown eyes never leaving yours, came to an abrupt end.
As he was led away, he glanced back once more. The knot in your stomach tightened painfully.

You were lucky.

You were very lucky.

No, it wasn’t luck. It was your meddling mother, who had insisted on slipping a dress into your suitcase, saying you needed to be prepared for anything. The red fabric hugged your body, the deep neckline accentuating your curves, and thin straps framing your shoulders. Its rich hue contrasted with your dark lipstick and smoky eyes. Waves in your hair, heels that weren’t too high.

Not bad.

You hadn’t intended to stay long at the tavern. These people were strangers, after all, and you barely knew them. But it would suffice for a night of socializing.

Sloan walked with you, laughing at the difficulty of navigating gravel paths in heels. The tavern lay hidden within the woods—a place where shadows and secrets thrived.

The tavern exuded a rugged nostalgia, a place the years had worn down but could never truly erase. The low ceiling, with dark wooden beams, loomed heavily overhead. Lanterns cast flickering shadows on walls adorned with faded photographs of Grimshade’s founders, broken bottles’ scars from forgotten nights, and a glass-eyed stag staring into nothingness. The air smelled of spilled beer, smoke, and the syrupy sweetness of warm cider.

Your friends were already tipsy, and a server handed you your first drink. The first sip burned like gunpowder down your throat but left a lingering sweetness.

The floor creaked beneath your feet as you moved, feeling the violin’s pulse guiding the clumsy dance steps of drunken revelers. At the bar, glasses clinked, calloused hands gestured wildly, telling stories taller than truth.

In the corner, Travis caught your eye immediately. He looked different—freed from the confines of the asylum’s sterile environment. Dark jeans, a light shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. His smile came before his words.

"You look… stunning." His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the music.

You smiled, heat blooming in your cheeks, but kept your tone light.

"And you’re wearing something other than a uniform. Impressive." You hesitated, trying not to admit how attractive he looked.

He laughed, a sound that rumbled deep in his chest, as natural as breathing. Before you could pull back, he offered his hand.

"Shall we dance?"

You hesitated. But when your fingers touched his—warm and sure—the music made refusal impossible.

Your steps were tentative at first, but familiarity grew quickly. Travis held your hand firmly, guiding your movements with effortless ease. The lively rhythm swept you both along with the crowd, but it wasn’t the sound that stole your breath—it was the way he looked at you, with a fascination so palpable that it made you wonder if the alcohol was already bubbling in your veins.

No. No. No.

You couldn’t be hallucinating about another man at a moment like this. Shaking your head gently, you banished the thought, focusing instead on the dance and the alcohol’s numbing embrace.

Much later, as the night cooled, he walked you home. The moon hung low, and laughter echoed faintly in the distance, carried by the soft breeze.

"I wanted to apologize for how I’ve acted since you arrived…" He began, his voice tinged with awkwardness. Without his glasses, his casual demeanor and clear eyes stood out, glowing silver in the moonlight.

"There’s no need to apologize."

"This job… it means a lot to me, and I’ve been overprotective ever since I became head psychiatrist," he admitted. "A ridiculous trait for someone so obsessed with perfection."

"I don’t think it’s ridiculous… Obsession usually stems from something deeper."

"Are you analyzing me, doctor?" His eyes narrowed playfully as he spun you around, wringing a laugh from your lips.

"There’s a lot of pressure for someone your age. I understand more than you might think."

"My father didn’t believe I’d amount to much, and he thought moving to Grimshade was a mistake," Travis paused, the memory darkening his expression. "He said I was wasting my degree."

"Well, he must be disappointed because you’ve become an excellent doctor, Dr. Rune." You winked, and he smiled shyly.

At the door of the bedroom, Travis stopped. For a moment, you both simply stood there, breaths mingling in the cool air. He seemed even more irresistible with his golden hair damp from sweat and his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his chest. You bit your lower lip as you noticed him watching you too — his gaze fixed on your neckline.

Then, tired of waiting, while your body burned with his nearness, you closed the distance and kissed him.

It was a kiss without space for hesitation or second-guessing. Intense. The taste of alcohol made the softness of his tongue even sweeter. He pulled you by the waist, your back lightly hitting the door as your lips devoured his, urgent and hungry.

The heat of his body pressed against yours was a spark, igniting every sense. Your fingers tangled in his hair, kisses becoming messier, deeper. You stumbled together inside, bodies entwined, the door slamming shut behind you and drowning out the rest of the world.

You pushed him onto the bed, confusion and desire flickering across his face before he surrendered. Straddling his lap, his hands grasped your hips, guiding you closer until your noses touched, a deliberate, tantalizing graze. His grip tightened on your hips, drawing you against his growing arousal as your fingers clutched his nape, your breaths mingling, igniting another fierce kiss.

Your hands buried in his hair, pulling gently as you savored his lips, your tongues tangled. The earlier tension dissolved, now knotted into a feverish desire binding your bodies together. You pressed against him, unbuttoning his shirt with urgency before tossing your own dress aside. His palm cupped your breast over your bra, and his hardness throbbed beneath his pants, teased by the slow roll of your hips.

A chill coiled in your stomach as the kiss deepened, a nagging feeling like a mistake — or worse — something you’d never felt before. You forced the thought away, focusing on the taste of his lips, gripping his neck and sighing when his fingers trailed from your thighs to your chest, a delicate, maddening caress.

Then a jolt struck you. Your eyes snapped open mid-kiss. There, outside the window, perched on a tree branch, a dark figure watched you both. Its expression was unreadable, moonlight illuminating only the edge of a long, lean silhouette, cloaked in black with fists clenched on its thighs — a silent, seething witness.

It was him.

Before you, as if conjured by some cruel magic, the golden strands between your fingers darkened, the musky scent of cologne shifted, and your hands roamed patterns on pale skin. You blinked, but the illusion remained — Noah, not Travis, was touching you, stripping you, and the pulse of his hardness against you made you gasp, slick with a memory too vivid to be dismissed.

A wicked smirk curved phantom lips. Teeth too perfect, too familiar, played tricks on your mind. You surrendered to your delusion, consumed by the fire he brought with him.

Grinding your wet heat against the rigid length beneath you, craving him inside for the first time, you freed him from his pants, rolled on a condom from the nightstand, and sank down all at once. A moan escaped your lips, loud, unrestrained. Eyes squeezed shut, you tilted your head back, moving with slow, rolling hips that matched his hoarse groan.

"Oh, my God," he rasped, breath hitching as his mouth trailed down your chest, teasing the piercing at your nipple.

You ignored him, lost in sordid thoughts.

You glanced back to the window. The shadow hadn’t moved. His head tilted, watching you ride another man, but the truth scorched your soul — it was him you wanted beneath you.

Pleasure tightened your chest, the raw thrill of being watched fueling your forbidden lust. Fingers traced your spine as your body arched, the sensation of him swelling deeper within making your moans crack like a roar. You stifled a cry — his name poised on your tongue.

What the hell was happening? You were ignoring the man inside you to provoke the devil outside? And you reveled in it?

Screw it.

It was Noah you craved, and in secret corners of your heart, you let yourself admit it. He was your sin, your destruction, and you yearned to drink deeply of his damnation.

You couldn’t look away from that tree, from his heaving chest, from the rage or the hunger. The climax hit you hard, molten embers bursting within.

As Travis flipped you beneath him, driving deep, your nails clawed the sheets, shutting out the infernal thoughts.

But the second wave of pleasure scorched hotter than before. Together, you shattered into shared groans, your bodies collapsing, breathless and undone.

You stared at the ceiling, biting your lip, his weight beside you. The window was empty now.

And you’d never know if it had been a trick of the mind — or a glimpse of a dark truth you weren’t ready to face.

Chapter Text

Fortunately, the disturbing sound of screams could feel inspiring when used as a backdrop.

You had been buried in the files for so long that, for a moment, you wondered if you even remembered how to read. Your fingers rested on Noah’s case file, and your nails made an irritating sound against his photo as you strained to think. He was a patient who refused to speak, and you didn’t believe that would change anytime soon, making it all the harder to know him well enough to determine if he was guilty or not.

Innocence had already been discarded by everyone. His silence reinforced the majority’s verdict, but you were never one to follow the current. You preferred to tread carefully, trusting only what you saw with your own eyes and your professional intuition.

And it insisted, relentlessly, that something was wrong.

What if Noah wasn’t guilty?

You knew that specific reactions emerged from different patients under certain stimuli. Maybe he had developed post-traumatic stress after finding his girlfriend’s body displayed so brutally, causing him to withdraw, trapped in that final scene. He could simply be struggling to process the trauma, and his aggressive outbursts might be the result of associations between the crime and the real perpetrator. Maybe he even knew who the killer was. It could very well be a case of targeted vengeance against him.

But... what if he was guilty?

Noah could be hiding his own guilt behind a mask of arrogance. He knew what he had done. He showed no remorse, as the diagnosis confirmed, and perhaps his silence was a calculated provocation to the authorities, a way to manipulate the media spectacle that had grown around the tragedy.

The possibilities felt endless.

“Fuck!” you muttered, slamming your fist against the desk.

Solving a case like that would be a major feat on your résumé. It would guarantee your career and bring enough recognition that Grimshade would become nothing more than a brief chapter. That case hadn’t landed in your lap by mere coincidence. It was the perfect opportunity to unlock the future you had always wanted.

Of course, if that damned man would just talk.

Your first and only patient of the day was about to enter, and a sharp wave of nausea coursed through you as soon as you realized who it was.

Tom Harrow.

You read the name on the clipboard, drawing a deep breath before allowing him into the room. Your body still carried traces of fatigue, but you straightened your posture, forcing professionalism to smother any distractions. At Grimshade Sanatorium, every encounter was a psychological game more dangerous than the last.

When the door opened, the cold, dull light revealed a gaunt figure with broad shoulders and skin marred by fine scars and burns like knife marks. Tom sat on a metal chair bolted to the floor, his arms restrained by leather straps binding his wrists to the armrests. He smiled as you entered, revealing teeth white and sharp like a trap.

“Doctor...” His voice slid out like warm syrup—slow and sticky. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

He always pushed sarcasm to its limit, every interaction dripping with malice, which he carried not only in his gaze but in every calculated word. Tom was a sexual predator accused of killing more than 35 women over three decades without raising a single suspicion. Mistaken for a respectable citizen, he went to church on Sundays and hosted neighborhood dinners where he was adored.

At night, he scoured the internet for vulnerable women, lonely for one reason or another, luring them to a secluded cabin where he abused, tortured them with depraved fetishes, and kept them captive until their bodies were deemed disposable after the skin began to rot. Harrow was only caught because he allowed himself to be caught, leaving a trace of a kidnapped neighbor in his home while the authorities did the rest.

But if not for that... he would still be free, you thought.

“Good morning, Mr. Harrow.” You closed the door with a firm click, trying to ignore the metallic scent in the air—a mix of disinfectant and sour sweat. “How are you feeling today? I heard a patient complained about being harassed by you in the lunch line. Is that why your hands are restrained?”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes slowly traveled over you, stripping away each layer of fabric, then skin. The silence stretched a second too long, making the air feel heavier.

You walk to the chair across from him and sit, positioning the clipboard on your lap like a shield.

"That’s not exactly how it happened," he said with confidence.

"Then tell me how it was," you allowed, activating the timer at the center of the table. "We have plenty of time today to talk about whatever you’d like."

"She provoked me, and I gave her exactly what she wanted with that attitude. You women are all the same—tease us, then can’t handle the reaction."

You remained expressionless.

"What do you feel when you have these impulses, Tom?" Your voice came out steady, though inside, a warning bell had already begun to ring.

His smile widened. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes gleaming with a malice.

"Impulses? You mean my... passion?" He stretched the word, letting it ricochet through the air. "Oh, doctor, you should know. Everyone has desires. It’s not wrong... to want. It’s not wrong to love women so much that you build an altar from the outer layer of their skin."

You kept your composure, but the knot in your stomach tightened.

"And what exactly do you want from all this, Tom?"

"Depends..." He leaned as far forward as the straps allowed, his tongue sliding slowly over his teeth. "Have you ever wanted something so badly it hurt? Felt heat under your skin, like a fire waiting to break free?"

Your eyes remained fixed on his, but your grip on the clipboard grew tighter. Your desires were none of his concern, and how you dealt with them even less so.

"Do you think that justifies your actions?"

He laughed softly—a low, rough sound filled with something that crawled along your spine.

"Who said I’m trying to justify anything? You think you understand me?" His gaze drifted downward, settling on your blouse where the top button had come undone without your notice.

"This conversation is to understand you—through your own eyes."

"Then what do you think I see when I look at you, doctor?" He leaned forward over his thighs, casting a look so dark it seemed to scratch beneath your skin.

Your body chilled, but your face stayed stone still.

"This session is over."

"Ah, don’t end it so soon... Sitting here... tied up like this... Isn’t it a bit insane? How they keep me bound while you... so free? Don’t you want to see through my eyes? How about I bind your arms and tear apart that sweet little cunt, doctor?"

You stood, the blood rushing too fast through your veins.

"We’ll speak again soon, Tom."

He only laughed again as you left, his chuckling reverberating down the corridor like a stain that wouldn’t wash away.

"Are you alright?" Travis’s voice broke the silence as his hand touched your shoulder suddenly, making you jump. You pressed a hand to your chest to steady your breathing.

"Got it," he said with a small smile. "Rough session?"

"Tom Harrow," you replied flatly, resuming your pace beside him.

"Shit. Was he... restrained?"

You nodded, and he exhaled in relief.

"Sorry."

"It’s over." You didn’t want to linger on it. "Since you’re here, I need a favor. I want to study Noah’s case more deeply. I could do it alone, but without internet or TV... it’s tricky."

If the case was as well-known on the island as people suggested, local news archives shouldn’t be hard to find. At least, that’s what you assumed.

"Hm. Old-school methods, then," he said with a chuckle, navigating the stairs with ease, greeting colleagues and signing prescriptions without breaking stride. "Old newspapers, interviews with people who knew him... that kind of thing."

"And where would I find all that?"

"In town, definitely. The university he attended still has plenty of stories about him. He was pretty well-known there. You know, because of the family name. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone willing to talk." He paused, eyeing you with renewed curiosity. "Are you really this determined to prove his innocence?"

You kept your tone professional. “I want to understand what really happened. The more information I have, the better my arguments will be during our sessions.”

“And you think that’ll make him open up.”

His sarcasm cut like a hidden blade. You lifted your chin, the heat of irritation rising slowly.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Dr. Rune. I know Noah has the charm of a predator, and I’m sorry if giving up the case left you without an excuse to admire those…” You paused, your gaze sharp. “...incredible arms.”

The laugh that burst from Travis was genuine, full, and shook his shoulders before he shook his head in surrender.

“You’ve got a unique sense of humor, darling.” He winked, his blue eyes glimmering with amusement. “I don’t care about things like that, but when I started my career, I also thought my first problematic case would be my breakthrough moment.”

“And now you’re here, still stuck at Grimshade. Doesn’t seem like it worked out too well.”

The challenge in his gaze met yours, and for a brief, rare moment, you felt camaraderie—an honesty he didn’t bother to mask.

“I didn’t have enough time.”

“What happened?”

His expression darkened slightly, but he shrugged as if it were a trivial detail. “He killed himself.”

“I’m sorry...”

“It’s just another file in the trash. Don’t be silly.” Rune dismissed it and shifted his attention to a nurse calling him from down the hall. With a brief nod, he took off, his lab coat billowing as he hurried toward the masculine voice.

You understood why his apathy lingered like a cloud—it was a constant companion in this place, no matter how unsettling. Over time, nothing stayed surprising or shocking; it became just another day’s work.

Outside, the sky was a dull gray, making no effort to inspire anyone. You walked through the wide yard where patients had a designated hour of sunlight. Hidden Ward inmates came at separate times, under heavier supervision, for reasons that didn’t need explanation.

The trees were bare and poorly trimmed, and patches of grass fought for space amid wide circles of mud. The landscape was so devoid of color that when you held your arm up to the light, your skin looked as pale as your bedroom walls. The island’s low saturation was eerie, like the backdrop of a horror film.

You passed a minor commotion where a patient had lost control and harmed herself with a thread of fabric. Three orderlies wrestled her to the ground, dragging her back toward Hidden as she screamed.

“Prepare the hole!” one of them yelled to the nurse by the gate.

The hole? You didn’t know what they meant, a reminder of how incomplete your tour had been.

A few steps further, you stopped abruptly, noticing a figure crouched ahead. Almost instinctively, you adjusted your glasses on your nose and smoothed your coat before proceeding.

Noah, as always, was alone and silent, poking at the dirt with a plastic trowel, seemingly focused on a small garden plot.

The scene was bleak: dark brown, brittle saplings lay lifeless as he methodically pulled them up, tossing the dead roots into a bucket before covering the soil with fresh seeds.

“Keeping your mind busy with a hobby is healthy, Noah,” you said, your voice breaking the silence as your hands clasped behind your back, fingers twisting nervously.

He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge your words. He remained engrossed with the soil, as if the voice didn’t exist.

“If you don’t figure out what’s wrong with the ground, the next crop will die, too.” You circled slowly, stopping in front of him and crouching until your eyes met his. Sifting the dirt between your fingers, you let it fall softly. “First, you identify the problem. Then you treat the cause before planting again. If you just cover it up, the rot stays underneath.”

His eyes—cold, empty—rose to meet yours, the disinterest in your metaphor as obvious as the tension in his shoulders. From the dark look on his face, it was clear he wished you would simply disappear.

“This is your hobby, isn’t it?” You arched a brow, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Does working with plants bring you comfort?”

Utter silence. Of course.

“Well, at least now I know what you like!” Your tone grew almost playful, the smile breaking free. “We’re about to become great friends. Don’t you think?”

He remained unmoving, but something in his gaze held too firmly, cut too deeply—like roots refusing to be unearthed. Your body reacted to each layer his brown eyes pierced as though they reached beneath your skin with every silent exchange.

“You may be good at this game, but I’ve always been very competitive,” you murmured, leaning closer to narrow the distance. His posture stiffened, a warning, but you pressed on, ignoring the cold that slithered down your spine at the visible fury brewing within him. “I will make you talk, Noah Sebastian.”

Visibly tired of the forced social interaction, Noah threw the bucket and trowel at your feet with a sudden, sharp motion. The plastic clattered against the ground like a full-stop punctuation. Without sparing you a second glance, he turned and walked away, heading back toward the building with a confidence so disarming it required no escort of orderlies. He never caused enough of a stir to warrant physical restraints—the fragile peace of the sanitarium seemed to hinge on one unspoken rule: leave Noah alone.

Staff and patients alike followed that law as if it were an instinct for survival. Eye contact with him never lasted beyond two seconds, as if any longer would invite consequence. He was a lone wolf in the heart of the Hidden Ward, indifferent even to the most hardened criminals. No bonds, no conversations, no trace of connection to anyone.

Noah didn’t share space in the dining hall, either. While others sat together, murmuring or staring vacantly, he preferred the meticulous solitude of his meals, delivered and consumed alone, a routine as unwavering as it was unsettling.

And then, there was his appearance. Day after day, while others withered beneath the weight of confinement, Noah thrived. His uniform remained impeccably clean, fabric fitted to a solid frame that betrayed no sign of frailty. His hair—straight and brown like the smooth surface of a moonlit lake—fell effortlessly across his face, and his skin seemed untouched by exhaustion or sleepless nights. His eyes burned with a sharp, simmering fury.

Noah appeared more like a figure from dark fantasy than the specter of a bloody past—a twisted fairytale prince where the wolf owned the plot.

You had been watching him since the day he arrived.

“Hey, girl!”

Sloan’s voice pulled you back to reality. She tugged you down to earth with her usual flair, and you dragged yourself away from your thoughts, making your way to the back of the estate. You sank into one of the lounge chairs as she plopped down beside you, offering a cigarette that you declined.

“Hiding in a hole? Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“I…” What could you say? Oh, I’ve been far too busy obsessing over a patient, picturing him while I sleep with someone else, consumed by his case to the point of madness, driven by a twisted need to be near him just to hear his voice in a game where silence reigns supreme. “I’ve been working too much.”

Sloan shook her head, letting smoke curl lazily between her teeth. Her dark curls tumbled free as she let her hair down, her breasts pressing against her neckline as she stretched.

“Boring.” She rolled her eyeliner-framed eyes. Sloan was striking. “I was dying to see you after happy hour at the tavern. I saw you and Rune leave together. Damn, girl, you don’t hold back.”

She nudged your arm with a teasing grin, and you smiled.

“It wasn’t a big deal. We were drunk…” You trailed off, unable to recall the night with him—because your mind had been tangled up with someone else entirely.

“Lucky you! I’ve been trying for years to get that man’s dick between my tits, but he’s so uptight I’ve developed a kink for just seeing him shut up.”

“Definitely more attractive when he’s quiet.” You nodded with certainty, and her eyes widened before she burst out laughing.

“Been after him for a while?”

In just a few days, Sloan had proven herself more than a stellar professional—she was a living compendium of gossip. Nurses, doctors, even patients—none escaped her scrutiny. Nothing escaped her cat-like gaze, and there were no limits—gender, danger, status, or intellect—her reach was boundless.

You couldn’t deny how intriguing that was. Sloan was an endless source of untapped knowledge.

“When I started, he was already here. Just another psychiatrist—like you,” she pointed out with a smirk, not bothering to sugarcoat the insult.

You smiled.

“He was a total suck-up to the director. That’s how he climbed the ladder. But, with all his rich-kid vibes, winning isn’t exactly hard.”

“Working here is winning?” you deadpanned, shaking your head. “He’s definitely screwed.”

“Oh, you just killed my crush.” Sloan sighed, stubbing her cigarette against the wall.

You both laughed, and she hooked her arm through yours as you walked back toward the sanitarium together.

“You know I’ve taken over that patient’s case… Noah, right?”

Your question lingered in the air, and Sloan merely confirmed with a brief nod, waiting for you to continue.

“I need more information about him,” you pressed, your voice firm, laced with a touch of urgency. “The records are practically empty, and without internet access, I can’t search for old articles or any other data related to the case. I feel like if I only had the right pieces, I could get closer to him. Maybe even understand why this case feels so inconsistent, with such a huge gap between one point and the next.”

Sloan frowned, thinking carefully before biting her lip as though weighing her words.

“Look,” she began hesitantly, “I think there’s something wrong with this case too. But I can’t tell if I’m analyzing the facts clearly... or if I’m just falling for some kind of Stockholm syndrome, because, let’s face it, he is a hell of a looker, isn’t he?”

You sighed in disbelief, bringing a hand to your forehead.

“For God’s sake, Sloan!”

“Kidding aside…” She pulled you closer, lowering her voice. “There are a lot of rumors about how he ended up in Grimshade, and one of them is that his diagnosis was bought.”

“Bought?”

Suddenly, you were even more intrigued by Sloan’s friendship as she seemed to strike precisely at the point that had been gnawing at your suspicions. One of the things that most fueled your doubts about Noah’s case was his diagnosis — it just didn’t seem to fit.

“Remember, it’s just a rumor… but his family is insanely rich, and as you might already know, they own this island. They maintain an impeccable reputation; no one’s ever heard a bad word about them — just those glossy magazine articles about rich people’s successes. They say that when they found out what happened, they bought a diagnosis to get him placed here. That’s why his record is full of gaps. They knew Noah probably wouldn’t last long in prison, especially if the other inmates found out what he did. Here… well, here he’s just another killer.”

She shrugged, and you couldn’t hide how much the information impressed you.

“I thought his parents didn’t care about him after the incident,” you remarked.

“They don’t. He doesn’t get any visitors. But they fund absolutely everything for him here. Supposedly, Grimshade receives a good sum to keep him here and keep things running as they are. They don’t want him deemed competent — if that happened, he’d end up on death row, you know? And Noah being a stubborn jerk who won’t speak just helps.”

Rumor or not, every word aligned with your own suspicions. His file lacked the traits expected of his diagnosis, and you viewed all his behavior during therapy as a rebellious act. Was he part of his parents' scheme? You doubted it, not after how he reacted to seeing his family photo.

It was all about protecting their image.

“I appreciate the honest update,” you said with a smile as you both stopped by the coffee machine. Sloan ordered a cappuccino, and you went for a latte, though you had no real desire to drink it. “I considered asking Travis about these things, but he always seems so prickly when it comes to Noah.”

“Doctor Rune was his first psychiatrist. The big boss upstairs,” she gestured toward the administrative wing with a nod. “He referred Noah during the trial. But Travis has a temper. He’s got rigid opinions on certain methods and zero patience. When he realized the kid wasn’t going to talk, he blew up.”

“They argued?”

“Not sure you could call it an argument, since one side wasn’t talking, right?” She chuckled. “But yeah, the tension was thick, and they decided to bring someone else in, since the Hidden Wing was being neglected too.”

Dr. Rune clearly had no intention of sharing this part of the story with you. It was no wonder he sent you off with a suggestion to look into town for answers.

“Now I’m even more curious…” you admitted, biting your lip and watching the steam rise from your cup. “If it’s more than just a rumor, if the diagnosis really is wrong… he could be innocent.”

“Sounds like one of those dramas,” Sloan said, draining her cappuccino.

“Rune mentioned the city would be the best place to dig up more,” you added, folding your arms. “His family’s well-known there, so it shouldn’t be hard to find something useful.”

“Perfect!” Sloan grinned conspiratorially and winked. “On our day off, we’ll go investigate Noah’s life in town!”

A flicker of relief passed through you. Slowly but surely, you were getting to know your colleagues better, and the way they welcomed you made the environment less toxic and lonely. Now you had information that made things feel a bit more concrete, even if it was just hearsay. Still, you were determined to go deeper.

Getting Noah to talk seemed like a promising plan to boost your career and leave the asylum behind, but turning the tables with a proper diagnosis — and possibly solving his case — would be even better.

From the corridor window, you had a clear view of the grounds outside. Well, clear might be an exaggeration — the exterior was a tangled mess of chaos — but you could still spot patients moving about, including him.

“The Hidden Wing’s outdoor time ended already,” you noted to Sloan, checking the wall clock. “But he’s still out there.”

Noah had returned to the same spot where you had found him earlier. Crouched, he sifted through brittle branches, pulling up rotting roots and planting new seeds. As always, he was alone. You tried — and failed — to look away from the way his shirt clung to his chest, soaked with sweat, and the arms that seemed ready to tear through the fabric. In a fleeting moment, he lifted his eyes from the garden and squinted toward the window.

A wave of heat surged up your neck. You rubbed the back of it, but the gesture did little to douse the flames his furtive gaze ignited within you. You weren’t sure if he hated you, despised your presence, or wanted to add you to his list of victims. But one thing was clear: he felt something.

“He’s allowed to roam Grimshade freely,” Sloan said, following your gaze. “Privileges, right?”

Your body went rigid, eyes widening instantly. Your reaction was so obvious that even from afar, Noah allowed himself a sly, wicked grin.

“Free?” you repeated, your voice tight. “At any time?”

“That’s what they say.”

Breathing suddenly became a challenge. Your gaze remained locked on his dark, provocative smile. Your heart thudded wildly, threatening to leap from your chest as heat crawled up your face.

It wasn’t your imagination.
He really had been watching you through the window that night.

Chapter Text

A tour through the Hidden.

How exciting.

On your activity schedule, a visit to the red-wristband patients first thing in the morning—before the sky had fully lit up—was the first item on the list. They rarely left the Hidden due to the high level of risk involved in being in the same environment as them. And, of course, you had already experienced firsthand what it was like to deal with one in your office recently when you had to attend to Tom Harrow.

Even if you were surrounded by a legion of guards, the feeling would be the same as walking through those rusted gates that creaked as they opened. The darkness that dominated almost caused a strange sensation, with flickering spots before your eyes. The lighting in the Hidden was scarce, and the dim, flickering light from the cells forced you to strain your glasses.

You thought about how Travis was a rather questionable friend, considering he didn’t even offer support or company during the tour—he simply wished you “good luck” and left for his morning walk. Over the past few days, you had gotten to know more about your colleague. He wasn’t the helpful type, nor was he empathetic, no matter what kind of relationship he had with another person.

Not that you expected anything from him after you’d slept together that one night after happy hour—especially since you suspected he didn’t even remember, given how little importance he seemed to give the moment—but you had at least hoped he would be less… of an asshole.

Honestly, you even found him a little mysterious beneath that impeccable scowl he carried most of the time. Always clean clothes, neatly combed blond hair, a perfectly aligned smile, and flawless diction, never hesitating over a single word. He never seemed unsure about anything. On the contrary, Rune exuded an unshakable confidence, something you could hear in the tone of his voice and see in the way his posture was always elegantly upright.

And so, he planted a seed of doubt in your mind.

Who was Dr. Travis Rune?

Your seemingly perfect, routine-obsessed colleague who didn’t stay in the staff quarters every night. If his father didn’t approve of his chosen profession, then he didn’t live on the island. So where did he stay when he wasn’t sleeping at Grimshade?

The stench of old disinfectant and mildew clung to your throat as you snapped back to reality. Your feet stepped onto the cold, cracked floor of the Hidden, and the sound of your own breathing felt out of place, muffled by the screams echoing through the corridors like the wails of a personal hell.

The lights flickered from the high ceiling, buzzing like flies over rotting flesh, casting erratic shadows that made everything seem even more distorted. The walls were a filthy white, peeling in several places, revealing concrete stained with rust—and something far too dark for you to want to identify. With every step, your shoulders tensed further, as if the oppressive atmosphere of screams and grinding teeth was coiling around your body.

The patients were there, locked in their narrow cells with thick, rusted bars. Some rocked back and forth, staring into nothing with glazed eyes. Others followed you with hollow gazes, whispering fragmented words, laced with something that burrowed under your skin like invisible splinters.

“I see you…” one of them murmured, voice thin and sharp like a knife scraping against glass.

Your hands tingled. Your stomach turned.

Another laughed—a hoarse, broken sound—as pale fingers stretched out between the bars.

“You smell like blood…”

You swallowed hard, forcing your feet to keep moving, ignoring the cold wave that crawled down your spine. With every step, the whispers grew, indecipherable phrases, words spat into the air, as if the very ward was trying to consume you.

And then, you stopped.

Right in front of his cell.

Tom Harrow.

Your body tensed before you even forced yourself to look.

The memories of your last encounter hit like a punch. The way he watched you during the session, as if stripping you with his eyes. The way his mouth shaped every filthy word, every malicious insinuation, trying to unnerve you. The anger in his lips when he realized you wouldn’t give him the control he craved.

But now… now you were here, frozen.

And he knew it.

“Well, well… look who came to visit.”

His voice oozed through the bars like rotten honey—thick, immersive, dripping with a slow drawl that seemed to savor your presence.

You swallowed down the acidic taste in your throat, but said nothing.

Tom rose from the bed with a lazy movement, like a predator stretching before the hunt. The flickering light illuminated his pale face, the deep-set eyes gleaming with something that made you want to run. He smiled. A slow, arrogant smile that knew exactly the effect it had.

“Did you miss me, doctor?” He tilted his head to the side, fingers dragging along the bars. “That heat on your skin? That shiver?”

Your lungs tightened.

“That chill down your spine that wouldn’t let you sleep after our last conversation…”

You wanted to move. You needed to move. But his words held you in place.

“I bet you dreamed about me.”

The distant screams blended with the sound of your own blood pounding in your ears. The air in the Hidden was suffocating, viscous, and you could feel his eyes crawling over your skin, sensing every minuscule detail of your reaction.

“I wonder…” He slid his tongue across his lips, letting the sentence hang in the air like a venomous invitation. “What exactly did you feel?”

The floor seemed to sink beneath your feet.

And still, you didn’t move.

Tom let out a low, drawn-out laugh, as if relishing your stillness. He stepped closer to the bars, long fingers curling around the cold metal, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. His eyes were locked onto you—heavy, invasive, drinking in every tiny reaction.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart.” His voice was sweet poison, slipping out lazily. “Were you like this last time? When you lay in bed, when you closed your eyes and tried to forget what I said?”

You tasted the bitterness of your own fear in your throat.

“Tell me… was it quick? Or did you lie there, in the darkness, feeling your breath hitch, your body heat up, your mind drifting back to me as your hands slid between your legs?”

Your stomach twisted.

He laughed, eyes narrowing in sheer amusement.

“Ah… that’s it, isn’t it?” He whispered, the words laced with something close to a moan, like he was sharing a dirty secret. “That feeling of your skin prickling, heat spreading, that tightness between your thighs.”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palm. No. You wouldn’t react.

But he knew you were listening. He knew that, no matter how hard you fought it, his words were already inside you.

“Tell me, did you try to resist? Or did you give in? Let your mind play a little… let your fingers explore that tight little pussy of yours?” He paused, letting the word drip from his lips like an unwanted touch. “You know, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it… I imagine it swallowing my cock every single day, doctor.”

A wave of nausea crashed through you.

His smile widened, something wicked and triumphant glinting in his eyes.

“I bet you tried to convince yourself it was hate.” He knocked his head lightly against the bars, closing his eyes for a second, inhaling the air like he could breathe you in. “But deep down… you liked what I said. Sluts like you always do.”

You took a step back.

He moved instantly, pressing closer to the bars, shoulders tense, his expression shifting into something animalistic.

“That’s it… back away. Pretend you’re running.” His tongue swept over his cracked lips. “Don’t forget—that’s what I love most in a woman, doctor. The ones who resist.”

The corridor around you felt like it was shrinking. The Hidden was breathing around you, pressing closer, heavier, suffocating with every second. The screams in the distance seemed too far away, too muffled, like the world had narrowed down to just his cell. Just him.

And you couldn’t move when something warm and viscous splattered onto your hand.

Your eyes widened, needing to confirm it was real—that on the back of your hand, seeping from the pocket of your coat, was a splatter of Tom Harrow’s semen.

While he had been saying those vile things, he had been masturbating in front of you.

Your mind spun, confusion tangling with shock as your gaze locked onto the stain on your skin. The guards rushed toward his cell, and the only thing you managed to do was stumble backward, desperate to get away from that place as fast as possible.

Your ragged breathing quickened as your back collided with something firm in your frantic attempt to escape. Like an unyielding concrete statue, he halted your steps in place, and instinctively, your eyes lifted—meeting Noah’s apathetic face, his expression undoubtedly irritated by you crashing into him.

The thought that he might have seen what that man had just done sent a wave of automatic heat rushing to your face, and something damp welled up in your tear ducts. Shame coiled inside you, making you feel filthy, unprofessional—completely exposed in front of a patient like him.

And then, he did something entirely unexpected.

Without saying a single word—obviously—Noah wrapped his hand around your right wrist and wiped the back of your hand with his own shirt.

Stunned, you let him do as he pleased. He seemed to… want to comfort you through an act of service? This wasn’t the time for analysis. Not when your skin burned from his touch, as if Noah carried embers between his fingers.

Expressionless, still not releasing your wrist, he guided you slowly toward the gates of the Hidden. The guards were too occupied with restraining Tom’s outburst to notice your absence—nor the fact that you were being escorted by the most dangerous patient in the custody ward.

When you reached the exit, Noah let go. The cold air rushed in to replace the warmth he had held onto so firmly as he led you out of that wretched place.

You couldn’t thank him for what he did.

You couldn’t look at him again.

You couldn’t cling to those fleeting sensations, hoarding the comfort of this moment for the days when agony would come.

Noah turned his back and shut the gates of the Hidden, leaving you on the other side.

"Of course, Mom, I couldn’t be better!" you said, holding the phone with a grimace that didn’t match the tone of your voice.

"I’ve known you since you were a child, girl! You came out of me, and I know when something is wrong!" your mother said, hardening her tone.

"I’m just tired and really eager to find a better job."

"We warned you that dealing with so many lunatics wouldn’t be good for you, sweetheart. You were never all that right in the head yourself… I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: it’s time to come home and find something more normal to do." she threw out, alarmed. "I won’t accept you ending up as a patient in that madhouse! Visiting you in Grimshade would be a disaster for our finances."

"Thanks for your concern! Don’t worry, I’ll keep your bank account intact." Impatient, you slammed the phone onto the receiver, hearing murmurs of joy from the never-ending line behind you.

"Mom missing you?" Rune teased, nudging your arm lightly as he adjusted his sunglasses.

"Despite her progress in therapy, her narcissistic traits always find a way to surface. But overall, she’s a good mom."

Returning to administration still shaken, the first thing you did was take a shower, washing away any lingering trace of the Hidden from your skin. Travis suggested you accompany him into town as a distraction, and you agreed.

A little fresh air actually did you some good. The town had little transportation movement, keeping the sky clear and the air breathable. The people weren’t as welcoming as one might expect from such a small Victorian-style place, but maybe that was your fault for expecting otherwise. They were direct, rarely using words of gratitude, and you figured their curt manner must have been cultural.

"It’s not exactly narcissism if it’s a mother. Seems more like something that comes with childbirth and follows them for the rest of their lives," he commented, not exactly offering comfort.

"An interesting analysis, Dr. Rune…" You arched your lips in a brief smile before adding, "Did your narcissistic mother also try to choose your profession like she picked your girlfriends until you turned eighteen?"

"My mother was always easygoing—submissive, even—but easygoing. That title belongs only to my father."

"You rarely talk about your parents. Do they live on the island?"

"Yes, we’re from here." He responded without enthusiasm, twirling his keys around his index finger.

"And you don’t visit them when you come to town?"

"Homesickness isn’t something I tend to suffer from."

From the side, you glanced at his unchanged expression, and for a moment, you almost felt like he was throwing a jab at you for coming into town just to call your mother.

Yeah, despite the narcissism, she was still your mom, and you two got along. Maybe Rune thought you were a little naïve.

Or maybe his parents were simply people he had no desire to be around, no matter how strong their personalities were.

"If you’re from here, then you studied at the only university in town," you concluded, piecing together the obvious but realizing that learning more about him was helping push your mind away from the previous chaos. "So you studied with Noah. His file says he was in medical school."

As always, mentioning Noah made Travis roll his eyes, especially since this was happening outside the asylum. He seemed determined to spend the afternoon eating ice cream and feeding birds, ignoring whatever else was going on.

"Yeah, I was about to graduate when we had a few classes together," he replied, carefully eyeing the ice cream flavors displayed in the glass case. "Chocolate and mint, please!"

"So your issue with him started at university?"

"At university, I didn’t even know he existed. Everyone lived in their own little bubble. Who would’ve thought he’d end up becoming my patient, huh?"

"That’s quite the coincidence…" you murmured, lightly biting your lower lip. "I’d even say it’s convenient."

Rune took the ice cream the friendly attendant handed him over the glass counter and—showing off his impeccable manners—walked straight to the nearest available table without offering you anything. You followed him and took the seat across from him.

"Are you implying that I made Noah my patient for personal gain? Or maybe as revenge for my ‘grudge,’ since, from day one, you’ve assumed that just because I treat him like any other patient?" he asked mockingly, holding the spoon between his teeth.

"I heard his parents have a lot of money and that he has a certain… protection. The kind that got him into the asylum instead of serving a prison sentence."

"And what does that have to do with me?" He shrugged. "Hate to disappoint you after all your investigative effort, but my salary hasn’t changed a cent since he arrived. I don’t need to protect him or make his life harder. To me, he’s just another file, another patient whose brain will be fried by meds and electroshock therapy… That is, if he doesn’t end up offing himself first."

"I don’t think it’s ethical of you to talk like that."

"You wanted to know, and I simply answered, doctor. And I believe that’s the most you’ll get out of this story that intrigues you so much. But if you’ll take some advice, I’d suggest you find another hobby… Maybe work, what do you think?"

Your neck prickled, and your fists clenched on the table.

"As punishment for this unpleasant conversation, you’re paying the bill," Travis announced before getting up and leaving the ice cream shop.

You blinked a few times, processing his audacity.

Bastard.

On the way back to the asylum, you opted for silence. After what happened at the ice cream shop, the ideal thing would have been to refuse Travis’s ride, but what other choice did you have? The next taxi wouldn’t pass for hours, and by then, the sky would likely be dark. You weren’t about to test your luck wandering around an unfamiliar place at night.

Travis turned on the radio, the sound crackling slightly as they climbed the hill, getting farther from civilization. The song playing sounded like a creepy opera or something you couldn’t quite place, but listening to Dr. Rune hum along in his undisturbed peace as he turned the steering wheel—

It bothered you.

It bothered you a lot.

The night at Grimshade was never truly silent, but the sound that woke you cut through the air like a blade. A muffled, deep, hollow thud—like something heavy hitting the ground.

Your eyes snapped open, your heart already slamming against your ribs. For a moment, you just lay there, listening to nothing but your own breathing and the distant ticking of some old clock. Maybe it was just another one of the strange noises that place emitted all the time—old pipes, doors creaking under the whim of the wind.

But then came another sound. Lower this time, a rough scraping, like something being dragged.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you felt the weight of fear settle onto your shoulders.

You hesitated. But you couldn't ignore the urgency swelling inside you.

With a sudden jolt, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the cold floor. The thin nightgown clung to your skin, still warm from the bath, but the hallway’s chill wrapped around you like a warning.

You followed your instincts.

The asylum looked different at night. The emptiness of the corridors was suffocating, as if the walls were closing in, swallowing every sound, every breath. The dim light flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to shift on their own. Each step echoed against the floor, a muffled whisper that trailed behind you.

The air was thick.

Wrong.

Your feet carried you through the garden, where the icy wind brought the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, which your mind refused to name.

The Hidden’s gate was slightly ajar.

Your body locked up.

It was like reliving the horror from hours ago, Tom Harrow’s voice still clinging to your skin like a filthy touch, his eyes still hanging in your mind like hooks.

But you kept going.

Your steps were firm but dragging, as if some invisible force were pulling at your ankles, trying to hold you back.

The Hidden was darker than usual. The shadowed cells gaped like open mouths, starving. Something seeped from the bars of some of them—mumbled words, raspy laughter, incoherent sounds bleeding from the blackness within. With every step, the cold sharpened, crawling up your spine, digging invisible claws into your skin.

And then you saw it—and froze instantly, your body locked as if torn from time itself.

The blood.

Black under the flickering light, thick and heavy, pooling from the last cell in the first corridor.

Your heartbeat pounded like a frantic drum.

The same cell.

The one that had made your body recoil earlier, as if something had been wrong from the start.

Swallowing down the panic, you forced your legs to move, each step heavier than the last. The scent of iron flooded your senses now, nauseating, thick like smoke.

And then you saw him.

Tom Harrow.

His body lay carelessly on the floor, face turned upward, lifeless eyes fixed on the ceiling as if still staring at something unseen. His throat was torn open in a jagged, grotesque cut, the edges of the wound shredded as if the blade had chewed through his flesh.

And there, embedded in the still-warm flesh, was a pair of gardening shears.

A dry shiver shot down your spine.

For a long moment, nothing moved.

The Hidden held its breath with you.

The shock struck like lightning.

Large, strong hands emerged from nowhere, clamping over your mouth and waist in a vicious surge. The world tilted violently as your body was yanked backward, feet scraping against the cold floor of the Hidden, darkness swallowing everything before you could even react.

The scream died before it was born, smothered beneath the hot, calloused palm silencing you.

You struggled instinctively, but the strength holding you was like iron. Your heart hammered, so hard that the pain echoed in your chest, your skull, the tips of your fingers. The scent that enveloped you was overwhelming—something between wood, metal, and a trace of smoke.

The flickering light in the corridors revealed only fragments of his face. Deep brown eyes, burning with fury. A clenched jaw, teeth gritted tight. The tattoos winding down his forearms, shifting like living shadows.

Then, in one swift motion, he slammed you against the cold wall. The air fled from your lungs in a single, choked gasp.

The temperature in the room shifted—the icy shock of the concrete at your back clashed violently with the solid, burning heat of his body pressing into yours. Every muscle beneath his fitted shirt was taut, as if holding back a storm on the verge of breaking.

The silence between you was electric, heavy as lead.

Your eyes traveled upward, slowly, meeting his in the narrow space between your faces.

Shadows danced over the sharp angles of his jaw, his gaze locked onto you like a blade—dripping with anger, warning... and something else. Something so raw, so feral, that it sent a shiver down your spine.

Then, his voice came. Low, rough, thick with menace.

“Which part of ‘I don’t want you here’ does the doctor still not understand?”

Noah spoke.

Chapter Text

No matter how much your fingers stirred the fork through your food, your wide eyes remained fixed on the center of the table. Ignoring the noise of the staff around you, you struggled to have a normal morning, despite the scene from the night before insisting on taking up space in your mind.

He spoke.

Noah spoke to you.

His voice low, hoarse, laced with threat… but he spoke.

Hearing his voice in such close physical proximity scrambled your senses more than the sight of the lifeless body in the cell. Not that it made the death any less shocking, but for some reason, your mind couldn’t focus on anything except the sound of his voice and the impact of his fury against your chest.

“Doctor?”

A female voice pulled you out of your daze, diverting your attention from the table. When you looked up, you met the unchanging expression of a nurse, her uniform pristine as she approached to speak to you directly.

“Yes?”

“The director would like to speak with you.”

A shiver ran down your spine in that instant, straightening your posture in the chair. Slowly, you set the utensil down on your plate. Since your arrival at the asylum, the director hadn’t even introduced himself on your first night. You had never crossed paths, and your presence had never been requested. So what the hell did he want now?

Were you in trouble? Was the asylum running out of money to pay your salary especially now, when you were still carrying student loan debt? Had Travis said something that displeased him?

Countless possibilities ran through your mind on the way up to the director’s floor and none of them seemed good.

“Excuse me.” You announced, knocking twice on the door with your fist before poking just your head inside the office.

“Come in, please.” The deep voice said.

You stepped into that office with the same fear you had felt when dissecting a body for the first time trembling hands, flushed cheeks, the suffocating dread of making an irreversible mistake.

Unlike the rest of the asylum, the spacious office was clean, well-lit, and properly maintained, making the space both inviting and luxurious. Portraits of former directors adorned the walls, and in the center stood a single desk, with a chair on either side. One of them was already occupied by an older man, his graying hair and small, time-wrinkled eyes studying you.

Dr. Steve was a renowned psychiatrist, with years of experience in the field. Despite choosing to retire in Grimshade—which, to you, didn’t seem appealing at all—he had built a respectable career. During university, you had studied several books authored by him, a reference in psychopathy, a true master of the subject.

He offered you a welcoming smile, dissolving some of the tension in your shoulders, and gestured to the empty seat before him. From his friendly demeanor, you deduced he might be a decent guy. Maybe.

“I heard you wanted to speak with me…”

“I noticed your schedule was open this morning, and I couldn’t put off this conversation any longer.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “As you’ve probably heard in the asylum’s halls, we lost a patient last night. Tom Harrow.”

“Yes… yeah, I heard.” You responded hesitantly. You didn’t want it to be obvious that you knew because you had been at Hidden outside your working hours. That wasn’t right.

“I won’t waste time with unnecessary preambles or probing, doctor, so I’ll be direct: did you notice any unusual activity?”

It was impossible not to notice the tension in his posture and how frequently he smoothed over his own fingers. He was nervous about addressing a subject that clearly displeased him.

“Why would I know anything, Dr. Steve?”

“Because when we checked the security cameras, we saw that you left Hidden shortly after the estimated time of death.” Steve stated cautiously, watching your expression closely as your mouth fell open in shock. “We’re not pointing fingers, but we’d like to understand why you were in Hidden at that exact hour, in the middle of the night.”

“I… I heard a noise and ended up getting out of bed. I followed the sound and ended up there…”

"And when you got there?" He arched an eyebrow, waiting for more details.

"He was already dead in the cell. The scene startled me, and I froze. Shortly after, Noah appeared in the hallway and told me to get out of there," you replied with all the sincerity you could gather.

The man in front of you seemed more perplexed by the fact that Noah had spoken than by anything else. First, his face showed surprise, then disbelief. He stared at you with such a mix of confused expressions that, for a moment, you doubted your own honesty.

"What did you just say?" he asked, shocked.

"That Noah spoke to me. He told me to leave Hidden."

Steve shook his head, bringing a hand to his chin and scratching it roughly.

"Have you been taking any medication?"

"WHAT?" Your voice rose, but you quickly pulled yourself together, taking a deep breath to stay calm.

"Apologies, but what you're claiming happened in Hidden is impossible. Noah hasn’t spoken to anyone in a long time. He remained silent during the university incident, in prison, during the trial… and he’s still silent here, in Grimshade," Steve stated with conviction, resting his arms on the desk. "Believe me when I say we’ve tried everything to get him to talk—I'm not exaggerating..."

He paused, watching your reaction before continuing:

"I think you may have misinterpreted things. I understand that witnessing such a..."

"I'm not misinterpreting anything, Dr. Steve," you cut him off, firm. "I know what I saw! I deal with unstable patients all the time, but I’m not one of them. I'm fully aware of everything!"

Steve reflected for a moment, his eyes fixed on the computer keyboard, on the scattered files across the desk. Everything seemed enough to hold his attention until he looked back at you.

"If you can’t believe an employee of your own asylum, then ask him!"

"We did..." Steve replied, his voice carrying a grave weight. "We brought Noah to my office early this morning. He remained silent, Doctor."

You felt your blood boil. The urge to march down to Hidden and drive a pair of gardening shears into that bastard’s neck consumed your thoughts for making you question whether it had even happened.

What if he didn’t speak?

No, no, he did speak!

Noah’s silence put you in a complicated position. Especially since everyone knew what had happened earlier in Hidden, during the patient visit how Tom Harrow had provoked you. That could easily be used as motivation for a crime as brutal as that.

If Noah wanted to get you out of his way for digging too much into his life, why resort to this?

Stupid girl. You were talking about a murderer who preferred to stay silent rather than confess to his own crime…

And to think you even considered he might be innocent.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"The purpose of this conversation was to hear your version, but I have no intention of accusing you of anything. We will continue to investigate this thoroughly."

The calm in Steve’s voice contrasted with the subtle way he still somehow framed you as a suspect. Your fingers curled under the table until your fist clenched tight.

"Apparently, I have no choice but to wait."

"I think it’s best if you take two days off to get some rest. When you return, we can have another conversation. Your patients will be under Dr. Rune’s care until further notice."

He was analyzing you.

This entire conversation had been nothing more than a careful evaluation, and in the end, he chose to believe you were delusional rather than accept that Noah might have spoken.

Your jaw tightened, but you held your composure. There was nothing you could say that would change his mind. Steve had already drawn his conclusions, and arguing now would only make things worse.

It took you a few seconds to realize your breathing had quickened.

Two days off? That was definitely not a favor—it was a disguised suspension.

"Understood." Your voice came out steady, but you felt the frustration pulsing beneath your skin.

Steve merely nodded, his expression far too neutral to be natural.

As you left the office, the oppressive weight of that conversation settled on your shoulders like an anchor. Accepting it passively was out of the question. With determined steps, you crossed the hallway toward another closed door, ignoring any possibility of interruption. Without hesitation, you opened it and found Dr. Rune focused on some papers. He lifted his head calmly, adjusting the glasses that softened the sharpness of his blue eyes.

"Hmm..." he murmured, pursing his lips. "You definitely don’t look like Mariene German."

If you weren’t so pissed off, you might have laughed at his pathetic attempt at a joke. Instead, you walked to the chair in front of him and sat down, trying to suppress your restlessness.

"I assume you already know what happened."

"Yeah. Unfortunately, the first thing I saw this morning was Noah’s face when Steve dumped all your patients on me." He rolled his eyes, sinking further into his leather chair. "When I suggested you get a hobby, I didn’t mean taking two days off at my expense."

"You think I did this?"

"Obviously not, girl." Rune let out a sigh, as if it were obvious. "But I warned you. As fascinating as he seems, Noah is treacherous. And it’s clear what he’s trying to do here."

"Frame me?"

"Don’t flatter yourself." He smirked, his usual sarcasm intact. "He just wants to shift the weight of his own guilt because between the Blackridge heir who does whatever he wants and a newly licensed psychiatrist who took this job to pay off student loans and clearly doesn’t update her wardrobe often, who do you think they’re going to protect?"

"Great. And how the hell do I prove it, if Dr. Steve thinks I’m hallucinating just because I said he spoke to me?"

Desperation crept into your voice before you could stop it. You buried your face in your hands, feeling the weight of this situation grow heavier. You hadn’t even been here a full month, and you were already at the center of a mess this big.

"During the board meeting, I insisted they talk to Noah," Rune explained, his tone as dry as ever. "Obviously, he stayed silent. But I asked Steve to investigate further, considering the circumstances. That’s the time you have to act. You need to make him speak again."

"You say that like it’s easy…" You scoffed, crossing your arms and leaning back in the chair. "That guy clearly hates me."

"And what do I have to do with that?" Rune raised an eyebrow. "I’m showing you the way—and fast—but not because I care about helping you. I just want you to take your case back and get him off my hands."

"So bitter, Dr. Rune…" You teased, feeling a slight smirk tug at the corner of your lips. "I’m sure you’ll love his company."

Rune scoffed dismissively, crossing his arms and giving you a bored look over the rim of his glasses.

"If I could get rid of the two things that have been irritating me the most lately, I’d ship you off with him as a package deal to the neighboring island."

"But you can’t," you countered, leaning forward slightly. "So tell me, Rune, how the hell do I make Noah talk again?"

He raised an eyebrow, studying you for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh.

"Good question," he muttered, running a hand through his messy blond hair. "Truth is, I have no idea. But something about you managed to do what no one else has so far. So I suggest you figure it out before Steve decides you need a psych evaluation."

You rolled your eyes, but the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

"The problem is, he has no reason to talk to me again."

Rune tilted his head to the side, thoughtful.

"Maybe he does," he said after a few seconds. "You were the only person who saw him in the hallway that night. And somehow, you're still here to tell the story."

The implication hung in the air, and your stomach twisted at the memory of Noah’s rough, threatening voice.

"So I should provoke him until he speaks again?"

"Or piss him off. Or push his buttons. Use your head what would trigger that response in him?" Rune shrugged. "Just don’t die in the process. That paperwork would be a nightmare, and in case you forgot… I’m busy with your patients now." He made a point of saying, gesturing to the files.

How long was he going to keep rubbing that in your face?

You let out a deep sigh and rose from the chair.

"Thanks for the motivation, Dr. Rune. It's always a pleasure talking to you."

"It'll help you more than therapy," he smirked, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. "Enjoy your free time, take a walk."

With one last glance at him, you left the room, the weight of the situation still pressing against your chest. If there was a way to make Noah speak again, you'd have to figure it out fast. And the only way to do that... was by going back to the Hidden.

The narrow hallway of the Hidden felt even more suffocating that afternoon, with the scenes of the bloodshed still so vivid. The flickering lights buzzed, flies dancing to an inaudible tune around the yellow bulb, casting trembling shadows on the walls smeared with handprints and mud. The stench of disinfectant mixed with mold clung to the air, making it almost unbreathable. Your footsteps echoed against the cold tiled floor, each one accompanied by the thudding of your own heart.

As you neared Noah’s cell, a shiver ran down your spine. He was there, sitting at the back of the small space, his back resting against the wall, a book open in his pale hands, long tattooed fingers gently holding the pages. The dim light highlighted the sharp angles of his face and the almost insolent tranquility of his expression. As if nothing had happened. As if a man hadn't died and you weren’t there to pry a truth from him that he refused to tell.

His fingers turned the page slowly, unhurried, as if he were completely oblivious to your presence. But you knew he wasn’t. You knew that every fiber of that man absorbed his surroundings with surgical precision, every detail taken in by eyes that missed nothing.

"Are you going to pretend I’m not here?" Your voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade.

No reaction. No shift of his gaze. Just the soft rustling of paper as another page was turned.

Anger flared in your chest like an uncontrollable fire. You stepped closer to the bars, fingers tightening around the cold metal.

"You spoke to me last night." Your voice came out low, but laced with fury. "I know what I heard. I know what I saw. And now you’re hiding behind this convenient silence? What do you want, Noah? To drive me insane? Make them doubt me?"

Nothing.

"Don't you think it's unfair? Ever since I got here, all I’ve tried to do is help you. Do you really think Rune will be more empathetic? Are you eager for him to lose patience and fry your brain the first chance he gets?"

He maintained the same serene expression, eyes scanning the page, as if the printed words were far more interesting than anything you could say.

"I don’t understand why you hate me so much and, at the same time, helped me last night…"

Your heart pounded against your ribs, tension thickening with each second he refused to react. You wanted him to laugh, to mock, to threaten—anything to shatter that damn performance of indifference. But he remained there, unmoved, shadows dancing over his face, gaze fixed on the book as if the entire universe was nothing but background noise.

"Are you afraid, Noah?" You tilted your head slightly, forcing yourself not to blink. "Afraid that if you open your mouth, more than just words will slip out?"

The book stopped. It wasn’t much, just a slight tightening of his fingers, but you saw it. You felt it.

He heard you.

Silence stretched between you like an abyss, and for a moment, you thought he would finally answer. That he would lean forward and let the mask fall.

But then, without hurry, he turned another page and kept reading.

Your blood boiled.

You hated him. Hated the way he refused to play the game, how he twisted reality to his favor, how he made you question everything.

And above all, you hated that, somehow, he was winning.

Enjoy your free time, take a walk, said that idiot, Dr. Rune.

And you obeyed when you decided to spend the rest of the afternoon walking through the city. Well, there wasn’t much to be done at the sanatorium at that moment, and a car heading downtown was passing by—this was your opportunity.

Faced with the grim scenery of the trail, you found solace in the silence while the car played a soundtrack soaked in the driver's quietness. You thought, as you watched through the window, that he had remained silent throughout your entire visit to the cell, and that was, indeed, the Noah you were used to seeing in your sessions.

The night before, he had flames in place of his usual lifeless, apathetic eyes. Noah seemed to snarl with the intonation of every word he spoke, wavering between sickly protection and visceral fury. Completely different, but undeniably even more fascinating.

For a moment, you hesitated when you realized that this memory could easily fit into one of those dreams that people with repressed desires might have at night. And if…

No way! You silenced your own mind, which was about to agree with Dr. Steve. You were certain of what you had seen and heard; it was neither a dream nor a delusion. Noah had spoken to you as he cornered you against the wall, right after killing one of your patients for assaulting you.

It had really happened.

The scarce sunlight and the humid breeze carried by the sea, not far from there—if you closed your eyes and focused, you could smell the ocean clearly. You took a deep breath before continuing your walk.

The cobblestone streets were narrow, surrounded by old buildings with facades faded by time and humidity. In the island’s center, a craft fair stretched along the square, bursting with colors, textures, and scents blending in the air. Wooden stalls displayed hand-carved sculptures, rustic jewelry, and hand-dyed fabrics. The smell of incense and dried herbs mingled with that of fresh fruit and spices.

Women in long, colorful dresses sat behind small round tables covered with embroidered cloths, offering tarot readings to curious onlookers and tourists. You watched everything with interest, letting your fingers slide over the rough surfaces of ceramic pieces, feeling the warmth of aromatic candles burning on small makeshift altars. A bell tinkled as a stronger breeze swept through the fair, making the metal wind chimes hanging from the tents sway.

Leaving the fair behind, you found yourself in a vast field teeming with young people hurrying in various directions. Weaving skillfully through the moving bodies, your eyes locked onto an imposing old building further ahead. With its majestic architecture and the constant flow of people going in and out, there was no doubt—it was the local university.

Like an insistent whisper guiding your steps, you found yourself drawn inside. The endless chatter of students, the vibrant energy of that academic environment—none of it attracted you or stirred any nostalgia. The truth was, you didn’t miss university life at all. However, something there was calling your attention in an undeniable way: answers.

The students seemed completely immersed in their own excitement, laughing loudly and exchanging playful banter as they walked toward a grand mansion. You followed them without drawing attention, just observing. The deep red jackets of the young men and the uniforms of the cheerleaders made them easily identifiable—probably members of some victorious team. The reason for their celebration, however, did not concern you.

When they finally stopped in front of the mansion, you lifted your eyes to the grand facade. The banners hung proudly bore a name you recognized instantly: Naughtiness. Given the size of the house and the way it stood out among the others along the street, it was easy to assume this was the most influential fraternity on campus.

Seizing the opportunity, you followed one of the students inside. The moment you crossed the entrance, you were met with utter chaos. The place was a complete mess—furniture out of place, bottles and cans scattered across the floor, the strong smell of beer clinging to the air. Bodies of drunk students were sprawled across the sofas and carpet, while a microwave beeped incessantly somewhere in the kitchen. Deeper inside, a dark-haired guy held a cigarette between his fingers.

"Hey!" he called out, breaking your analysis of the scene. "What are you..."

As you turned, you noticed he was staring at you intently, frowning and rubbing his eyes as if he needed to make sure he was seeing correctly. Instinctively, you glanced down at your own clothes, checking if there was something wrong with you, but everything was normal.

The guy approached slowly, still with an expression of mild perplexity and suspicion.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Good afternoon, how are you?" You kept your tone polite, forcing a discreet smile. "I’m a psychiatrist—more specifically, a forensic psychiatrist—and I’m investigating a case related to a patient in treatment."

He seemed genuinely intrigued, which made you relax a little.

"He studied at this university and was part of Naughtiness. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about..."

The guy pressed his lips together for a moment before responding.

"Noah Sebastian."

The name came out with a perceptible weight, and you hesitated for a brief second.

"I’d like to understand better how he behaved around here."

The guy took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke leisurely, as if carefully choosing his words. He scratched the back of his neck before finally giving a small nostalgic smile.

"Everybody loved that guy." He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "It was impossible not to like him. He had this thing... a natural charisma, you know? He’d walk into a room, and within minutes, everyone would be laughing or paying attention to whatever he was saying."

You frowned slightly. That wasn’t exactly the image you had of him.

"So, he was popular?"

"Popular?" The guy raised his eyebrows as if it were obvious. "He was the heart of this fraternity. He was always bringing people together, organizing legendary parties. But it wasn’t just that. He genuinely cared about people. It didn’t matter if you were a senior or a lost freshman wandering the campus—Noah made sure to include you. He had this way of making you feel special, like you mattered."

That description contrasted with everything you knew about him now.

"And what about his behavior? Did he ever show signs of being aggressive or manipulative?"

The guy looked offended by the suggestion.

"Never." He shook his head. "He was the one who broke up fights, not started them. If someone had too much to drink, he took care of them. He was the kind of guy you called when you needed help, not when you wanted trouble."

A chill ran down your spine. Something didn’t add up. The Noah he was describing was completely different from the Noah you knew now.

When he turned and motioned for you to follow, you noticed the name "Patrick M." embroidered on his jacket. Walking beside him into the access room, you were met with shelves filled with sports trophies won by the fraternity. The walls were decorated with photographs of members gathered together, and your eyes quickly found a picture of Noah. You almost didn’t recognize him.

He looked... happy.

"He was our best player—wasn’t captain for nothing," Patrick commented, handing you a framed photo of Noah wearing a red uniform and holding up a trophy.

"Were you guys close?"

"Close enough. He was always surrounded by people, which made access to him a little harder," Patrick replied with a shrug. You set the framed picture back on the table. "And to be honest, I don’t think his father liked him hanging out with just anyone."

"His father?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Noah didn’t usually follow orders, but the old man had this obsession with lineage, only associating with people of the same status—rich people nonsense."

There was a slight trace of disappointment in Patrick’s tone. Even though he tried to hide it, it was clear he held some resentment.

"And did he care about that?" You asked, crossing your arms while analyzing the photo again.

Patrick let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Not exactly." He twirled a cigarette between his fingers, deep in thought. "But I think, deep down, he always knew his father had a way of influencing his decisions."

You frowned, leaning slightly forward.

"What do you mean?"

Patrick sighed, resting against the dark wooden table behind him.

"Noah was... hard to read. Sometimes, it seemed like he didn’t care about any of that—he did whatever he wanted, surrounded by friends, playing, drinking. But other times... it was like something was weighing on him. He’d disappear, become quieter, more distant."

A chill crept up your spine.

"And no one ever questioned that?"

Patrick chuckled again, but this time, the sound was more bitter.

"Around here? Everyone idolized Noah. He was charismatic, popular, talented. Who would care about what was behind all that?"

The silence that settled between you was broken only by the distant sound of loud music coming from another room in the fraternity. You shifted your gaze to the trophy shelf, feeling that something was there, hidden beneath the perfect image.

"And you?" you asked, turning your eyes back to Patrick. "Did you care?"

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He simply looked away toward the picture on the table, where Noah smiled, standing tall among the other players. Then, finally, he murmured:

"Honestly? No."

Right.

"Did Rachel care?"

"Absolutely. They had a relationship that seemed normal, happy. They’d been together since high school, and he really seemed to love her, which is why it was so shocking to find out that…" Patrick paused, carefully choosing his words. "That he had the courage to do what he did."

He watched you for a few moments longer. His gaze wasn’t hostile, but there was doubt in it—a peculiar fascination, as if he were examining you under a magnifying glass.

"Have you ever seen her, doctor?" The question sent a shiver down your spine.

The case file didn’t include any photos of Rachel. With no internet access, looking her up was impossible, and up until now, not even a local newspaper had provided you with an image.

"No… I’ve never seen Rachel before."

Patrick took a few steps back and opened one of the cabinets. Among the trophies, there was a pile of disorganized photographs. He picked out a specific set and started flipping through them. With each image he passed, a strange sensation pulsed in your ears. Sweat gathered at the nape of your neck, your body grew warm, and the space around you seemed to shrink.

Then, he placed a photograph in your hands.

Your eyes blinked several times, unable to process what they were seeing. This had to be a mistake. Your fingers slowly traced over the smiling face of the girl clinging to her boyfriend.

The girl who was identical to you.

Chapter Text

"If you wanted to take me on a romantic date, you should’ve at least picked a better place," he grumbled, as always.

With your head feeling as heavy as if it were made of lead, you tried to sit up, but the weakness in your body sent you right back onto the bed. Holding your temple, you took in your surroundings and, judging by the equipment and the movement in the hallway, realized you were in a hospital room.

"What the hell happened to you?" Travis asked, settling into the chair beside you. "Do you have some sort of fixation on doing everything the opposite way? I told you to take a walk, and that did not include calling me out of my patients' charts to come pick you up at the hospital!"

"I was in the fraternity meeting room talking to some guy named Patrick, and suddenly everything went black," you murmured. With great effort, you sat up in bed and took a deep breath, gradually adjusting to the daylight again.

Memories of the conversation started flooding back, bringing with them a suffocating unease, as if you were still in that room, facing Patrick. Her eyes, her hair, her smile, the small dimple on her cheek—she looked so much like you, with only a few differences.

"Why didn’t you tell me Rachel and I look alike?"

Rune stopped eating the grape jelly the nurse had brought him and shifted his gaze to you, raising his hands as if he didn’t understand the question.

"I didn’t think it was relevant. A lot of people look alike," he said. "I look like any average blonde, blue-eyed heartthrob. Don’t flatter yourself."

“It wouldn’t be relevant if I didn’t look like my patient’s ex-girlfriend – that guy who hates me and supposedly murdered her!”

"Well, when you put it like that..."

You were restless, not realizing that this could still unsettle you even more. With your eyes fixed on the hospital bed sheets, you mulled over how you could turn this situation to your advantage instead of tormenting yourself over something beyond your control.

Noah had spoken to you after you had irritated him at Hidden. Now, you understood that your presence was a trigger for him—something that infuriated him, made him lose control, made him avoid you at all costs. But it also made him act on impulse, especially when your safety was at stake, triggering his protective instincts.

You had figured everything out up to this point.

Or almost everything.

You desperately needed to know more about Rachel, needed to use her as a weapon, no matter how dirty that plan was. But deep down, you were behaving just like him.

"I need him to be my patient again!" you declared, determined, clenching your fists over your thighs.

"THAT’S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR!" Travis responded with an enthusiastic tone.

At the sanatorium, you had to answer a few questions since all your coworkers had heard that you had fallen ill and been hospitalized. You felt fine—really fine—with no pain or lingering strange sensations. The only thing about to consume you was curiosity.

Everything about that man seemed to mess with your once impeccable judgment. It was as if he took pleasure in seeing a question mark permanently stamped on your face, and you hated that he was so damn handsome. You realized you struggled to distinguish his wicked nature when looking at a body that seemed sculpted by the devil himself.

Despite all of this, you were still a psychiatrist, and you needed to work.

Dr. Steve had organized a group therapy session and, upon your return to duty, asked you to lead it alongside the patients. You were, of course, nervous—you had never done this before. Being alone with so many patients, still a novice, trying to earn their respect, was a daunting task. But the director gave you a false sense of security by promising that a guard would be there to support you.

The room was dim, the fluorescent light flickering slightly as usual, creating an almost claustrophobic atmosphere. The patients sat in mismatched chairs, arranged in a circle that, no matter how open it seemed, felt like it was closing in with each movement. You felt Noah’s gaze on you immediately, like a weight pressing down on your shoulders. His stare was intense, as if he were waiting for you to slip up, hanging onto your every word. The rest of the room felt oppressive, but Noah—with his silence, his unspoken irony—filled the space with palpable tension.

You tried to focus, to avoid looking at him. Not to give him the power to shake you.

"Well... everyone," you began, your voice steadier than you felt, "today, we’re going to work together to understand a little more about how we deal with... the emotions that afflict us."

Trying to maintain composure, you started leading the session, your voice firm, though inside, you were still afraid—afraid of losing control of the room, and especially of losing control over him.

"How about today we talk about an emotion common to all of you, one that is often the greatest enemy of your minds?" you started, trying to keep your tone calm. "Hatred."

The silence in the room was heavy. The other patients seemed lost in their own reflections, while he remained steadfast in his mission to unsettle you—and succeeding. His eyes were piercing, challenging, sending warmth creeping up your neck in an unfamiliar sensation.

"Would anyone like to start?" you asked, running your fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear, trying to ease the tension. But you already knew—they were all waiting for your next move.

Then Brady, his gaze distant and his tone melancholic, broke the silence.

"I hate how people judge me before even knowing me, how they decide to hate me for no reason," the murderer declared.

You gave a small nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Yes, Brady. Hatred rarely appears out of nowhere. Like a plant, it needs roots, a place to grow. When it emerges without reason, it's at the very least... unfair, don’t you think?" You posed the question as your eyes scanned the room, pausing fleetingly on Noah’s. "This destructive feeling doesn’t just consume the one who feels it—it spreads, like radioactive fallout."

"I don’t think I deserve to be hated," the murderer replied again, puffing out his chest.

"Alright then, Brady. Does anyone else have something to say?"

The session continued, but while the others spoke, you could still feel Noah there, silent, his presence lingering in the room like a shadow, making the discomfort grow.

He wasn’t engaging in the discussion, wasn’t trying to be part of the group. Instead, he simply observed, challenged—like all of this was some kind of joke. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes… his eyes were saturated with sarcasm. It was as if he knew none of this would make a difference, that his presence here was just another distraction.

"I don’t care about hatred," Mariane said, breaking the silence again. "I hate, and that’s it. Honestly, I think this conversation is pathetic and completely useless if I’m not even willing to change."

You were about to respond, but Noah’s eyes never left yours. They were challenging, as if silently telling you he didn’t believe in a single word you said. You tried to focus on the session, but your mind kept drifting back to him. With every word the others spoke, you could feel Noah draining your energy, getting under your skin in a way you couldn’t control.

"And why aren’t you willing to change?" you replied, trying to maintain control.

That’s when Noah’s stare intensified again. He still wasn’t speaking, but everything about him—his tense body, his unwavering gaze, the almost imperceptible smirk—was saying more than words ever could. It was like he was enjoying watching you try to maintain order. The room felt smaller, the tension thickening.

"Because no matter how much I ‘show growth,’ whether it’s real or just an act, nothing will change my sentence," Mariane shouted, voice breaking. "And it sure as hell won’t change the fact that I have to look at your face every day until I finally manage to slit my wrists!"

You shifted in your chair.

This was even harder than you had imagined, and none of them were offering even the slightest bit of mercy for your nervousness.

"It’s hard to believe me when I say I understand you. After all, I’m not the one locked in a place like this, stripped of the most precious thing a human being can have: their freedom. I’m not the one abandoned by those I love, discarded by society, seen as nothing more than an animal. I’m not the one whose body feels weak from the excess of medication or who watches my own reflection deteriorate after being trapped in this unhealthy environment for so long."

For a moment, you let go of the rigid posture of a doctor, of the absolute authority in the room. For a few seconds, you were just... you.

"But I am here. In this horrible place, by the way. I miss my home too, my parents, seeing a beautiful sky without feeling cold, being with my friends, not being surrounded by constant noise, eating something that doesn’t taste like ash. I feel sad, too. I want to go silent for days, too. I feel hatred, too."

That approach was certainly not the most appropriate. But something shifted in each face present in the room.

For a moment, they saw familiarity. They saw themselves as nothing more than human.

"Wearing a white coat doesn’t change the fact that I’m also made of flesh and bone. Feeling emotions like these is normal for anyone. No one deserves more or less, no one suffers more or less. If you’re breathing, feeling is your right."

With your fists clenched on your thighs, you turned your gaze to them.

"Here, all of you are the same. You’ve all committed crimes, you all have questionable conduct. There’s not a single one of you who stands out. So, as a homework assignment, see yourselves as human beings who can, yes, feel hatred and be hated, but above all, try to find the root of that feeling… if it really exists."

The room fell silent once more, but now the atmosphere had changed. It was no longer just about hatred, nor about therapy. Now, there was a silent battle between you and Noah. But he didn’t yield. His almost invisible smile appeared again, like a silent challenge.
All the patients stood up when the session was officially over and began slowly heading toward the exit, except for him. You finally breathed a little easier as you watched the room empty, even though you were still in the presence of the tattooed demon.

With slow, snake-like steps, he rose from his seat and started walking toward the door, but you used your anger as fuel and moved quickly, blocking his path. The tall, apathetic man stared down at you as if his irises could pierce your body in half, and his only reaction was to take a shallow breath.

"You can’t just pretend that night never happened, Noah!" Your voice came out low, but filled with firmness as you stared at him with a sharp gaze. "You can’t stay silent and let them blame me for something I didn’t do!"

His words felt like a challenge, and Noah clearly didn’t like being pressed. With a swift motion, his hand grabbed your arm, twisting your bodies until your position was vulnerable against the wall. He leaned in slowly, reducing the distance between you until his brown eyes, now alight with a restless fire, were aligned with yours. For a moment, he simply stayed there, absorbing your broken breath as if it were a pleasant melody.

"And what are you going to do about it, doctor?" His voice was like poison wrapped in challenge as his finger idly played with a strand of your hair.

The way he delicately brought the strand to his nose and inhaled its scent disturbed you deeply.

"Your brilliant plan is to prove that I spoke to you?" He raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile forming. "But did I really speak? I have a feeling that, soon, you’ll be the last person in here whose word will hold any weight."

"What does that mean?"

"Did anyone tell you what happened to the last psychiatrist who sat in this same chair before you?"

"He resigned."

Noah laughed. A laugh full of something dangerous, but it was the gleam of his perfectly aligned teeth that, for a second, distracted you from the real danger he posed.

"Yes," he nodded, still smiling. "He resigned because he became a patient."

A chilling shiver ran down your spine.

"Your hatred for me, to the point where you want to drive me insane, makes no sense. Not when, since I got here, all I’ve tried to do is help you… try to be better than Dr. Rune." Your voice was firm, laden with a conviction that didn’t seem to shake Noah. He just tilted his head, evaluating your words.

"The problem is I didn’t ask for your help." His response came in an impatient growl. "I don’t care if you’re different from Rune. You’re all the same, and I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to tell my version, I don’t want to reopen my case, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear another diagnosis that’s just going to keep me far from the electric chair." His eyes burned with a venomous fervor. "What I want is for you to shut up, stay away from me, and stop acting like I’m the only patient in this damn place!"

"Is all of this because I remind you of her?"

Noah froze for a moment before letting out a sigh and rolling his eyes.

"Sweetheart…" The word came laced with sarcasm. "You definitely don’t remind me of her. And take that as the first and last compliment you’ll ever get from me."

Your brow furrowed. You couldn’t tell whether that was a relief or a new provocation.

"You seem resentful when you mention Rachel. Quite different from what I heard about your relationship with her…"

The shift in his expression from indifference to rage was immediate.

"Stop analyzing me." The words came out between clenched teeth, and you saw, from the corner of your eye, how his fists clenched.

"If you won’t talk to me, I’ll investigate and analyze you anyway, Noah. That’s my job, whether you cooperate or not. And your attempt to drive me insane?" You leaned your face in closer, keeping your gaze fixed on his. "It won’t work if I decide to dismantle your case piece by piece… just for the pleasure of doing it until I reach what you call your mind."

The silence between you two thickened.

"You don’t know me."

"And who said I'm the one who's going to drive you insane, doctor?" Noah's voice came laced with a delicate, almost amused tone. "You're already in the worst of hells. This place is cursed—it will drain your mind, blur the line between reality and illusion… You'll go mad all on your own, just by being here. If you love playing detective so much, why have you never read about the legend of Grimshade?"

"You're trying to change the subject." You cut him off, adjusting your posture, feeling your throat dry up.

"I'm giving you a warning. I'm the least of your problems here, babygirl."

Noah blinked slowly before lifting a strand of your hair to his nose, inhaling your scent one last time before letting it slip from his fingers. Then, he stepped away, walking toward the door with his usual arrogant confidence—until he stopped abruptly.

The air around him seemed to shift.

The relaxed posture vanished, his shoulders stiffened, and his feet seemed rooted to the ground as a blond man, about his height, appeared in the hallway. His glasses reflected the cold light of the environment, but it was the wide, calculated smile that truly shattered Noah’s trance.

"How are you, Noah?" Dr. Rune’s voice came with a disturbingly smooth tone.

Noah didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Before he could react, one of the guards grabbed his arm, forcing him to follow the other patients down the corridor.

The psychiatrist didn’t even glance back. He simply tilted his chin slightly in your direction, a brief, almost casual gesture.

"How about a coffee?"

In the cafeteria, a few curious gazes still lingered on you, and for a moment, you wished you knew what kind of gossip and absurd rumors must have been circulating about you. Rune ordered a black coffee, and you a hot chocolate. He led you to an empty table, yet it seemed impossible to shake off the last few minutes from your mind.

That man was the real curse, not Grimshade.

"How was the group session?" Rune asked, placing his cup on the table with a controlled gesture. "Since it was your first time, I should have assisted you, but I was caught up with a case."

"It was a disaster. If Dr. Steve wanted to punish me, he played his best card."

"So the doctor has social anxiety..."

The remark came accompanied by an analytical gaze, as if he had just extracted a diagnosis in mere five minutes of conversation. That was the worst part of being constantly surrounded by professionals in the field—always ready to categorize any perceptible trait. And ironically, you were no different.

"No, of course not!" You rushed to deny it.

Rune merely tilted his head, as if he had just confirmed his suspicion.

"Understandable. Handling patients inside a closed office is one thing, speaking to them in public is another. Steve might have been testing your composure… Since it was a disaster, maybe it’s better to stick to what you’re used to."

Always so encouraging.

"At university, I dealt with less reactive patients. Here, every word I choose could be a death sentence—one slip, and I might end up with a pencil lodged in my jugular." You blinked slowly, feeling the weight of your own words.

Rune didn’t show any surprise. He simply traced the rim of his cup with his index finger, his eyes assessing you as if he were dissecting a predictable puzzle.

"You settled for handling less complex dilemmas because you're afraid of facing real challenges." The statement was cold, unwavering. "You're insecure enough to come across as… lazy, yet easily intimidated. You have little autonomy in decision-making, and I’d bet even the topic of your final thesis wasn’t chosen by you."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he continued, relentless.

"Overprotective mother. The only time you left home was for university, where you barely made any friends. You struggle to fit into social circles, which explains why you haven’t built any relationships here. The need to speak in public suffocates and embarrasses you. And even the slightest sensation of danger is something new to you—so new that it becomes fascinating. In time, that fascination will turn into obsession."

He lifted his gaze, as if he had already reached his conclusion.

"Am I wrong?"

You smiled, shaking your head slowly from side to side, mirroring Rune's gesture as you narrowed your eyes. Audacious, arrogant, and ridiculously rude. He was everything you weren’t when confidence filled him to the core.

"You're giving me space to analyze you too, Dr. Rune."

He raised an eyebrow slightly, an almost challenging smirk playing on his lips.

"I'm looking forward to it."

You tilted your head, taking in every detail of him before speaking.

"You would have an enviable confidence… if it weren’t so clearly the result of forced maturity." You paused, observing the subtle way he inhaled, as if bracing his mind to dismantle your analysis before even hearing it. "You felt abandoned to the point of building your own armor. You have no friends because you struggle to trust even your own shadow. Your sharp tongue and calculated posture are nothing but a mask to hide the silent hatred burning in your blue eyes."

Rune didn’t smile this time.

"You feel a constant need to prove yourself exceptional at what you do—like every achievement is an answer to an absence." You leaned forward slightly. "Possibly, your inner child still bleeds from the lack of recognition from your parents. It made you self-sufficient, but deep down, you still nurture the secret desire to make them proud in some way."

You watched him for a moment before finishing:

"Am I wrong?"

For the first time since you arrived at Grimshade, you accomplished the unthinkable: you left Travis Rune in silence.

He didn’t deny it, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t immediately counter with a sharp analysis. He just stood there, motionless, processing every word you had thrown at him.

Then, after a few seconds that seemed to stretch on, he pulled the corner of his lips into a tight, almost forced smile.

"Interesting…" His voice was low but still carried his usual tone. "You’d make an excellent psychiatrist."

"Thanks." You shrugged.

No awkwardness settled between you—on the contrary. The conversation continued without tension, almost naturally, as if the verbal clash in the cafeteria had established a new dynamic between you two.

When you left the cafeteria, Rune surprisingly allowed you to accompany him on a few visits to medium-risk patients. For most of the afternoon, you walked the corridors of Grimshade together.

"You never did tell me if your little moment alone with Noah led to anything."

The remark was casual, but you caught the curiosity hidden beneath it.

"He clearly did what he did to push me away from the case. He doesn’t want treatment, which explains the vow of silence he’s been keeping." You paused for a second, furrowing your brows. "But one thing stood out to me. He said, word for word, that I definitely don’t resemble Rachel. What did he mean by that?"

You cast a glance at Rune, who simply shrugged.

"You two share some subtle physical similarities, but your personalities might be completely different. When you visited the fraternity, did you find anything relevant about her?"

"Just that their relationship was happy. And that she cared about him..."

Travis’s low chuckle cut your sentence short.

"If it was happy, he wouldn’t have killed her."

That was a hard point to ignore.

You wetted your lips, recalling Noah’s expression.

"You should’ve seen him. When I mentioned Rachel, he completely changed..." You hesitated, trying to put into words what you had felt. "It was so different from what Patrick told me at the fraternity. It’s like… talking about Rachel transforms him."

"Well, I think you have the perfect opportunity in your hands." Travis tapped his index finger against his temple, a crooked smile forming on his lips. "Make a deal: drop your obsession with his case, and in return, he clears your ass of Tom Harrow’s murder. Simple."

You frowned.

"But..."

"But nothing, doctor!" He cut you off firmly. "I understand that his case might trigger your sense of justice, but life isn’t always a movie where the protagonist is wrongly accused of something they didn’t do. Digging into this won’t change anything for you. He’s here for a reason, he has a diagnosis, and at the end of the day, he’s just another patient."

Travis leaned slightly toward you, his voice lower but just as incisive.

"Get rid of him."

Your eyes met for a few seconds. Rune was impossible to read. His expression was cold and neutral, but something was off. It was too convenient for him that you’d just drop the case.

Since arriving at Grimshade, Travis had been hiding things from you—about your resemblance to Rachel, about the real reason the former psychiatrist was dismissed. He wasn’t as trustworthy as he made himself seem.

You took a deep breath, crossing your fingers over your chest as if sealing a silent promise.

"One last question, Dr. Rune."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Of course."

"Who was the psychiatrist who signed Noah’s diagnosis report?"

The same report you knew had been bought by his family.

Travis didn’t hesitate.

"Me."

Your stomach sank.

"Right."

You nodded, keeping your posture indifferent, and continued walking down the corridor. As you descended the stairs, you could feel the invisible weight of Rune’s gaze on your back.

But your mind hammered on a single certainty.

That diagnosis hadn’t been fabricated overnight just to shove Noah in there.

It had already existed.

And it had been altered.

Chapter Text

"Your body was there, submerged in the warm water of the bathtub, but your mind floated far away, drifting between scattered thoughts. With your eyes closed, you forced yourself to empty your mind, to escape, even if only for a few seconds.

Any daydream seemed more appealing than reality.

Your fingers glided over the water’s surface, tracing invisible paths. Deep in your subconscious, you saw yourself immersed in a river of crystalline waters, the thin fabric of your nightgown clinging to your skin as the current wrapped around your body.

It was too comfortable. Almost natural.

Above you, a gray sky stretched endlessly—no sun, no horizon. A dense mist spread like a veil, punishing anyone who dared to see beyond. Bare trees raised twisted branches around you, and between them, flocks of black birds tore through the sky, forming a noisy procession, coming and going like omens.

Every stroke, aimless, subtly altered the reality around you, but you only noticed when the clear water began to darken. The turquoise deepened into navy blue, and then, in a matter of seconds, turned into an opaque, bottomless black.

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as you tried to determine if it was just a trick of your mind. But no—the river was black.

Black like the birds that cut through the sky above you.

And then, the silence shattered.

The birds’ caws morphed into an agonizing screech, like metal being dragged across a rough surface. The sound pierced your ears like splinters, making your skin prickle, your chest tighten, and your brain compress as if caught between crushing hands.

And that was enough to pull you back."

Your body jolted awake, lungs sucking in air as if you had just emerged from drowning, a dry sound tearing from your throat, your eyes flying open with the flood of dream images still spinning in your mind.

Still struggling to catch your breath, your eyes gradually returned to normal, and your shoulders relaxed. Strands of hair still clung to your face, and you ran your fingers through them, pushing them back.

That’s when you noticed something unusual.

Small pink droplets slid slowly from your damp strands, trickling down your skin, tracing a path until they reached your thighs.

The water was no longer warm.

No longer clear.

The liquid surrounding you was dense, viscous, and dyed a deep red—a crimson so intense it seemed to glow under the dim bathroom light. Your arms floated on the ruby surface, your hands coated in the thick substance, slow carmine serpents slithering down your skin. A metallic scent filled your nostrils, heavy, nauseating, as if you were breathing in horror itself.

Your heartbeat pounded against your temples. Your chest rose and fell in growing panic.

And then, the fear erupted.

A wild, piercing scream tore from your throat, filling the bathroom and crashing against the cold walls, reverberating as if the room itself echoed your terror.

You lunged out of the bathtub in a desperate impulse, but your damp feet betrayed your haste. Your body slipped on the drenched floor, sliding along with the pinkish water spreading across the cold tiles.

Every movement was a battle against your own fear. Your body, weighed down by terror, seemed to drag itself forward, as if struggling to escape something unseen—something still lingering in the air, suffocating and real. Your knees and elbows scraped against the uneven ceramic, stinging from the impact, but the pain was drowned out by the panic pounding in your chest.

You crawled toward the wall beside the door, fingers trembling as you pushed your wet hair from your face. You took a deep breath before finally lifting your gaze, bracing yourself for the horrifying sight you expected to find.

But the shock silenced you once more.

The terror from seconds ago… had vanished.

The water scattered across the floor was crystal clear, odorless, with no trace of blood. Your damp skin bore no crimson stains, no sign that any of it had been real.

Your heart pounded so violently it felt like it was echoing through the walls. With unsteady steps, you crossed the room, nearly slipping on the smooth tiles, and stopped in front of the bathtub.

The floor reflected the dim bathroom light.

The remaining water was perfectly clear.

You let out a heavy sigh, rolling your shoulders back as if you could shake off the tension while combing your hair in front of the mirror.

"Never sleeping in the bathtub again… noted."

Your own voice sounded like a whisper in the vast silence of the room, a weak effort to bring rationality to what had just happened.

If your mother were here, she would certainly blame the nightmares and distorted visions on your habit of reading too many case files about murders before bed. Maybe she was right. But let’s be honest—no amount of reading could create something more disturbing than Grimshade itself. Staring at any corner of that hospital for too long was enough to leave invisible scars, to imprint the mind with images that were hard to forget.

And now, even your dreams were being contaminated.

"You're already in the worst of hells. This place is cursed—it will drain your mind, blur the line between real and illusion… You'll go insane on your own, just by being here. If you love playing detective so much, why have you never read about the legend of Grimshade?"

Noah’s voice echoed in your head, so vividly it felt like he was right behind you.

Your body tensed.

Then, you forced a smile. Small. Artificial.

You shook your head, pushing away the confusion as if it were just another intrusive thought. You knew the psychological effects a psychiatric hospital could have, even on the most lucid minds. It was a dense, heavy environment. But you were prepared. You never got involved in your cases more than necessary. They had no power to consume you.

You were not Grimshade.

And Grimshade would never be you.

-

In the hallways, you maintained a flawless appearance.

Polite smiles for your colleagues, a cordial nod to a few patients. Everything as expected. Everything under control.

On the clock, the hands were nearing 9 AM, and according to your schedule, you were about to face your first session of the day.

Noah.

Stopping in front of the door, you took a deep breath. You had spent the entire night tossing and turning, racking your brain for the simplest solution to your ongoing problem with him.

The aggressive approach didn’t work—he was as skittish as a stray cat. Challenging him wasn’t the best choice either; Noah always retaliated with equal recklessness, and you knew stepping into that game would be dangerous.

Only one option remained.

When he entered the room, cuffed, head down, his tattooed arms exposed beneath the white tank top, the guard showed no concern in shoving him into the chair. The impact didn’t seem to bother him. Only then did he slowly lift his head, dark strands falling over his eyes before he flicked them away with a subtle tilt of his head.

Expressionless.

Noah was unpredictable.

You never knew what to expect. If today he would ignore you like a religious pamphlet, threaten you like a gang member, or toy with the loose threads of your mind in a dangerous game of intimidation and seduction.

Without looking away, you gave a small nod to the guard, who obeyed the order and left the room.

Now, it was just the two of you.

Noah exhaled silently, relaxing his shoulders and sinking slightly deeper into the chair, his posture finally loosening.

Yet, he still remained silent.

"I don’t need much to tell you’re not happy to see me…" You started, spinning the pen between your fingers, breaking the silence with a controlled tone.

Noah only shrugged, his expression locked behind an icy wall.

You knew he would choose distance.

Visibly unsettled, you shifted in your chair, clenching your fists on the desk, your eyes now fixed in a silent warning.

"Despite your resistance, I will continue to be your psychiatrist, Noah," you said, your voice firm and incisive. "As long as you are a patient in this sanatorium and as long as I am employed here, you'll have to deal with that."

He didn’t react, yet his eyes followed your every movement.

"Unfortunately, I can't grant your wish to be left alone in your cell. I took an oath at my graduation never to deny treatment to a patient, and the sanatorium's policy requires that, unless a patient is in an inaccessible condition, they must have mandatory weekly sessions."

Despite his outward disinterest, there was something in his eyes that said otherwise—he was paying attention.

"But to improve our time together during these sessions, I have an offer to make."

You saw his eyebrow slowly lift, as if questioning where you were going with this.

"If you cooperate and engage in conversation, I won’t discuss your case anymore, much less use you as an interrogation subject. You’ll only say what you feel like saying."

There was something almost triumphant about the way he adjusted his posture, leaning slightly closer to the desk, his movements subtle. And then, with a gesture as small as it was dangerous, Noah’s index finger slid over a strand of your hair.

It was sickening. Terrible. Twisted.

A psychiatrist should never allow any kind of intimate contact with a patient—especially not a patient like Noah. But when he did it, when his eyes locked onto yours, it was as if you were trapped in a hypnotic spiral. Difficult to escape.

"I can accept your idea, doctor…" he said, his voice smooth as silk, while the strand of hair slid down to his nose, where he inhaled deeply. "But I choose the topic of our conversations."

"Agreed." You nodded, your tone decisive, trying to maintain composure while he kept watching you so intently. "What’s the topic of today’s session?"

"You."

"Me?"

"I'm genuinely curious to know more about you…" His voice floated through the air, soft, almost like a melody, while his gaze studied every part of your figure.

Noah had a commanding presence, as if every word he spoke carried a dangerous magnetism. That tone—seductive and razor-sharp—made your skin prickle, a sensation of discomfort mixed with something else you didn’t want to name, but it was there, pulsing, contaminating you in a disturbing way.

"What do you want to know?" you asked, trying to keep your composure, your voice lower and more controlled, as if you were trying to conceal the internal turmoil rising within you.

He released the strand of hair with a deliberate slowness, letting it fall beside your face, then leaned back into the chair with calculated ease, his cuffed wrists resting on his thighs. He looked comfortable, in control.

"Are you from here?" he asked, propping his chin on his hands, his gaze focused. "Are you from Blackridge?"

"N-no… I moved here after passing the selection process." Your response came out a bit faster than you expected. "I’m from Death Sea, a small town in northern Thorneveil."

"I thought Thorneveil was already a corpse," he mocked.

He wasn’t entirely wrong to be surprised. Your town was practically in an apocalyptic state. The workers’ strike had made resources scarce, and those with money had drained every organic source of income, leaving the unprepared in a desperate situation. Anyone without financial reserves was abandoned, forced to fight for every crumb.

Luckily, your parents had savings. They had always worked hard as public employees, which kept them stable amidst the chaos. Growing up in a comfortable life, with the financial security they could provide, almost felt like a privilege in those circumstances.

"Why did you choose to come here? You seem young, recently graduated, maybe… You could’ve found a job somewhere better."

You shrugged, a weak chuckle escaping.

"There wasn’t a better job, Noah… After I graduated, I needed to start paying off the student loans I took during college. I didn’t want to ask my parents for help; they had already done enough. So I started applying for every job I could find and took the first yes I got."

Noah tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on you.

"Have they visited you yet?"

"Not yet. My father isn't well enough to handle a trip like this, and my mother…" You let out a brief laugh. "Let’s just say she’d have a meltdown just from seeing this place. And honestly, you wouldn’t want to share a cell with a woman obsessed with cleanliness and a constant scent of eucalyptus in her nose."

A different gleam crossed Noah’s gaze, and for a moment, you almost believed you saw a genuine smile forming at the corner of his lips.

"Are they your only family?"

"Yes. I'm not one to have many friends, and the few I do have... I think I've been out of touch for so long they must have forgotten me."

He tilted his head slightly. "And a boyfriend?"

"I don’t have one."

"But you had one." His chin subtly pointed toward your hand, specifically at the faint, pale mark on your ring finger. "Where is he now?"

"Our relationship started in college. He decided to pursue his career elsewhere, and I chose not to go with him."

"Why?"

"Because that was his dream, not mine." Your response came firm, without the intention of sounding harsh, but it certainly did. "He had a guaranteed job, friends, a home waiting for him. If I had gone, I would have been giving up everything to live in the shadow of his plans, relying on a country that wasn’t mine, far from my family. He had people to turn to if he failed, and me? I would have had to rebuild myself from scratch. It wasn’t fair."

"So you stayed out of fear."

"I stayed because I knew exactly what I wanted for my life. I had my own goals, and I wasn’t going to shape them to fit his."

Noah analyzed every word, as if savoring the answer.

"And did he accept that?"

"No. He said my worldview was small for choosing to stay in a safe place rather than taking a risk out there."

Noah fell silent for a moment.

"But you don’t seem regretful."

"Because I’m not." You held his gaze. "I did what I had to do."

He nodded slowly, sinking you both into a momentary silence. Time in the room was running out, and you knew you couldn't waste this opportunity.

"So, how about we make our agreement fairer for both of us?" Your voice cut through the silence, drawing his attention back to you. "Our sessions can follow whatever topics you choose, but at the end of each one, I get the right to ask a single question. A question about your life, just like you did with me."

Noah raised an eyebrow but didn’t show any irritation.

"I’m not going to open up to you like this is some normal therapy session on a random Wednesday."

"That’s fine," you countered, keeping your voice deliberately soft. "I just need you to answer with a simple yes or no."

For some reason, he hesitated. His jaw tightened slightly, and for a brief moment, you noticed a trace of discomfort in his posture. That was a victory.

"Okay. Ask."

You took a deep breath, mentally filtering through the flood of questions you could ask. Caution was necessary. The chance of getting anything was slim, and wasting it on the wrong question would be unforgivable.

"Did you and Rachel have a happy relationship?"

The change was immediate. Noah absorbed your words as if he had been pulled into a deep, dark abyss. His gaze, once sharp and focused, turned hazy, lost in a sea of thoughts that dragged him far away from the room.

The line of his jaw tensed. His expression hardened.

"No." The word came out low, almost inaudible.

Before you could react, the door opened, and one of the guards entered to escort him back. Noah didn’t look back, didn’t offer a final glance or expression. He simply stood up and followed the guard, allowing himself to be taken away.

But that didn’t matter.

You would see him again soon.

And you already knew what your next question would be.

-

Your theory was solidifying with more force with each new piece of this puzzle. Noah’s version and the one told at the fraternity not only diverged, but seemed to belong to completely different stories.
He and Rachel definitely had a troubled relationship. Enough to motivate a murder? Maybe. But even homicidal impulses, even in psychopathic minds, usually require a trigger—something that unlocks something deep, primal.

So what, after all, could his have been?

If Noah was really like they described him in the fraternity, someone charismatic, engaging, and with a dominant nature, it would be hard to picture him as an impulsive killer. Someone like him—if guilty—would have planned it, made sure each piece was in place before acting.

This story still had a missing gap.

If Noah truly fit the profile of an abulic psychopath, that type of personality wasn’t driven solely by internal impulses, but also by the influence of the environment, peer pressure, and the surroundings. He could have committed the crime not out of a genuine desire to kill, but because he was led to it—persuaded, pressured, or manipulated in some way.

If that was the case, then he wasn’t alone.

This would open two equally disturbing possibilities: someone instigated him to commit the murder, or he was just a piece in something larger, perhaps even a scapegoat.

But who would have that power over Noah? And why?

If he were as impressionable as the diagnosis suggested, then the real threat might not be in his cell… but out there.

Noah didn’t fit the mold.

You squinted and massaged your temples, trying to dissipate the fog of frustration clouding your thoughts. Nothing made sense.

A typical psychopath would take pride in their superiority, sharp intelligence, and control over their own narrative. They didn’t bow to fate, they didn’t accept being swallowed by the system without at least an attempt to resist. But Noah? He was simply there. Indifferent.
Either he was different from what they imagined, or there was something more—something he didn’t want to, or couldn’t, reveal.

You stacked the papers, trying to ignore the throbbing in your head. Your diagnosis was incomplete. And worse, the missing piece in this equation might be the very key to understanding whether Noah was a murderer or just a man swallowed by something far darker.

Tying your hair up into a high bun, you left the room in search of some air. The sanatorium continued in its chaotic rhythm—patients flailing, sharp screams echoing through the halls as nurses tried to contain them. You crossed the long hallway, lit by the large glass windows revealing the outside area.

Your mind, whenever it remembered the files, couldn’t help but circle around a thought that, ironically, bordered on the comical—although there was nothing funny about it. If Noah really had a diagnosable mental condition, like abulic psychopathy, why would anyone need to forge a report?

Unless…

Unless his true diagnosis wasn’t convincing enough to keep him out of prison. Maybe he needed something more “palatable” to guarantee his internment there. After all, that place didn’t operate solely on science and medicine—in Blackridge, traditionalism still reigned over reason. Not everything was accepted so easily.

On the third floor of the sanatorium was the archive room, where the files of all the patients who had passed through Grimshade were stored. Ideally, as in any storeroom, there should have been someone responsible for organizing and maintaining the space, but it came as no surprise to find it completely empty and abandoned.

Hundreds of folders scattered amid piles of disordered papers, a thick layer of dust covering everything, making your nose itch in an irritating way. While avoiding the old files, identifiable by the yellowed texture of the paper, you moved firmly through the room, between high shelves with built-in drawers. Through the window, the late afternoon painted the sky in dark hues, a sign that night would fall soon. Anticipating that, you switched on the light—but nothing happened. You tried again. And again. The lights stayed off.

Swallowing hard, you knew you needed to be quick. Find the file and get out before the darkness made the search impossible.

Following the alphabetical order, your fingers slid along the shelf until they reached the letter N. You scanned the names one by one until you reached Noah’s—well, where it should have been. The empty space before your eyes made your stomach twist.

A frustrated sigh escaped your lips as you tapped the side of the shelf.

“Hell!” you muttered, running your fingers across your forehead.

That question was eating away at your sanity, it was undeniable. Your thoughts revolved around a single point: Noah. The case. The gaps that insisted on remaining open. How to turn the game around? How to find the truth? Obsession took over you in an almost irrational way, as if it were your responsibility to prove something, as if the guilt were yours. In the end, you wanted Noah’s innocence more than he did himself.

“Who the hell would have an interest in stealing this?” you wondered, chewing on your index fingernail.

You took a deep breath, trying to control your irritation, but then a flash of an idea crossed your mind.

The newly registered files? Those would be on the first shelves.

With renewed urgency, your fingers slid back across the files. You searched through each folder, reviewed the names once, twice, sixteen times. Frustration climbed with each passing second, and the sense of urgency made your chest race. Sweat gathered on your temples, and your breathing grew irregular.

Then, a file fell to the ground.

For a moment, you held your breath.

Please.

You bent down, pushing the strands of hair sticking to your forehead aside, and picked up the paper with trembling hands.

It wasn’t Noah.

It was Elias Faulkner.

Driven by curiosity and the lack of success in your last search, you decided to open the file.

GRIMSHADE PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE
MEDICAL FILE – RESTRICTED ARCHIVE

Name: Dr. Elias Faulkner
Admission Date: March 14, 2023
Dismissal Date: December 21, 2023
Reason for Dismissal: Severe cognitive decline, acute psychotic episode.
Last Clinical Note: Intermittent catatonic state.

PROFESSIONAL HISTORY

Dr. Elias Faulkner joined Grimshade as a clinical psychiatrist specializing in dissociative disorders. Known for his rigorous and investigative approach, he showed particular interest in cases of patients presenting symptoms of amnesia and psychopathy.
In the early months, Faulkner requested access to the historical files of the sanatorium, seeking patterns between the old patients and the more recent ones. He became particularly obsessed with a group of records with no clear identification—sealed documents that only mentioned “Inominable Patients.”

PSYCHOLOGICAL DECLINE
Early Symptoms (May 2023)

- Reports of severe insomnia and recurring nightmares.
- Comments about the feeling of being watched inside the facilities, even in isolated areas.
- Episodes of spatial disorientation within the sanatorium, claiming hallways seemed to shift places.

Critical Phase (August 2023)

- Reports from colleagues indicate that Faulkner began to avoid mirrors and reflective surfaces.
- He was found in a state of shock after an episode where he claimed to have seen himself inside an empty cell.
- Notes in his personal diary revealed repeated phrases such as:
“The reflection watches me, but it’s not me.”
“They’re inside me. How many of me are there?”

Collapse and Dismissal (December 2023)

- During a meeting with the team, Dr. Faulkner entered an extreme dissociative state, unable to recognize colleagues or himself.
- He was found wandering the halls muttering in a neutral tone: “Elias Faulkner. That name doesn’t belong to me.”
- Transferred to an isolation ward, where he spent the following days in a semi-catatonic state, refusing to speak or respond to external stimuli.

Your eyes widened, and in a near-involuntary reflex, you dropped the file onto the nearest wooden surface you found. The shock coursed through your body like an electric shock, your legs froze, refusing to obey. Your mind spun as it processed what you had just read.

Dr. Faulkner.

The name burned in your consciousness. He was the doctor Noah had mentioned in group therapy.

“You’re already in the worst of hell. This place is cursed, it will drain your mind, blur the line between the real and the illusory… You’ll go crazy just for being here. If you love playing detective so much, why haven’t you read about the Grimshade legend?”

Noah’s voice echoed in your mind, pulling you from your trance. Your gaze shot to the windows—there was no more daylight. The stuffy room was now immersed in darkness, and a cold shiver ran down your spine.

Your body reacted before your mind could formulate a plan. With nerves on edge, you ran to the door and grabbed the doorknob tightly. Pulled. Pushed. Nothing.

Despair settled in the instant you realized the door was stuck. A hoarse scream tore through your throat, echoing in the emptiness of the archive room.

Chapter Text

Your fingers trembled around the cold doorknob, the icy metal pressing against your adrenaline-heated skin. You tried again. And again. But the door remained motionless, as if Grimshade itself were holding it shut, refusing to let you leave. The air in the archive room felt heavier, and invisible whispers brushed against the nape of your neck.

Darkness swallowed the space around you, an oppressive void growing denser with each passing second. The only light came from the gap beneath the door—a pale, distant sliver, utterly insufficient to ease the tightness in your chest. Your breathing quickened, short and uneven. You swallowed hard, trying to control the suffocating sensation creeping up your throat. But panic was a wild animal inside you, scratching, tearing, desperate to escape.

“Shit… Shit!” Your voice came out broken, a mix of desperation and fury.

The palm of your hand slammed against the hard wood. Once. Twice. Nothing. The silence in the room was maddening, as if unseen eyes were watching, shadows trapped between the dust-covered files. A shiver crawled down your spine—the overwhelming feeling that something—or someone—was there, waiting.

You twisted the doorknob again, pulling harder, feeling your knuckles ache. But the door didn’t budge, not even an inch.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frantic, as if it wanted to burst out, as if you were trapped in a fragment of distorted reality where each second stretched into eternity.

Heat surged through your body, burning from the inside out, an electric frenzy of fear and desperation. You staggered back two steps, eyes scanning the oppressive darkness around you. Your chest rose and fell violently, blood roaring in your ears.

That was when you felt it.

The sensation of something behind you.

Icy dread sliding down your spine.

The scent of old paper mingling with something damp, rust… blood?

A choked sob escaped your throat before you could stop it. You whirled around, shadows dancing at the edges of your vision. But there was nothing. Only the suffocating emptiness of the room.

Panic overflowed.

Your body moved before your mind could form a coherent thought. You lunged at the door again, pounding on it with all your strength, fists burning, the wood cracking under the force of your blows.

“SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE!” The scream ripped from your throat, raw, visceral—a cry of pure desperation that echoed off the walls.

Hot tears burned your eyes, your vision wavering between terror and exhaustion. You swallowed down the sobs, but the knot in your throat was crushing, a suffocating weight stealing your breath.

Then, without warning, the doorknob turned on its own.

You froze.

Ice flooded your veins.

Time stopped.

Then—a click. The door swung open with a jolt, nearly throwing you off balance. Fresh air from the corridor rushed in, mixing with the stifling heat of the room, and you stumbled forward, chest heaving, legs weak.

Drained of strength, you wiped the stubborn tears from your face with the sleeve of your coat and broke into a desperate run. Your feet tripped over their own rhythm, driven more by terror than by the endurance of your exhausted body. The world around you blurred into shifting shadows, formless figures blending into the darkness of the corridor.

Each step was a battle against the cramp pulsing in your calf, but you didn’t stop. You only let your body collapse when you reached your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

You slid down against the cold wood, lungs burning with ragged breaths. Wide eyes darted around the room, searching for something to anchor you to reality. With trembling fingers, you dug your nails into your own arm, pinching hard.

Nothing changed. No sudden break in the illusion, no abrupt awakening.

This wasn’t a nightmare.

Everything that had just happened was real.

-

You woke up feeling shattered, every muscle protesting against even the slightest attempt at movement. Your eyes opened reluctantly, heavy, as a low groan slipped from your lips. Who would have thought that sleeping on the floor would come at such a high price?

With effort, you forced yourself to stand and realized you hadn’t even taken off your coat from the night before. The wrinkled fabric clung uncomfortably to your skin, and your head throbbed with each step toward the bathroom, as if a cruel hangover were punishing you.

The mirror reflected nothing but exhaustion. No cuts, no bruises—nothing to suggest a real attack. As difficult as it was to accept, you had to convince yourself that the episode in the records room had been nothing more than a moment of heightened tension. A stuck door. An oppressive environment. An exhausted mind that amplified the weight of the situation.

Nothing more than that.

"But what about Elias’s file? The one you found?" The nagging voice of your conscience whispered as the soap slipped between your fingers.

Warm water cascaded through your hair, dripping from your lips, but the cold wind seeping through the jammed window sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. Your teeth clashed together, and your thoughts tangled into a spiral of unsettling possibilities.

Maybe Elias’s case was just an unfortunate coincidence. A man predisposed to psychosis who encountered a trigger strong enough to push him over the edge.

Yes… just that.

You left your room determined to pretend the previous day had never happened. In the cafeteria, you had a strong cup of coffee while scanning your clipboard—just routine appointments, nothing out of the ordinary.

“Girl, we work in the same place, and I almost never see you!”

Sloan’s cheerful voice broke through the air, loud enough to nearly make you jump. You had been so engrossed in your schedule that the sudden interruption hit like a shock.

You lifted your gaze to her and managed an automatic smile. For a moment, you found yourself analyzing the girl in her nurse’s uniform, wondering if she knew something. If she had seen you running the night before. If she had ever witnessed anything unusual in the records room. But you kept those questions to yourself.

"Yeah… I've just been so busy," you replied, offering a half-hearted smile.

Sloan didn’t even wait for an invitation—she sat across from you as if it were her rightful place.

“You look tense. I was going to invite you out for drinks in town, but this week has been hell with the new patients.”

“Good call… I’m not really in the mood to go out.”

Sloan pouted in dissatisfaction, resting her chin in her hands.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She seemed genuinely interested. That unsettled you a bit. In university, you had a small, selective group of friends, but nothing that extended beyond academic obligations and a few events you attended just to feel part of something. You weren’t used to this kind of casual female attention—the idea of someone wanting to be your friend without a practical reason.

You changed the subject.

“You mentioned registering the new patients. Those records go to the third-floor archives, right?”

It was stronger than you—in the end, everything circled back to work.

“The newest ones stay downstairs until the attending psychiatrist signs them off,” Sloan replied absentmindedly, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers.

“Funny… Given how long Noah has been here, he should have already been signed off by the psychiatrist in charge. But I couldn’t find anything on him in the archive room. I have a file, but I wanted to check how he was first registered when he arrived at Grimshade.”

“Then it’s probably with Dr. Steve.” Sloan shrugged before standing up. “The old man likes to keep whatever he considers important… wouldn’t be surprised if he held onto Noah’s case because of all the commotion.”

“Why not Dr. Rune?” you asked without any particular intention.

“He would’ve been a good option, but Dr. Rune barely interacted with Noah, as far as I know. He handled the case while Noah was still in prison awaiting trial and was the one who gave the diagnosis that got him transferred here. But when he arrived at Grimshade… Rune wasn’t in charge anymore, remember? He was taken off the case because he didn’t get along with him.”

Sloan paused for a moment, as if reprocessing the information, then simply shrugged.

“Yeah, so Noah’s file is definitely with Dr. Steve,” she repeated.

You nodded slowly.

“Thanks for the help, Sloan.”

Without warning, the girl leaned in and placed a quick kiss on your cheek.

“See you later!” she chirped before walking away, light and carefree, leaving you behind—more restless than ever.

Between one patient and another, you found a moment to review your schedule and noticed something unusual—Noah’s appointment had been rescheduled for later than usual. In an environment like that, any change in routine was reason for suspicion.

Without hesitation, you picked up the phone on the desk, used only for internal communication, and dialed the extension for the Hidden tower. After a few rings, the head of the day shift security answered.

“Hello, this is administration. I noticed that a patient’s schedule was changed, and I’d like to understand the reason. His name is Noah, and…”

“He has a scheduled visit today, so his times were adjusted,” the guard interrupted.

“A visit?”

“Yes, his sister is coming to see him.”

The information caught you off guard. There had never been any mention of a sister, and as far as you knew, no one cared enough to visit him. But here was your golden opportunity—someone from his family, finally present.

“Understood. Could you tell me what time the visit is scheduled for?”

“In 35 minutes,” he replied before hanging up.

Enough time to make sure you’d be there.

Inside the abandoned interrogation room of the Hidden, you fought against nausea, sitting beside a massive mold stain creeping across the wall. The table in front of you was so filthy it looked like it could glue your fingers to the wood, and the monitor displaying the visitation room was so outdated that it still showed black-and-white images. Everything in that place was repulsive—the stale air, thick with dampness, the greenish slime crusting down the walls, triggering a growing sickness in your stomach.

They really took the concept of punishment to another level.

“No sound?” you asked the guard, who was adjusting the screen with a piece of wire, trying to improve the image. Now, you could clearly see Noah sitting on one side of the table and, across from him, a girl.

“Does madam also want me to bring her a snack? I shouldn’t even be showing this. These images are only released with a court order,” he grumbled, letting go of the wire and stepping back.

“So, no sound?” you repeated, ignoring his sarcasm.

“No, no sound,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

Alright. You’d have to rely on your talent for reading body language.

The girl was visibly anxious to see him. She had barely sat down before trying to hold his hand in a gesture of affection, but Noah pulled away. He wasn’t having a good day—not that he had ever had one since arriving there. His face remained expressionless, his gaze hard, fixed on her without the slightest flicker of emotion. On the other side of the table, the young woman watched him with melancholy, speaking nonstop, searching desperately for any opening that might draw something out of him beyond that coldness. But it was useless.

You didn’t blink the entire time, determined not to miss a single detail. And yet, Noah didn’t say a single word. He only observed her with an unsettling apathy, his eyes scanning every inch of her, as if searching for something. For a moment, you wondered if he was struggling to recognize her. Places like this had a way of distorting the senses, confusing memories. But that wasn’t it. In truth, what was written on his face was something deeper—a deep-seated disillusionment, a resentment that she, too, could see, making her shrink in her chair.

Her body language radiated shame—rubbing her arms, biting her lip, jumping from one topic to another without success, discreetly wiping her damp eyes twice. And then, just as you were completely absorbed in analyzing every detail, a loud bang snapped you out of your trance.

On the screen, Noah had slammed his hand against the table before abruptly standing up, turning on his heels, and pounding on the door for the guard to let him out. He didn’t spare her a final glance, didn’t hesitate. He just turned his back, without a shred of remorse.

Your steps were quick as you left the isolated room behind, cutting around the back of the Hidden and taking a shortcut along the side. The overgrown weeds, long neglected, brushed against your legs, and the relentless buzzing of blowflies made the air even more suffocating. When you finally reached the main entrance, you saw the girl walking out.

She walked with slumped shoulders, a suppressed sob caught in her throat, her uneven breathing betraying recent tears.

“Hey…” you called softly, unsure if she would hear you. But when her steps faltered for just a second, you knew she had.

Quickly, she tucked her hair behind her ears, repositioned her glasses, and swallowed hard before continuing. Summoning courage, she reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a handkerchief, extending it to the girl as soon as she stepped closer.

“Th-thank you.” The young woman took the handkerchief and squeezed it between her fingers, without much conviction.

“I understand your reaction. This place isn’t the easiest to visit.”

She remained withdrawn, pulling her coat tighter around herself and taking a deep breath in an attempt to control her tears. Her face had an almost unreal delicacy, angelic like a porcelain doll. Her round, slightly upturned eyes gleamed brown under the cold light, and her pale, porcelain-like skin was tinged with a soft red on her cheeks—a mixture of the cold and her emotions.

“I don’t think it was the place,” she murmured with a bitter smile. “Honestly, that was the least of my problems today. I was visiting my brother…”

You walked alongside her as she resumed moving, feigning surprise.

“Brother?”

“Yes, Noah… I believe you know him.”

“Oh, what a coincidence.” You remarked, eyeing her curiously. “He’s my patient.”

From the side, you noticed when she studied you more intently, her eyes scanning you from head to toe before settling on your face.

“Would you mind if we talked for a few minutes? I promise I won’t take up much of your time.” Your voice came out gentle, trying to establish a tone of trust.

Farther ahead, in the garden where patients wandered aimlessly amidst the overgrown landscape, you found an isolated table. She hesitated but soon agreed to join you.

“I apologize for the indiscretion of approaching you outside the Hidden… I barely asked your name, but I felt like I needed to help you.” You tilted your head slightly, trying to sound understanding.

“Cianan. My name is Cianan Blackridge.” Her voice was so soft and delicate that it demanded your full attention to understand.

“I was surprised to see you here, Cianan. Since I started treating your brother, I’ve noticed he doesn’t usually get visitors…”

“Why are you treating him?” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes with a hint of suspicion. “Noah already had a psychiatrist. We weren’t notified that this changed.”

Taking a deep breath, you intertwined your fingers on the table. Cianan, on the other hand, remained withdrawn, as if trying to maintain her distance.

“His psychiatrist was Dr. Rune—I assume that’s who you’re referring to. But he was removed from the case during the trial period. There were many conflicts between them during the sessions, and their relationship became unworkable. To prevent his treatment from being compromised, the administration decided to replace him.”

She lowered her eyes, gripping the handkerchief she still held. “I came here in secret. My parents aren’t in town. If they were, my father would never have allowed me to come.”

“Your brother didn’t seem to react well to your visit.”

“Apparently… no.” Cianan’s smile appeared, but her eyes remained heavy with sadness.

“From the way you’re shaken, I imagine it didn’t go as you expected… did it?”

You never had siblings and had no idea what that relationship was like, but you noticed that, like Noah, Cianan was wary of random approaches. The difference was that, when it came to family bonds, she was easier to reach.

“The man in that cell now is very different from my brother… I can assure you of that.” She sniffled, drawing in a breath before continuing. “Noah always made up for our parents’ absence. They were always busy, distant… but he wasn’t. He cared about my grades, kept an eye on me when I got sick, but he hated scolding me.”

She let out a weak laugh, and for a moment, you almost smiled too.

“No matter what I did wrong, he never raised his voice at me. His patience with me was almost surreal… Even on his worst days, he never let it show.” She paused, then hesitantly added, “You, as a psychiatrist, must know that’s not exactly healthy, right?”

“Yes.” You cleared your throat before responding. “He wrapped you in crystal, protected you to the point that he may have never allowed you to see his own pain. You grew up seeing a superhero, not a brother who had his own struggles.”

“I miss him.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

Cianan averted her gaze and clasped her hands tightly on the table. Her voice trembled in her next confession:

"I’ve never seen him look at me like that… As if I were a monster. As if he hated me… or didn’t recognize me. I’ve always been careful to be someone he could be proud of. But today, even without saying a single word, he looked so disappointed.”

“Well, he’s been here for a while without any visitors, which explains the negative reaction. Noah felt abandoned.”

“I tried to see him when he was still in prison. He refused every visit. Mom also tried calling, but he never picked up. Noah doesn’t want to be tied to us anymore… to our surname. He rejected us before Dad had the chance to do it himself.”

“I imagine this whole situation has affected your father a lot.”

Cianan let out a short, humorless laugh. “He was furious. Dad doesn’t like seeing our name in crime headlines. We’ve spent over three centuries protecting our reputation.”

You believed her. The girl looked like a wax sculpture—motionless, delicate, controlled.

“To him, it doesn’t matter whose fault it is, Doctor.” Her smile appeared, but her eyes remained heavy with sorrow. “He says this matter needs to disappear. Only then will things go back to normal, and the Embley family will take us off their radar.”

You frowned.

“Sorry, I’m not sure I understand…”

“The Blackrigdes and the Embleys have been allies for centuries in the civilization my family helped build on the island. Since its discovery, we have shared this territory. The peace agreement between the families was sealed when the first Blackridge married an Embley. The union of fortunes and bloodlines made us a single clan. That’s the tradition.”

For a moment, your mind seemed to stall. The way Cianan spoke made it feel like you had been thrown centuries into the past. Was marriage for convenience still so common within these families?

As you got lost in thought, you noticed Cianan resting her hands on the table. On the ring finger of her right hand, a diamond shone—large, yet delicate and elegant, without seeming extravagant.

That was when the memory surfaced: Noah had reacted to seeing her hand in the visitation room.

He had been shaken when he realized his sister was engaged.

“Congratulations on your engagement.” You remarked, offering a faint smile and gesturing toward the jewel with a subtle tilt of your chin.

“Oh… thank you.” She responded, fidgeting with the ring with slight hesitation, a shy, restrained smile on her lips.

Cianan took a deep breath before continuing.

“I’m marrying Richard Embley… Rachel’s brother.”

For a moment, you remained silent, absorbing that information. So that was it.

The alliance between the families was being maintained, regardless of what had happened between Noah and Rachel.

Cianan noticed your reaction and forced a polite smile, but her discomfort was evident.

“So the bonds remain strong,” you commented carefully.

“Yes. As I said, tradition.” She slid her fingers along the edge of the ring, as if trying to distract herself from the topic. “Dad would never allow that to change. He said it was time I found a husband.”

“And… are you happy with that?” Your question was casual, but your gaze remained fixed on her.

Cianan hesitated for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh, averting her eyes.

“Of course. Richard is a good match. An honest, responsible man… He always follows the rules and would never bring dishonor to our family. For us, that’s as serious as a crime.”

There was something in the way she said that that felt rehearsed, almost automatic. As if she were repeating words that weren’t truly her own.

The culture of punishment and obedience in that family was clear. And in a way, it explained a lot about Noah.

But before you could dig deeper, Cianan took a deep breath and stood up.

“I should go. I’ve spent too much time here already.”

You nodded, but you still had so many questions.

Especially about Noah.

About Rachel.

And, above all, about what really happened between them.

-

Ten minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty minutes.

One hour and 47 seconds.

He was very late.

You left your office as if fire were coming out of your nostrils, ready to face anyone who crossed your path. Noah had pushed the limits of your patience, and this time, you weren’t going to let it slide.

On the way to the lower floor, you noticed an unusual movement—guards agitated, pacing back and forth, murmuring something into their handheld radios. Your eyes narrowed in alert, but your steps remained firm as you descended the stairs.

As you reached the garden, the chaos became even more evident. Your stomach turned upon seeing one of the guards being carried on a stretcher, the tense expressions of those around him revealing that something serious had happened. Rune was coming out of the administration building, and after directing them on where to take the injured guard, he came toward you.

"What the hell are you doing out here? Didn’t you hear the signal?" he asked.

You had stormed out of the office so angrily that you hadn’t even noticed the loud siren echoing through the faulty speakers of the sanatorium.

"What’s going on? Is this some kind of escape alarm?"

"It means a patient snapped and attacked a staff member."

Your feet froze in place, and your gaze immediately turned toward the commotion. The movement was coming from the Hidden.

Noah.

Before you could rush toward the most isolated building in the sanatorium, a firm hand grabbed your arm, forcing you to stop. Dr. Rune. He stared at you with his usual apathy, and you lifted your chin slightly, facing him.

"Where do you think you’re going?" he asked, his tone dripping with irony.

"I’m his psychiatrist. If he had an outburst, I need to be there."

Rune shook his head in a slow, disbelieving gesture.

"I don’t think so…" he murmured, biting his lip slightly. "Noah had a violent outburst, destroyed his own cell, and almost killed one of the guards. He’s on the brink of collapse. Do you really think this is the best time for a little visit?"

His insinuating tone irritated you instantly.

"I’m starting to worry about your level of involvement in this case, Doctor..."

"Enough."

"Then maybe you can explain why I was informed that four of your patients were left without treatment yesterday. You’re neglecting your duties. And worse, the work is falling on me!"

"I had a setback in the archives room."

"I don’t care. How you manage your schedule doesn’t interest me, but you know what really bothers me?" He leaned in slightly, his voice laced with provocation. "Having to cover your mistakes because you’re obsessed with the silent psychopath."

You barely had time to process what he said before you felt your blood boil.

"Obsessed?" you repeated, your tone full of indignation. "This is called doing my job."

Dr. Rune chuckled condescendingly, that infuriating laugh that made your patience plummet even further.

"Oh, of course, because neglecting four patients to chase after Noah is such a great example of professional commitment," he said, running his fingers over the sparse beard growing on his chin. "If you dedicated half the time you’ve spent meddling in what’s none of your business to your work, we certainly wouldn’t be having this conversation."

You took a deep breath, trying not to let the anger take over.

"I’m not chasing anyone. If he had an outburst, it’s my responsibility as a psychiatrist to intervene. That means I should be there now, instead of wasting time arguing with you."

He tilted his head slightly, as if analyzing your expression.

"And what if I told you that you don’t need to?" he asked, keeping that damned provocative tone. "That he’s already been subdued, drugged, and that you’ll only get in the way?"

Your hands clenched at your sides.

"I’ll assess that for myself."

This time, he narrowed his eyes, and for a brief moment, the coldness mixed with something that looked like… amusement.

"Then go," he said, stepping back. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Chapter Text

Darkness and emptiness.

The silence whispered a sinister melody, akin to the climax of an orchestra about to announce its final act. A warning. A harbinger of tragedy. With every step forward, the tension seemed to take shape—something invisible yet almost tangible, coiling around her ankles and guiding her deeper into the rotten belly of the Hidden.

The blackness was absolute, perverse. Walking through it was an act of blind faith, a challenge to fate itself. The damp walls exuded a nauseating scent of mold and rust, and the air felt heavier here, as if saturated with everything this place had ever witnessed.

Her steps were firm, but her clenched fists betrayed her apprehension. Her gaze swept the corners, searching for meaning in the gloom. You’d never had exceptional eyesight, and now, shrouded in darkness, you felt even more vulnerable. Only the occasional flashes of light through the dusty stained-glass windows allowed your eyes to glimpse your surroundings—rusty cell bars, cracks in the ceiling, and puddles on the floor, glistening suspiciously.

Water.

Blood.

Whatever it was, there was no way to tell.

The air carried a cocktail of repulsive odors: oxidized metal, rotting food, sweat embedded in the ancient walls. But among these nauseating notes, something familiar and disturbingly out of place emerged—a warm, clean, woody scent.

Recognizing that smell was almost instinctive. You didn't need recent proximity to know that very well. It was imprinted in your memory as much as the insolent looks, the sharp irony, and the calculated silence that always came with it.

Noah.

He stood out in this place in a way that was almost unreal. While everything around them decayed, he remained untouched, as if the surrounding rot could never reach him. He was beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful. He did not display the expected degradation of someone imprisoned in Grimshade’s forsaken asylum. No grime embedded in his skin, no traces of exhaustion in his features. He always smelled good. Always composed. He almost made her forget where was.

Almost.

You shook your head slowly. No. You couldn't be sinking into this. Without realizing it, you had been ensnared in a sticky, filthy web with no escape. Rune was right. You were completely obsessed.

The rest of the world had dissolved into an insignificant backdrop. Your other patients? Nonexistent. Your parents? A distant echo. Your colleagues? Faded figures in an irrelevant scene. You couldn't even remember the last time you had left the asylum for anything beyond obligation.

Everything in you had rotted—and Noah was the infection.

Even in sleep, your mind burned with the sensation of wasting precious hours of progress. When awake, you wanted to be with him. You wanted to observe him, dissect him, dismantle him piece by piece until you understood every layer he so skillfully wove to keep others at a distance.

It was a hunger that grew, voracious and insatiable. You wanted to save him. Needed to save him. Something in you screamed that he was here by mistake, that his caged existence was an error only you could correct.

And then everything became nothing.

A biting cold seized your neck, stealing your breath before a scream could escape. Your eyes widened in pure shock as brute force yanked you without warning, your feet stumbling in desperation to stay upright. You tried to grasp whatever was pressing against your skin—scratch, pull, anything—but the chain was merciless.

With a dry metallic snap, iron met the cell bars.

Your ragged breathing had barely steadied when his voice reached you—low, almost amused.

"Doctor…"

The echo slithered down the empty corridor, vibrating through your flesh like a feverish shiver.

"Noah…" You gasped, your voice trembling with the shock still carved into your bones. "This isn't funny at all. Let me go immediately!"

"And who said anyone here is playing?"

The response came sharp, a low and husky tone, almost animalistic. The dim light filtering into the cell touched his eyes in a wicked way, casting shadows that made his face seem deeper, darker—less human.

Every word he spoke was followed by the dragging sound of the chain against the floor, a sharp, grating noise that vibrated through your teeth. The metal pressed against your neck, tightening with his every movement, forming a cruel X across your back. You tried to move, but he had already closed the space around you. There was no escape.

He was pure, contained hatred. Tense muscles, clenched fists, breath ragged with raw fury. He knew you had been ordered not to return. He knew you were supposed to have left him behind.

And that enraged him.

But the fear crawling up your spine mixed with something dangerous. Something toxic. Something that burned and corroded.

Because even with the cold iron biting into your skin, even with the unspoken promise of destruction thickening the air between you…

You still wanted him.

"I thought I was clear when I said I didn’t want you here. I made my dissatisfaction explicit about your insistence on meddling in my life, but I have the impression you have serious trouble following orders."

His voice cut deep into the silence, a grave, weighty tone. With a single tug of the chain, your body was yanked forward, the pressure of the metal digging into your skin, forcing you to lift your chin and meet his gaze.

The distance between you was minimal. His scent, the heat radiating from his tense skin, the rage simmering beneath every rigid muscle—it all enveloped you. It hurt. But your pride hurt more.

"Here, I am the psychiatrist, Noah. Not the other way around." Your voice was sharp, like a blade that doesn’t hesitate when it cuts. "So you don’t get to decide what is or isn’t part of my job."

His eyes narrowed, dark sparks igniting in his expression. But you continued.

"But I imagine there’s a special reason for this attack today. Your little sister is getting married… isn’t she? You failed to break the cycle, and it made you lose your mind."

Noah’s nostrils flared. His expression was pure wildfire. You shuddered but didn’t back down, even as he leaned in, your faces so close that your noses brushed.

"This story doesn’t belong to you," he growled, the sound reverberating in your chest. "Stay out of it."

"And who’s going to stop me?"

His laughter was low, cruel, almost a warning. When he turned his attention back to you, your lungs felt heavy, your mouth went dry. The pressure between your legs made you realize what he was doing.

Noah had wedged himself between your thighs, using his body as a barrier, a divider, a suffocating tether keeping you from moving.

"It’s bold of you to play truth or dare with a murderer, don’t you think?" His voice was a sharp challenge. "If you were as smart as you seem, you’d have realized by now that you have far too many similarities with my victim. And that I know how to trace profiles… repeat patterns."

His eyes roamed your face, slow. Too slow. As if mapping every detail, every flaw, every fear.

His fingers came next, gliding along the side of your face with a terrifying softness. A touch that made your entire body react the wrong way.

"What makes you so confident that you can dismiss the possibility that I might kill you, doctor?"

His whisper burned against your skin. Your heart nearly exploded.

"The absolute certainty that you’re not a murderer." Your voice came out steady, even with the blood pounding in your throat.

Noah arched a brow slightly, a flicker of interest gleaming in his gaze. But you didn’t yield to the provocation.

"You clearly have traits of someone unstable, someone who masks repressed emotions behind insane desires and well-rehearsed apathy. But I don’t believe you’re easily manipulated. You’re not the kind of person who hands over your mind on a silver platter to just anyone."

The tightness of the chain remained the same, but something in him shifted.

"You’ve always been the leader. You’re the one who orchestrates the situations."

Noah’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, the shadow of a smile curling his lips. The tip of his fingers traced over your skin in a way that was almost tender, but something was off—something far too twisted in that touch.

"If I didn’t know that fear and insecurity seep from your very core, I might actually fall for this little psychiatrist act of yours, desperate to prove your worth," Noah declared, his low timbre reverberating like a warning. "But that doesn’t make you any less interesting."

You took a deep breath, feeling the chain’s pressure still firm around your body. You couldn’t give in. You couldn’t show hesitation.

"I need you to let me go. If you refuse to understand what I have to say and insist on rejecting my help because you'd rather lock yourself away in here like a coward, I believe our conversation ends here, Noah."

The smile that formed on his lips wasn’t a smile. It was a warning.

"Our conversation only ends when I say it ends, doctor."

The tip of his finger trailed slowly along the side of your neck, directly over your vein. You felt the almost ghostly touch pulse along with your blood.

And for the first time since you stepped in, you weren’t sure if you would leave in one piece.

But you didn’t back down.

Your eyes, wide at first, now gleamed with something deeper, more dangerous. Curiosity. Fascination. The quickened breath wasn’t fear; it was something warmer, something hungrier.

He noticed. And he smiled.

"You don’t understand, do you?"—his voice slipped through the air like a thread of silk. "I never just wanted to touch you. Never just wanted to feel your skin beneath mine. I want… to devour you."

He stepped forward, and you didn’t move in the tight space. The heat between you became suffocating, and you took a sharp breath as the cold press of his lips grazed your neck.

Noah crossed any boundary between reason and emotion, professional and unethical, as he slipped your coat off your shoulders, letting it fall to the damp floor.

You gasped, hesitating to pull away, but he insisted, trapping you against him, forcing his leg between yours. You hated admitting how well your body responded to it every time you remembered how wrong it was—how you could be caught at any moment.

"The scent and texture of your skin… do you have any idea how that drives me insane? How much you provoke me every time you insist on crossing my path in this hell? I tried to avoid it, but it’s like raw flesh, exposed, waiting to be torn apart, chewed, taken. Every time you speak, your voice pours hot down my throat, and I wonder what it would be like to feel it die inside my mouth."

His tongue traced along your vein as if following a precise path. You closed your eyes for a moment, as if his words were a spell sinking beneath your skin. When you opened them again, there was a different gleam in them. A shiver ran through you—but not from repulsion.

"I don’t just want you," he continued, toying with the thin strap of your blouse. "I want to consume you. I want to reduce you to something only I can possess. Every piece, every fiber, every fragment of what you are… inside me. Mixed with me. Absorbed, dissolved, forgotten by the world."

You bit your lower lip, feeling the cold of the Hidden blend with his voice, confusing your body’s reactions. His words wrapped around you, tangled in your thoughts like invisible threads pulling you deeper into the abyss.

"Because love, my dear…"—he smiled, and his teeth were like sharp blades in the dark—"love is devouring."

The silence that followed was electric. You exhaled slowly, as if waking from a trance—but with no intention of running.

"Then devour me."

The laugh that escaped him was low, guttural, as if you had just said exactly what he expected to hear.

"Oh, doctor…" The chain loosened for just a second—only to tighten again when he surged forward, crushing his lips against yours.

The impact was hard, feral. There was no space for tenderness. The kiss was brutal, a clash of wills where neither side wanted to yield. Noah gripped the chain tightly, and every movement you made to fight back only trapped you closer against him.

His taste mixed with the metallic tang in the air. It was visceral. It was wrong. It was inevitable.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you against him, and in the next moment, his fingers were tangled in your hair, holding you firmly as he deepened the kiss.

You no longer knew if you were being overpowered or if you were willingly surrendering your own sanity.

And maybe it was too late to care.

You ached to touch him, to bury your fingers in his hair as you straddled his lap and took his lips for yourself. The need burned beneath your skin, impatient. But before you could give in to the impulse, he moved first.

The slack of the chain around your neck slid skillfully down to your wrists, binding them at the center of the X formed against your back.

He gave you no space to escape, no pause between his lips and yours. Between hungry kisses and searing bites, he alternated between claiming and marking, the metallic taste quickly spreading over your tongue.

The taste of blood mixed with metal and warm saliva, a fusion of sensations that made her dizzy. Noah left no room for air, no space for thought—he dominated, gripping her face with firm fingers while the chain around her wrists tightened even more, limiting any attempt at resistance.

You gasped against his mouth, feeling his teeth graze your lower lip before another onslaught. It was like being devoured from the inside out, as if each bite and each pull carried a piece of you into him.

Your body was rigid against the grate, a hostage to your own desire and the brutality he imprinted on every touch. Noah finally released your lips, but only enough to slide his mouth down your jaw and reach your neck.

The kisses there were even crueler—bites, slow licks over sensitive skin, as if he were branding his presence into your flesh.

"You don’t need to go anywhere, babygirl," his voice was hoarse, thick with desire, while the grip around your wrists intensified. "Not until I've tasted your flesh to the bone."

There was mockery in his tone, but something else too—something dark, something hungry.

And you knew, in that instant, that you were dangerously close to losing any shred of control you had left.

The thin blouse you wore felt like nothing more than delicate lace, barely covering your body, the nervous sweat making everything more intense. You were completely at his mercy, vulnerable, in front of a possible killer who could do whatever he wanted with your body. It was sordid on so many levels, but you were trapped in the trance he had cast over you.

Psychopaths are seductive, as if sweetening their words with a special, cursed honey. They mold themselves to their environment, adapting to the situation with the cold precision of a lizard. If Noah was determined to make you feel, he would.

He would do whatever he wanted.

Noah moved in slowly, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he observed your skin, like an artist examining a piece of work yet to be sculpted. The glint in his eyes, like a burning flame, was almost tangible. He ran his fingers along your arms, immobilized by the chains, feeling the smoothness of your skin, and you realized his need to mark every part of you, to make your flesh something more than just a body—but an extension of what he desired.

"Perfect..." he murmured, as if speaking to himself, but you heard it, and the sound of his voice made your breath heavier, denser. He pressed the edge of the knife against the inside of your wrists, the most vulnerable points closest to your blood, and the blade gleamed under the dim light, promising something deeper, more intimate.

"Your skin..." he said, and the blade moved slowly to your neck, tracing along the line of your collarbone, the cold metal teasing your sensitive flesh. "It needs to be shaped, like a piece of flesh that only I can sculpt."

You felt the touch of the blade—cold and precise—but something inside you began to respond. The nervousness didn’t fade; instead, it merged with something else, something warmer, deeper. The pain had not yet come, but the fear was there—and with it, the excitement you could no longer deny.

He traced a subtle path with the knife over your skin, the cut not yet happening, but the touch of the blade created a growing tension. You felt your heart pounding harder, your breath quickening, and he watched, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

"I can do anything I want with you, can't I?" he whispered, his voice rough and calm. "I can tear your skin and see what hides inside you. I can touch your deepest fears and turn them into pleasure. All you need to do is give in."

The blade slid lower on your neck, toward your collarbone, and you felt the edge lightly cut into your skin. Blood began to well up, warm and thick, and the sensation was like a flame igniting beneath your skin. The pain was mild, but the pleasure of being touched, of being possessed in this way, came quickly, without warning.

"Feel this..." he murmured, and the blade moved to the other side of your neck, as if creating a map of scars, a game of marks and touches. The blood trickled slowly, and you felt every drop, as if it was a part of you now being given to him—something of yours he would consume and make his own.

The blade pressed a little deeper, and the blood began to flow more freely. The heat in your body started to mix with the pain, and you realized you were beginning to lose yourself, to forget the limits, to surrender to this moment, to this game. He smiled, satisfied with the change in your eyes.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, almost tenderly, while the blade rested against your skin—threatening and affectionate at the same time. "You’re going to give me everything."

The warmth of the blood against your skin seemed to intensify every sensation, every touch. The marks he left were there, engraved, like a macabre masterpiece on your flesh. Noah knelt, and with almost ritualistic precision, ran the tip of his lips over the cuts, feeling the liquid trickle down, absorbing it with a sadistic pleasure.

When he finally pressed his lips to yours, the kiss was a mix of heat and iron, the taste of metal still strong, as if every movement of your mouths was tracing a line between pain and desire. The heat of your bodies colliding, the pressure of the chain, and the scent of blood in the air... all of it created an atmosphere of pure abandon.

You weren’t sure who was more lost there—him, with the ferocity of his possession, or you, immersed in this sick and irresistible game he imposed.

And then, without pulling his lips from yours, he whispered, almost like a challenge, "Now, who will be consumed?"

Noah followed the trail of blood trickling from your collarbone, slithering between your breasts and staining the thin fabric of your blouse. His tongue brushed your skin, sending shivers through you, but he continued his path without lingering on your ragged breath, descending toward your waist. When he slid down the fabric of your lower clothing, you tried to arch your body, but the chains tensed, threatening to deprive you of air.

Your gaze lifted to the ceiling, where imperfections in the paint spread like random marks on a neglected canvas. Meanwhile, he dedicated himself to sculpting the soft skin of your inner thigh, each movement marked by meticulous precision, where his tongue followed soon after until it halted at your groin.

He inhaled your intimate scent almost like an antidote finally found, exposing you even more. His lips trailed over your flesh until they stopped at your clit, but Noah only smiled at your frustrated groan as he straightened and stood once again.

Noah’s long fingers closed around the excess of the chain, pulling it firmly and forcing your body to follow his steps. He listened to your deep breath and savored the sound for a few seconds before sliding his index finger gently along the side of your face, where your unease was visible. The absence of light made it impossible to see his expressions, and this uncertainty left you vulnerable—you had no idea what would come next.

With slow, almost studied movements, Noah traced the shape of your lips with his index and middle fingers. Instinctively, your mouth parted, a silent invitation he accepted without hesitation, sliding his fingers inside. Tilting your face upward, you swirled your tongue around his skin, enveloping him in wet, devouring heat before sucking them slowly, feeling them slip from your lips with a faint pop. He watched, satisfied.

You had become a puppet in his hands, every movement reduced to the dance imposed by the chains. Any slip, any hesitation, and he would tighten them again, reaffirming his control, subjugating your body. With firm pressure, he guided you downward, forcing you to your knees before him. It was at that moment that something inside you dissolved—the conflict, the resistance, the illusion of autonomy. You felt between your legs that maybe it wasn’t so bad to be here. Maybe this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Noah made that moment entirely about him, and deep down, perhaps that was what you craved—to be his, to serve him, to surrender to the certainty that you didn’t need to think, decide, or resist.

Just obey.

Just let yourself be guided.

His free hand slid along the waistband of his pants, and it wasn’t long before his erection sprang free, quickly controlled by his grip. You gasped as the tip brushed against your lips, moving slowly as if urging you to analyze its texture first. In the small space your lips formed as they parted, he pushed inside until your jaw popped with the demand, but you took him in.

It was impossible to fit all of him inside your mouth—he was thick and large enough that the sides of your lips stretched as if threatening to tear. You held firm; it wasn’t as if you had done this many times before, but you didn’t want to seem pathetic in front of him, and that drove you to try harder.

With the help of your tongue, you slicked him with saliva, making it easier for his cock to slide in and out in the repetitive rhythm he set as you sucked him. From the sounds Noah made, he seemed comfortable—he pushed your head down further, and everything he carried struck the back of your throat at once. Noah gripped the strands at your nape tightly and fucked your mouth with the urgency of someone who had craved this.

His skin was hot, smooth, and the texture against your tongue had never felt so pleasant. You traced him with your tongue along his length and aided him by opening your mouth wider when he demanded you take him whole. You ignored the pain in your scalp and the burning in your throat—you only focused on sucking him while your eyes lifted upward. Seeing the agonized expression on his face and hearing his almost guttural moan spurred you on even more.

Your legs trembled strangely, your brain losing its sense as if the oxygen had been stolen from it for a few seconds, and down your thighs, the proof trickled that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You felt him pulse inside your mouth, and before he could come, Noah pulled out of you, lifted you off the ground with a swift motion, and shoved you against the cell bars, back to him. It wasn’t long before you felt the weight of his body behind you again, and your eyes closed as the tip of his nose brushed along the side of your face. Noah ran his tongue over your sweat-dampened skin, inhaled your scent, and growled as he lifted one of your legs.

"You’re completely unstable…" you sighed, shaking your head as if you could deny to yourself the grotesque mistake you were making.

"Ah, doctor… it’s people like me who shape, feed, and addict people like you."

"Never."

"You can deny it if it makes you feel better, but you can't pretend you've been the same since you set foot here..." He leaned in slightly, and you felt the heat of his voice against your skin. "I warned you. You're already in the worst of hells. This place is cursed, it will drain your mind, blur the line between reality and illusion... You'll go insane on your own, just by being here."

His whisper chilled your stomach, a sharp shiver climbing up your spine.

"And that's not the worst thing you'll see or do just by being inside. And the worst part? There's nothing you can do about it." He laughed, a low, almost amused sound. "Nothing but enjoy your last days of lucidity."

Discomfort crawled under your skin like needles, a strange, almost narcotic sensation. You hesitated, but his touch did not. Noah kept brushing his lips along the side of your face, his breath warm, provocative, while his fingers moved between your legs, preparing your entrance. You were so wet… his lips had a perverse magnetism, and your body responded as if your mind no longer had any authority over it. Your eyes rolled back slowly, your chest rising and falling, as his voice became a distant hum.

Because surely he was lying.

"Thanks for the warning, but I can take care of myself." Your voice came out low but firm, as if trying to remember who you were before stepping into this place.

Noah smiled, biting lightly at the corner of your jaw before whispering:

"Good, doctor. Because that's all you have in here. Yourself."

With his words came the sudden thrust that forced him inside you, a cry escaping with the searing sensation of his cock tearing through the walls of your pussy, a feeling that lingered until you adjusted to his size. Noah toyed with the tight space and pushed in even further, prolonging the sting.

You tilted your head back until it rested beside his face and saw, from the corner of your eyes, his teeth sinking into your shoulder. Another scream escaped and died on your lips as he tightened the grip of the chain around your neck. He pulled, driving himself deeper, limiting the space between you, milking you and tearing at your walls as if claiming the narrowness you insisted on keeping from him.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and skin rubbing against skin; he defiled every part of you just as he said he would, he was as filthy as he claimed to be, but you couldn't feel more satisfied as he filled you completely.

Every now and then, you glanced around with the tension of someone afraid of being caught. Noah ran his tongue over the deep imprint of his teeth on your shoulder and traced it down to your neck. He had no mercy for your moans, nor for the way you whimpered until a subtle tear slipped from your left eye—he thrived on it.

This was wrong.

You were being fucked by your most problematic patient, the one hiding a mystery you were determined to uncover as if it had become your life's purpose. The way he was possessed by lust, from his movements to his sick gaze, distracted you more than it should—and maybe that was his plan—but you hardly cared.

This version of him, what he became when he was alone with you and willing enough, was the most disturbing and fascinating thing you had ever known.

Your body was on the verge of explosion, Noah filled you entirely, and you synchronized your breaths and movements into a silent, torturous dance that smelled of metal. He had taken complete control of your body, even your moans obeyed his permission. Noah pressed you against the cell to go even deeper, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes and stare at the ceiling above.

He clearly noticed when your legs faltered for a few seconds as he increased the pace of his thrusts. Noah kept you steady and upright to take everything he had to give you, and you welcomed his cock, pulsing more and more, ready to collapse inside you. He moaned louder and louder, and you felt his muscles tensing.

The immersion into hell and the escape from a sea of lava shared the same essence as the sensation consuming you now. It burned. It throbbed. A cruel numbness spread through your nerves, and you wanted to capture every fragment of what you felt, to hold onto them inside you, to relive them later, tomorrow, and after, and after... Like the merciless ecstasy of the worst stimulant, he pushed you beyond the limits of reality, blurred your vision, made stars explode before your eyes.

He drowned you along with him in a perverse plane.

As if, in that instant, he bound you to this place with invisible chains, condemning you to become part of him.

Noah didn't want you to forget.

He wanted you to live it through the marks on your skin.

He wanted to fuse you to Grimshade and condemn you as he was.

Leaning against the back gates of the Hidden, you wrapped your trembling fingers around your own wrists, feeling the rapid pulse reverberate beneath the marked skin. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Your chest rose and fell erratically, and in a desperate reflex, your teeth sank into the inside of your lip, stifling a pained whimper. Every step made the incisions on your thighs burn, sharp little flames reminding you of every touch, every moment.

The front garden was drowning in a sea of patients, and you quickened your pace along the side discreetly, not daring to look back. Your steps were quick, almost unsteady, as if an invisible force was pulling you away, while a cold weight crawled up your spine. You felt his eyes burning against your back, as if he was tracking you without even moving.

From the corner of your eye, a glimpse—Noah was finally crossing the common entrance, disappearing inside the Hidden.

Your heart pounded erratically against your ribs, and every fiber of your body felt charged with a tension that refused to dissipate. You shut your bedroom door behind you, feeling the weight of that night still clinging to your skin, as if Noah were there, looming over you.

But he wasn’t.

You walked to the bathroom, locking yourself in with a sharp click. The urgency of the shower was irrational, almost obsessive. You turned on the hot water and stepped under the stream, feeling the heavy drops punish your skin. Your fingers traced over the incisions, and every touch brought back the memory of him—of the blade, of the slow, controlled pressure, of the venomous whisper that coiled around your senses.

Your eyes squeezed shut. Your head tilted forward. This would never happen again.

When you emerged from the shower, you wrapped yourself in a nightgown and took a deep breath, staring at your own reflection in the fogged-up mirror. What you saw there didn’t seem exactly… yours. But you blinked, pushed the thoughts away, and forced yourself to act as if nothing had happened. As if you could simply move on.

You lay down, closing your eyes, and within seconds, sleep swallowed you whole.

Until something woke you.

A breath against your ear.

Your entire body tensed. Your heart skipped a beat.

It was the same ticking and dragging sound from the night Tom Hallow was found dead.

You bolted upright in bed, your eyes sweeping the dark room, and a growing agony gripped your chest, a cold tightness that suffocated. You needed to get out. Now.

Without bothering to change clothes, you crossed the room and opened the door. The hallway was deserted, the dim lights casting distorted shadows on the floor. The air was freezing, biting, raising goosebumps on your skin.

Your bare feet made little noise against the floorboards as you descended the stairs. But then—you stopped.

On the other side of the window, something moved.

Your gaze locked onto the tower beside you.

And that’s when you saw it.

A body. Standing at the window.

The shock hit you like an electric current. Your chest heaved in panic, your mind snapping with the certainty that this couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

Before you could react, the body plummeted.

Your scream tore through the night, echoing until it faded.

Without thinking, without processing, your feet carried you forward, bursting through the sanatorium’s main doors. Inside, lights flickered on in the windows, voices rose in a growing murmur, but none of it mattered.

Your gaze was fixed on the rocky ground. On the lifeless body, on the head crushed against the stones.

And then, you saw it.

On his wrist, a small bracelet.

The name engraved there made your stomach sink.

Elias Faulkner had committed suicide right in front of you.

Chapter Text

"How did the lady spend the night?" He asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. Rune was on the other side of the table, wearing a dark blue sweater, his hair holding his glasses in place as it had grown longer, falling over his face. "Did you manage to sleep easily?"

He placed his hands on the table, fingers closing around a black pen. You took a deep breath and forced yourself to focus back on his face. Travis was calm, speaking slowly—like a psychiatrist.

"Is it just me, or am I in the middle of a session?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

"In a short period of time, you saw two dead people, and one of them committed suicide right in front of you. That’s something worth monitoring. I'm not offering you assistance as a doctor, but support as a friend." He sounded sincere.

"It’s just that…" You hesitated, rubbing your fingers together. "It just seems like this concern certainly came from Dr. Steve because he suspects me again."

Rune took a deep breath, sliding back slightly in his chair, adopting a more relaxed posture. His fingers kept fiddling with the pen, making an irritating sound as the tip clicked against the table. Your night had been terrible—too many events to process in sequence, not to mention the excruciating muscle pain from your adventure in the Hidden.

"Elias was a patient with a high risk of suicide for months. He was under constant monitoring, even when he went to the bathroom for basic needs. There’s no reason to suspect you, Doctor. You just had the unfortunate luck of being in the wrong place and witnessing it." Rune said patiently. "Are you feeling guilty in any way?"

"No. Not at all." You shook your head. "I had recently accessed Elias’ records, and it shocked me to learn that he was a fellow professional who met such an end."

"None of us are immune."

"You always seem so sure of yourself, Dr. Rune. As if you were immune to Grimshade’s contagious air."

He smirked, just slightly.

"That’s just your impression," he dismissed with a casual wave of his hand, as if it didn’t matter. "I don’t believe in legends—especially the ones that reinforce the stereotype of psychiatrists going insane when exposed to places like this. Elias already had an undiagnosed psychotic tendency, and the pressure from work, among other factors, triggered a crisis."

Travis had a way of being didactic, speaking with the conviction and clarity of a university professor. Explaining something, no matter how complex, came easily to him.

"I understand perfectly, Dr. Rune, but I find it shocking that I was hired for a position without knowing who held it before me. It’s as if his life didn’t matter."

"Dr. Steve must have had his reasons, and that likely means he treated Elias as just another patient after his admission. He didn’t see the need to bring up that detail with you."

Detail.

To them, it was just a detail.

"Aren’t you hot?" he asked, gesturing toward you with his chin.

Your gaze flickered downward. You were wearing a thick, high-neck sweater, hugging your own arms with a restless grip. You were trying to hide the terrible number of bruises decorating your body—ranging from knife marks to deep purple contusions.

You had definitely lost your mind the night before, and a good part of your current disorientation had little to do with Elias’ suicide and everything to do with the memories Noah had carved into your brain with the tip of a blade.

Impossible to forget.

"Am I free to go? I have a schedule to follow, and I recall you complaining about leaving some patients hanging these past few days."

"This isn’t a session, Doctor. I truly just wanted to know how you were."

You stood up promptly, as if the train was about to depart and you were running late—or as if the chair itself housed a colony of ants ready to crawl up your legs.

Unintentionally, you exposed a bit of your wrist when your sleeve shifted, and Rune caught sight of the laceration on your skin—the one left by the chains.

His blue eyes slowly traveled up to meet yours, and you swallowed hard.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

You finally said, leaving the room.

Mariene’s voice was a constant buzz in your head, a muffled noise that faded in and out, like someone twisting the tuning knob of a faulty radio station.

“She gave me a dirty look, doctor. Like she’s better than me, but everyone knows that bitch is just as filthy as anyone else in here. I just spoke some truths, and she came at me, thinking she could threaten me. But I’m not afraid of her! You get me, right? I just…”

Her words brushed against you, but they didn’t sink in.

Your gaze was fixed on the window.

Outside, in Grimshade’s garden, Noah was crouched down, his fingers buried in the damp earth. The dark fabric of his pants grazed against the dirty ground, and the unruly strands of his hair fell over his face, hiding part of his expression. He moved slowly, as if he were digging, carefully pulling up bits of soil with an almost reverent touch.

What was he looking for?

Your stomach clenched in discomfort, and for a moment, a cold sensation slithered down your spine.

“Doctor?!”

Mariene’s voice snapped you back, your eyes shifting abruptly to her.

She narrowed her gaze, her face tightening with suspicion.

“You’re not even listening, are you?”

You forced a brief smile, picked up your pen, and scribbled something random onto the file.

“Of course I am, Mariene. Go on.”

She muttered something under her breath and resumed her speech, her voice once again becoming background noise.

You glanced at the window once more.

But Noah was no longer there.

The soil where he had been digging was still disturbed, marked by the traces of his fingers.

But him?

He had vanished.

“Can you pay attention to what I’m saying? When my sessions were with Dr. Rune, at least he pretended to be interested in what I had to say!”

Mariene’s voice had a shrill quality that grated on your ears, especially when she forced it for attention. She spoke in rushed, overlapping words, and the melancholy from the last group therapy session had given way to a concerning euphoria.

“I’m not only listening to what you’re saying, but I also noticed how agitated you are just by the tone of your voice. That shouldn’t be happening with someone on your type of medication.”

“I asked Dr. Rune to lower my dosage, and he allowed it.”

She said it with a puffed-up chest, as if she were in control and you were the subordinate. Heat rose to your cheeks, and a sharp anger churned in your empty stomach.

“Under what authorization? I am your psychiatrist!”

“You were too busy when he took over your patients, weren’t you?” Mariene taunted, her voice laced with challenge. “Or rather, you were so busy you didn’t even show up to our last session and have no idea what’s going on with me!”

Exhaustion and hunger gnawed at the last shreds of your patience. Without thinking, your hand slammed against the desk with force, making Mariene flinch.

“Enough!” Your voice was firm, cutting. “I will not tolerate that tone with me, not when I’m the authority here and you are the patient! I know exactly what’s going on with you, Mariene! I know you felt confident enough with Dr. Rune to mimic this hostile, arrogant stance, but I won’t accept that kind of defiance in my own office! And I will not allow you to question my methods. That is for me and me alone to decide. Understood?”

The words came out fast, sharp. You needed a moment to catch your breath while Mariene remained silent.

“Now, can we get back to our session?” you asked calmly, flashing a smile.

Mariene’s silence weighed down the office like a shadow.

Your chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

You tried to focus on her features, but Mariene’s face seemed… unstable. As if her skin was vibrating, her contours shifting imperceptibly, like a wet painting being dragged by invisible fingers.

Your stomach churned.
You blinked, your eyes burned.
When you looked again, Mariene was no longer there.

In her place, something deformed stood, its neck stretching unnaturally, its features melting like hot wax dripping from a skull. Its eyes sank into the sockets, now black voids without end. The mouth opened too wide, jagged shards of teeth sprouting where gums once were, a wet, sticky sound escaping its twisted throat.

A visceral shiver tore down your spine. You stood up so fast the chair toppled over. The creature tilted its head to the side, bones cracking with a dry, sickening pop.

“Doctor…”

The voice was no longer human. It was dragged, cavernous, an echo of a thousand voices speaking at once.

And then it moved.

Towards you.

Instinct screamed before your mind could rationalize.

It’s going to devour you.

Your body acted before your thoughts. You threw yourself backward, slamming into the desk, knocking over stacks of papers that scattered across the floor. The air thickened, the entire room seemed to tremble around you.

“Stay away from me!” Your own voice came out in a hoarse, desperate scream. But it kept coming. You felt something creeping over your skin. A cold, sticky touch.

It was on you.

You started scratching. Your nails dug into your own flesh, trying to rip it out.

The scream tore through your throat.

Out. Out. Out.

You flung yourself against the wall, trying to crush whatever was spreading inside you, writhing, suffocating.

And then—

The door burst open.

Guards stormed into the room.

The world spun.

Your chest rose and fell in chaotic bursts, your nails still embedded in your own skin. You felt firm hands gripping your arms, but you couldn’t stop thrashing. Mariene’s frantic eyes met yours. She was on the floor, cornered against the wall, her body curled up like a frightened animal.

And she was screaming.

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! YOU’RE CRAZY! YOU SAW SOMETHING THAT WASN’T THERE!”

Her voice rang inside your skull like a bell. Your body trembled, your lungs begged for air. The room was spinning.

You heard the guards murmuring, a distant hum. Someone dragged Mariene away, and the last thing you saw was her face twisting in panic as she screamed, thrashing uselessly against the arms that held her.

“YOU’RE JUST LIKE THEM! JUST LIKE THEM!”

The door slammed shut.

And then, silence.

You realized you were shaking from head to toe.

The bitter taste of bile burned your throat.

Your eyes drifted slowly across the office. The toppled chair. The scattered papers.

“Take her to the pit,” Rune ordered the guards before stepping closer. “Are you alright?”

You flinched at first, until you checked his face and made sure of who he was—the man trying to touch your face.

“She attacked you? Shit. Shit,” he muttered, tilting your chin from side to side. “In her last sessions, I offered to gradually lower her medication, and I messed up by doing that. I apologize.”

You locked eyes with Dr. Rune’s distressed gaze for a few seconds—he truly believed Mariene had done this, and her condition made that version easier to accept. You hated lying, but if you told him what had really happened, he would hardly believe you were being affected by the supposed curse on Grimshade’s grounds.

Rune already doubted your sanity; you couldn’t afford to give him more reason now.

You were not Grimshade.

Noah was wrong.

A sudden surge of anger made you yank his hand away from your skin.

“I’m glad you recognize your terribly amateur conduct, Dr. Rune. Next time you interfere with the treatment of a patient whose records belong to me, I will report you to Dr. Steven. I hope you’re satisfied with the outcome of your ridiculous experiment!”

You spat the words and struck his arm before walking away.

-

You were definitely not going crazy.

You were not going crazy.

You were not going crazy.

You were not going crazy.

You were not going crazy.

You were not—

A sudden need to understand where the hell your feet were planted surged within you—one that should have unsettled your mind long before you threw yourself headfirst into the troubles of Blackridge and Grimshade Asylum.

What was this island, and why did Noah speak about it in that way, despite it being his home since birth? Why did he have such an aversion to his own house that he preferred to stay in this place? Why did he choose to remain in an asylum he openly admitted could drain the sanity of even the most lucid creature that set foot there?

Who were the Blackridge family, and why were they worse than a stay in the dreaded Grimshade?

There was no better way to explore the region than with another walk through the city.

The city looked like a forgotten Victorian painting.

Narrow cobbled streets, old architecture with steep rooftops and arched windows. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the woody aroma of spices and burning incense.

You walked among the market stalls, where raised voices blended with the sharp clinking of coins exchanging hands. Vendors competed for the attention of passersby, offering vibrantly colored fruits, cuts of meat displayed on wooden tables, aged cheeses, and embroidered fabrics adorned with arcane symbols.

Nearby, a group of gypsy women danced to the scratchy sound of a violin. The shimmer of their colorful skirts rippled through the air, the bells on their ankles jingling with every movement.

There was something peculiar in the air. A disturbing sensation, as if you were being watched.

You turned a corner into a narrow alleyway, but before you could react, a bony hand gripped your wrist firmly.

"You."

The voice was rough, scraped by time.

The woman before you had dull, faded blue eyes and skin etched with deep wrinkles, like ancient parchment. Her fingers were thin as dry branches, adorned with darkened silver rings. The scent of sandalwood and damp earth wafted from her dark robes, which swayed lightly in the wind.

“Let me see your hand.”

You instinctively yanked your arm back.

"I don't believe in these things."

She smiled, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth.

"You don't need to believe for it to be real."

Before you could step away, she seized your hand by force.

A shiver ripped down your spine.

Time seemed to slow.

Her fingers traced the lines on your palm, eyes narrowing as if trying to see beyond the visible. For a moment, the noise of the market vanished, the entire world reduced to the icy touch of that woman.

Then, her face twisted into a strange grimace.

Her skin seemed to pale, and her lips parted as if to say something—but she only took a sharp breath, abruptly releasing your hand.

You felt unbearable tension in the air.

"What is it?" Your own voice trembled.

The old woman simply stared at you. The cloudy blue of her eyes seemed… distressed.

She leaned in a little closer and, in a whisper as sharp as shattered glass, said only one thing:

"You need to wake up."

And then, without waiting for a response, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood frozen, your heart hammering in your chest.

The cold of her touch still felt imprinted on your skin.

You shook your head, scattering the thought and its insignificance. You hardly cared about predictions of the future. Nothing unproven by science had the power to convince you of anything.

Back on the other side of the market, you wandered past the stalls, observing how, despite their rich culture reflected in the creativity of their arts, the people were humble and struggled to get by with the little money they had, given the high cost of food. There were no factories or businesses providing jobs for the population, making it impossible for them to prioritize anything beyond survival.

They lived in absolute misery, one they felt compelled to disguise in a manner you found almost grotesque—decorating the city, sculpting, dancing, drinking, and ignoring the harsh reality. But you could still see the cracks along the edges.

"Would you like an apple, miss?" a quiet voice asked.

You turned and came face to face with a child, his face smudged with dirt, holding a bright red apple in his small hand.

"Thank you." You accepted it, placing a bill back in his palm. "How old are you?"

"I'm eight," he said excitedly, tucking the money into a tattered box beside him.

"It must be fun working at the market… I guess," your voice nearly faltered at the ridiculous remark. "But you should be in school."

The boy let out a brief laugh.

"Mom said school is for rich people. They can read and write too. It must be fun." He shrugged, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "You look like someone who went to one."

You took a deep breath, looking away for a moment.

"Yes… I did."

"That's amazing!" He smiled.

Entire generations of those people had grown used to that miserable life—yet they were still grateful for it.

"Do you like living here? In Blackridge?"

"Why wouldn't I?" He frowned, confused. "We have food, clean water… Mom and Dad know how to make good potions when we get sick. The Blackridges always let us keep the leftovers from the banquets in that huge mansion. We're excited for the wedding…"

His voice carried genuine excitement, but you felt your stomach turn.

"There will be a lot of good things left over."

"I imagine so…" you murmured, feeling the weight of those words.

The boy, however, quickly got distracted, waving at a middle-aged woman approaching, eyeing the fruit with a critical look.

"Hey, Fiona! How are you?"

She didn't reply immediately, just scanned what was for sale.

"We set aside the best for you today," the boy continued enthusiastically. "I hope Mr. Blackridge approves."

The name made your body tense instantly.

Out of the corner of your eye, you studied the woman: long hair tied in a low bun, an entirely black uniform, pale—almost sickly—skin, and an expression of someone who could faint at any moment.

A servant of the island’s owners.

"I hope so," the woman muttered in a harsh voice. "Lately, they've only been sending me garbage."

She picked up a few fruits, dividing the bags between her arms, and left without looking back. You flashed a quick smile at the boy before following Fiona at a slow pace. There was no plan in mind—just curiosity about how far this would go. But above all, you needed to find a way to get close to the grumpy old woman.

Fiona didn't stop at any other stall, and you realized there were no natural opportunities to start a conversation. Unless…

"Oh, damn… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that," you murmured in a falsely regretful tone, bending down to pick up the bags that had accidentally fallen.

"Leave that, girl," she snapped immediately, curt. "My employers inspect everything that comes from outside before touching it. They wouldn’t eat anything bruised."

"Well… I can go back and pick new ones for you."

"Don't waste your time," Fiona retorted, her eyes analyzing you with veiled suspicion.

"Sorry for the approach, I was heading to Blackridge Manor…" you improvised, scanning the surroundings for inspiration. "My friend didn't give me the right address, I think I got lost. Could you help me find the trail back?"

Her brow furrowed, and an unpleasant knot formed in your stomach.

"You know Miss Cianan?" Fiona asked, clearly suspicious.

"We're college friends," you said, shrugging. "I wanted to congratulate her on the wedding."

"That's strange…"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What a terrible excuse.

"I know all of Miss Cianan’s friends… and as familiar as you look, I don't remember ever seeing your face."

"Understandable," you replied, keeping your composure. "But you can call her now and ask if you want. I just don't think she'd be too happy to find out I'm going through this kind of situation. We're pretty close."

Fiona cleared her throat, maintaining her rigid posture before abruptly turning away.

"Let's go."

You feigned a subtle smile and followed her, trying to appear as natural as possible. Each step echoed in your mind like a countdown to the moment Fiona might realize your lie.

The woman walked with mechanical precision, her body upright as if carrying an invisible burden beyond the bags. No hesitation, no glances back. Only the sound of hard shoes against the stone ground.

You analyzed every detail about her, searching for any clue that might reveal more about her position within the Blackridge mansion.

When they finally turned a corner and moved away from the bustling market, Fiona spoke without taking her eyes off the path:
"If Mr. Blackridge finds out I brought a stranger in without informing him, he'll blame me for it."

You kept your expression calm.
"He won't."

Fiona let out a dry sound, almost a humorless laugh.

When the mansion gates appeared ahead, a shiver ran down your spine. They were immense, made of black iron, adorned with intricate arabesques resembling sharp claws. At the top, two raven statues watched over the entrance, as if they were sentinels of an ancient secret. Fiona extended her hand and pushed the gates open, their slow creaking sound protesting against your presence.

The garden revealed itself as a private kingdom of melancholic beauty. Dark roses and lilacs grew in untamed flower beds, among gothic statues of angels with tragic expressions and stone gargoyles covered in moss. Mist crawled over the ground like pale fingers, enveloping dry trunks and marble fountains worn by time. In the center of the garden, an ancient fountain lay empty, its sculpture of a hooded woman leaning over the edge, as if mourning something lost centuries ago.

The mansion was not just a home—it was a castle ripped from another era and transplanted into modernity. Its pointed towers defied the sky, its arched windows reflected the few remnants of light escaping the mist. The façade was of dark stone, almost black, as if time had tried to consume it but failed. There was grandeur in the structure, but also a coldness, a silent warning that this place did not belong to the present.

"It's more... beautiful than I imagined," you murmured, looking at the tall windows, where heavy velvet curtains remained drawn.

You climbed the stone staircase leading to the main entrance. The marble floor was damp from the drizzle, and each step felt like an invitation to another world. The door was a masterpiece—solid wood, carved with ancient symbols you didn’t recognize, flanked by two lit torches. The flames flickered in the wind, casting dancing shadows into the darkness.

As soon as you approached, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a long corridor illuminated by candelabras and crystal chandeliers. The air inside was dense, filled with the ancient scent of aged wood and burning candles.

Crossing the threshold, you felt as though you had stepped through an invisible border. As if, from that moment on, nothing outside existed anymore.

"Miss Cianan is not home, and you'll have to wait if you want to see her," Fiona said while adjusting a flower vase at the center of a small table. "Or you can return another time and leave a message. If you're college friends, I recommend finding her on campus. The Blackridges don’t like to receive... visitors."

In reality, Mr. Blackridge didn’t like to receive visitors, but why? You ignored that subtle detail, the one where the maid made her burning fear of her master obvious, since you weren’t there for the girl. Fiona seemed far more interesting.

"Have you worked here for a long time?" Your question came out as innocently as possible, and she glanced at you from the side.

"Yes. I've watched them all grow up. My employers never liked the children getting close to the staff, but they ignored it."

Direct and precise.

"You must have a special fondness for them... it's normal when you spend so much time with children." Your voice held a neutral interest, and she didn’t seem to notice.

"Yes, I started working here when I was very young, and they were like dolls to a teenager." She gave a straight smile as she continued down the corridor, and you followed. "My employers were rarely home, and I grew attached to the children. I brushed their teeth, put them to bed, and knew every allergy and whim."

"Did you never have the chance to build a family beyond this one?"

"My work was always enough." She cut you off, and you felt it.

Fiona walked past the kitchen island and watched the staff work on what you assumed was dinner. There were many of them, moving with the urgency of a professional kitchen. It smelled good. Roasted chicken and potatoes.

The rigid-postured woman crossed the back door, and you followed her into a garden so vast it could easily be mistaken for a university campus. However, there was no sign of life there. No birds cut through the sky, no insects buzzed among the leaves—because there were no leaves. Everything was gray, dry, dead. The heavy scent in the air was reminiscent of a cemetery, as if that soil had housed more bodies than flowers.

With the evident closeness between her and the siblings, and the affectionate way she spoke of them—even with her voice laden with coldness—it was clear that her bond with the two was much stronger than any ties they had with their own parents.

"And they, without a doubt, became fond of you too..."

"They were well-mannered children, dedicated to their studies, disciplined... and they had generous hearts. It was impossible not to like them."

"I imagine... Cianan is an amazing girl, sweet... and she always speaks very highly of Noah. I mean, of the relationship they had before everything happened," you said, trying to sound natural.

Fiona let out a deep sigh but did not respond. She kept walking with her hands behind her back, crossing the silent garden. You followed her pace, observing the surroundings until you both entered through a glass door that led to an isolated wing of the mansion. The corridor was lined with doors and filled with the movement of employees coming and going. You frowned, intrigued, but continued following her without question.

Fiona stepped through one of the doors, revealing a small and simple room: a bed, a wardrobe with a few pieces of clothing, and nothing beyond the essentials. Without a word, she opened the wardrobe, took out a box, and sat on the bed, patting the mattress beside her in a silent invitation.

Hesitant, you sat next to her. There was something strange about her. Despite the cold demeanor, Fiona exuded a disconcerting familiarity… almost comforting. In a way, she was helping you, even if indirectly.

For a brief moment, you dared to think that Fiona was just a lonely person looking for someone to talk to. She seemed unaccustomed to being heard, and perhaps that was what intrigued her the most: for the first time, someone was showing a genuine interest in her life.

You watched her rummage through the box, the rustling of papers filling the room's silence. Fiona was focused, searching for something specific, her eyes fixed on the contents before her.

Then, unintentionally, your attention shifted to her wrists. The sleeves of her blouse slid up slightly as she moved, revealing the skin beneath. You blinked, surprised, feeling a strange chill run down your spine as you noticed the marks there.

You felt the blood freeze in your veins. The sight of the marks on Fiona's wrist made your stomach turn, as if the reality around you bent at an impossible angle. They were identical. The same shape. The same depth. As if someone had passed chains through them and tightened until they left a permanent reminder.

Fiona noticed your gaze and quickly pulled the sleeve down, hiding the scars beneath the thin fabric.

"Did you see something interesting?" she asked, her voice laden with an artificial calm, almost rehearsed.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Your heart pounded in your chest, and your mind filled with questions that seemed to swallow one another. How did she have those marks? Why were they the same as yours? What did this mean?

Fiona resumed searching through the items in the box as if nothing had happened, but you could no longer focus on what she was doing. The environment around you seemed to change. The warmth of the candles became suffocating, the shadows in the room's corners stretched in a strange way, almost as if they were watching.

"Here it is!" She smirked slightly as she handed you a stack of photos. You flipped through them, running your finger over each one.

Photos of ordinary children, cute and smiling, doing childlike things.

Fiona let out a deep sigh before continuing, her expression heavy with distant memories.

"Noah was always a good boy," she repeated, as if reaffirming something to herself. "He had his rebellious side, of course—impulsive, mischievous like any boy his age—but in the end, he always returned to being the same sweet child. He had that angelic aura… quiet, observant. It always helped him get what he wanted. But above all, he wanted to help others, wanted lots of friends, wanted everyone to be okay..."

She smiled faintly, shaking her head as if laughing at a memory.

"He taught me how to read, just so I could tell him bedtime stories. Even when he was older, he still insisted on it."

The tenderness in her voice when she spoke of him contrasted with the weight in the air. You swallowed hard, feeling an uncomfortable knot form in your throat.

"The way you talk about him..." you hesitated before finishing. "It sounds like he's dead."

The softness vanished from Fiona's face, replaced by a cold and cutting expression.

"Because he is."

The silence was so heavy it seemed to compress the space around you.

"Dishonor is a grave sin," she said, firmly. "He dishonored his own family by defying what his father decided. He did that... with the girl..."

She didn’t need to finish the sentence for you to feel the weight of her words.

"I had to bring you here because I figured sooner or later, our conversation would get to him. But Noah’s name is forbidden in this house. My employers would rather speak the name of the devil than remember that he was once their son."

You felt a tightness in your chest, instinctively massaging the spot.

"That's terrible."

Fiona didn’t respond, she just looked away at the photos in the box, as if searching for something among them. You seized the opportunity to press on.

"On the other hand, Miss Cianan was always the complete opposite," Fiona commented, her voice heavy with nostalgia. "An angel. Good, with a pure heart and a clean soul. She was always simple, never knew anything bad in life... Poor girl."

You tilted your head slightly, observing her expression.

"She always said Noah was super protective of her."

Fiona sighed, diverting her gaze to the photos she was holding, as if looking for something that could support her memories.

"Yes," she murmured. "He protected her with an almost uncontrollable fury. Sometimes, it felt like he was the father and she was the daughter. Noah guarded Cianan like a true animal, fierce and impenetrable. That made them inseparable, as if they were one."

She paused, her fingertips gliding over one of the photos before continuing:

"Cianan never left his side, so I found it strange she came here. She never had many friends. Noah was always the center of everything in her life."

Then, with a hint of bitterness in her voice, she added:

"I dare say that even when Noah was upset, Cianan was the only one who came out unscathed."

Her fingers kept gliding over the photos, passing through birthdays, school games, the first baby tooth that fell, many meaningful moments, until they stopped on the last image. Her eyes widened slightly, trying to hide the surprise. Her finger traced the face of the child, recognizing every feature, all still the same.

"Unlike Julian..." she commented.

"Julian?" you repeated, your voice trembling.

"Yes, the eldest son," she replied. "He was always different from the other two, taller, more mature, and cold. He didn’t like physical contact, did everything on his own, and always isolated himself. Julian fit more with the Blackridge profile. He treated the staff as if they were inferior, was proud, selfish... didn’t even like eating with his siblings."

With every word, your chest tightened, and your vision began to blur, replacing the images of smiling children with colorful spots.

"I... I never heard of Julian," you said, frozen.

"We called him Julian, but his name is Travis," she confirmed.

The photos slipped from her fingers and fell into your lap.

"Travis Julian Blackridge Rune."

Chapter Text

"You're telling me Travis Rune is a Blackridge?" Her voice, as controlled as she tried to sound, carried a slight tremor.

Fiona lifted her head, turning her attention from the box to stare directly at her. Her gaze narrowed, analyzing every detail of her expression as her face shifted from a rigid scowl to clear suspicion. With a sudden movement, she snatched the photos from her hands and shoved them back into the box.

It was as if she had become someone else.

"If you're really that close to Miss Cianan, why do you sound so surprised to learn the identity of her older brother?" Her tone was sharp, cutting. You opened your mouth to reply, but Fiona cut you off before any words escaped. "Your questions don’t sound like they come from someone who knows the family. They sound like a curious outsider someone collecting information."

"Don’t be ridiculous, Fiona..." you shot back, almost offended. "Cianan doesn’t talk openly about her brothers, you know how they are… they hate getting into personal matters."

"Then why don’t you respect that?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"I want you to leave. Now." Fiona stood from the bed, every word spoken through clenched teeth. "If they find out I let a journalist or someone from the police in here…"

"They’ll punish you, won’t they?"

She froze mid-motion, her body tense as if her own shadow had just whispered a forbidden secret.

Fiona’s eyes burned into you, a mix of fury and disguised fear. The lines on her forehead deepened, and her hands clutched the edge of the box like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," she said coldly, but her voice betrayed the tension thickening in the room.

"Your employers punish you… like they usually do when you make a mistake, don’t they?" you insisted, walking toward her and startling her with a touch to her wrist.

Fiona took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them again, her gaze no longer held rage—but a weariness that seemed to weigh years on her shoulders.

"You need to go," she repeated, this time without hatred, only urgency. "Now."

But you didn’t move.

"If you don’t leave right now..." Fiona’s sentence was cut short as a sudden sound interrupted her words. A heavy door slammed somewhere in the mansion, and she rushed out of the room, leaving you behind.

Without wasting time, you followed cautiously, slipping between the pillars of the shortcut she had taken toward the main hall.

From behind the door dividing the living room, you peeked from the corner of your eye, trying to identify who had arrived. Then you saw a tall woman cross the entrance, her heels echoing against the floor.

She wore a flawless tailored suit, her medium-length dark hair falling elegantly over her shoulders. Without hesitation, she threw her coat over Fiona’s arms and took a deep breath, analyzing the room around her.

"What took so long?" she asked, without even looking directly at the housekeeper.

"Forgive me, ma’am, I was occupied."

The woman’s sharp eyes scanned every corner of the hall, as if catching an invisible whisper, a warning that something wasn’t where it should be. Her gaze landed on Fiona, examining her from head to toe, as if she sensed a mistake before confirming it.

"You don’t seem out of breath… so you’re not tired. What exactly took up your time, Fiona?" she asked, intrigued.

"Ah… just selecting the dinner menu. That doesn’t usually wear me out," Fiona replied with a rehearsed smile.

The woman kept a neutral expression, clearly unconvinced. But unwilling to waste time arguing with staff, she decided to drop the matter.

"Cancel dinner. Cianan’s spending the night at the Embleys’, and my appetite vanished the moment I stepped through this door and, for the sixth time, was greeted by that insufferable scent of lavender," she complained, casting a look of disdain at the potted plant in the corner. "I don’t want to be disturbed for the next few hours."

"Yes, ma’am," replied Fiona, slightly bowing her head before turning back toward the kitchen.

The old wood of the stairs creaked beneath your feet, but the sound was muffled by the distant crackling of the fireplace downstairs. You followed her cautiously, keeping to the shadows, your eyes fixed on the slender figure of the woman ascending ahead of you.

She moved with a cold elegance, her steps precise, as if gliding through the dim corridor. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she turned without hesitation and entered a room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

You hesitated for a moment. You weren’t supposed to be there. But really, since when did what you were supposed to do matter?
With your heart pounding in your chest, you approached, sneaking up to the sliver of the door.

The sound of running water echoed through the room, muffling any other noise. You took a deep breath and peeked inside.

The room was lit only by the flickering glow of candles scattered around the space. Heavy, dark curtains blocked out any light from outside. Shadows danced on the walls, distorting the outlines of the antique furniture. A dark wooden vanity was cluttered with glass vials, some empty, others filled with thick, opaque liquids. On the imposing canopy bed, a black dress lay folded with disturbing precision.

The noise from the shower stopped.

You shrank against the wall, holding your breath, eyes locked on the door opening.

The woman reappeared minutes later, her bare feet touching the wooden floor with ghostly lightness. Her still-damp body reflected the candlelight as she moved through the room, a thin towel wrapped around her frame.

Then, unhurriedly, she let the fabric fall.

You felt the air leave your lungs.

What you saw wasn’t just shocking it was grotesque.

The woman’s skin was a mosaic of scars, deep cuts that intertwined in chaotic patterns. Some wounds looked recent, the flesh still reddened, puckering in failed attempts to heal. Others had closed long ago, forming twisted ridges over her pale skin.

Her arms bore burn marks, some so severe the skin appeared melted, fused in irregular layers. Her legs were just as marked, with lacerations running the length of her thighs like unknown inscriptions.

But the worst was on her face.

Or what should have been her face.

The skin on just one side was damaged to the extreme, leaving a disfigured surface, a mixture of flesh and ancient scars. There was something cruel in it, as if it wasn’t the work of time or accident, but of meticulously planned mutilation.

Your stomach turned.

Your muscles tensed when you realized she was still now as she slipped the dress over her body and began fixing herself in front of the vanity as if facing her own reflection wasn’t a matter of discomfort. She was used to it.

With every passing minute in that house, your certainty deepened: everyone there inhabited a world of their own — a parallel universe carefully constructed to mask the grotesque, where every absurdity was treated as trivial, and every strange behavior was softened under a veneer of normalcy.

Walking back down the hallway, following the same path that had led you there, the image of the woman’s face wouldn’t leave your mind. You remembered the sessions with Noah and the subtle clues that, over time, began to make sense — signs that the Blackridge family cultivated a punitive culture, treating pain as a legitimate method of correction for anything they deemed wrong.

But what, after all, could that woman have done so terrible to deserve a disfigured face, hidden under countless layers of makeup? To carry a body marked, torn beneath fine and flowing fabrics?

Everything there felt… normal. Painfully normal. They accepted their ruined fates with resignation, believing they truly deserved them — and so, no one questioned anything.

Noah felt safer in the sanatorium. Even there, even under the control of the brother who despised him. Because, perhaps, in that warped world, it was the only place he could still breathe.

On your way down to the lower floor, your steps slowed as you came upon a painting hanging in the narrow corridor leading to the living room. It was a portrait of the woman you had just seen — sitting with her hands resting on her lap, a serene expression, a restrained smile, her features sculpted in perfection. The youth in her face seemed frozen in time, immortalized in precise brushstrokes that exalted an almost inhuman beauty.

“I used to be the highest-paid top model in the world, you know?” The woman’s voice, low and dark, broke the silence and sent a chill down your spine.

You cursed yourself internally for not having taken the chance to leave. The game was over now.

You were face to face with the woman who embodied — and consented to — all the strangeness of that cursed island.

“I was always the tallest, the thinnest, my hair was immaculate, natural… it was like talent had been born with me.”

Her tone was laced with nostalgia, almost melancholic, as her shadow aligned with yours in the hallway.

“Do you believe in luck?”

“Uh…” You cleared your throat, trying to sound firm.

“It’s not elegant to stumble over your words. You can tell from a mile away that you don’t belong in our circle. I can recognize good breeding just by someone’s bone structure.”

You swallowed hard. You expected a blade through your chest — but instead, she chose to kill with class. Subtle humiliation seemed to be her favorite weapon. All things considered, it wasn’t the worst scenario.

“No. I don’t believe in luck,” you replied, now more composed.

“I was born with my own luck.” You didn’t doubt it — beyond luck, she seemed to have an ego to match the size of her own portrait. “A good family, a flawless career, beauty…”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her tilt her head slightly, contemplating her own face in the painting.

“And don’t you consider your marriage and what came of it part of that luck?” you ventured, and the question seemed to strike her faintly. She straightened her posture.

“Of course…” she replied, with a hesitation that seemed to weigh on her tongue before she took a few steps back — the sound of her heels echoing sharply down the hallway.

“For a girl in the prime of youth, finally free from the place she hated most in the world, the greatest accomplishment… is to return and fulfill the role she was assigned in a dynasty. Isn’t it?”

There was a strange roughness in your throat, as if something was scraping you from the inside, and a sharp ringing began to pulse in your head.

A flash — sudden and cutting — tore through your thoughts, raising an uncomfortable suspicion about what was really going on there.

You turned slowly.

The woman was holding a glass of whisky in one hand and extending the other in a polite gesture of introduction. The warm, yellow light from the lamp touched her face partially, casting shadows that accentuated every curve with a sinister elegance.

You hesitated and chose not to touch her hand — she gracefully withdrew it.

“He had his own struggles with personal demons, like anyone, but he’s a good boy. If that’s what made you break into my home to find out… I don’t hate my own son,” she said, pointing with her chin to the portrait of Noah smiling above the fireplace. “He just never fit in here.”

“And he fits in at Grimshade?”

Before you even realized, you had said it.

Shit.

“He’s safer at Grimshade than anywhere else.”

Your chest tightened.

You had already understood that his confinement was some kind of protection. But protection from what, exactly?

Did she want to keep him from getting hurt the way she had? Protect him from the cruel husband? From the sick, tangled roots of the dynasty that bound them to that place?

“From what?” you said. “What are you protecting him from?”

“From himself.”

She disappeared the same way she’d appeared: suddenly.

Leaving behind only the echo of her words in your head.

Back at the sanatorium with fewer answers than you left with, you felt as exhausted as if you’d carried a truckload of sand on your shoulders.

Instead of solutions, you found questions — and nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared your heart to hear from Noah’s own mother that locking him away in a sanatorium, surrounded by murderers and fractured minds, was the best way to protect him from himself.

How dangerous could he be for her to say that out loud?

Rune.

You needed more than ever to talk to him. And it was that determination that ignited your steps as you crossed the field with the wind tearing through your coat sleeves, the damp ground screaming under your boots.

You entered the manor with your heart pounding in your throat. You climbed the creaking stairs like someone fleeing a fire.

Passed the stumbling patients, disfigured by medication, dodging pale bodies and vacant stares in the hallway, until you stopped in front of Rune’s office.

You didn’t even bother to knock.

You shoved the door open forcefully, interrupting the session he was having with Marianne.

The sharp crack of the wood hitting the wall made them both turn their heads at once.

The silence that followed felt like it was about to explode.

“I need to talk to you. Now,” you said, bluntly, not noticing even the slightest twitch in his expression. Rune kept calmly jotting notes in his notebook.

“In private.”

The blond-haired man raised an eyebrow and, with disdain, checked the watch on his wrist before finally lifting his eyes to you.

“The session ends in twenty minutes. If you're so desperate to speak with me, sit down and wait,” he replied, turning his attention back to Marianne as if you were just another shadow in the corner of the room.

“And when did the nightmares start? I remember you saying last week you’d been sleeping too well.”

“They’re not nightmares, I already told you!” she snapped, restless. “I see someone walking outside my cell at night, and I’m sure it’s the guy who doesn’t talk!”

The mention of Noah sent a chill crawling up your spine. You sat down in silence, fists clenched.

“Have you ever interacted with him?” Rune asked, pen resting against his lips — a typical gesture of his disbelief. “Seen his face?”

“N-no… but…”

“Whether it’s Noah or not, it doesn’t matter. You were supposed to be asleep, not patrolling the hallway. That’s what the guards are for, isn’t it?”

“He killed a patient during the night… Tom.” she said, almost in a whisper, and you felt the air thin around you.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him?” Rune scoffed dryly.

You already knew his approach wasn’t exactly conventional, but the lack of empathy — and patience — was now blatant. He seemed fed up. With everything. The routine, the patients, the delusions that never healed.

“I want you to increase my dosage.” she blurted out, staring at him with wide, frantic eyes.

Rune sighed, tossing the notebook onto the desk — a page filled with doodles of little flowers and skulls, no diagnosis, no useful notes.

“I’ll owe you that one. But maybe, if your story improves next week…” he winked with sarcasm. “Your time’s up. Get lost.”

“BUT… BUT…!” she screamed, and two guards burst into the room.

Marianne’s thin body thrashed in their arms like a cornered animal, her screams soaked in fury and desperation echoing off the thick office walls.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I’LL KILL YOU!”

Rune adjusted his cuff and didn’t even blink.

“Of course your presence was the only thing missing to complete my day…” he muttered, dripping three drops of a mood stabilizer onto his tongue before carelessly tossing the empty vial into the drawer. “What is it now?”

Ignoring the sarcasm, you stepped toward the chair Marianne had just vacated and sat down. For a few seconds, silence reigned between you. Rune studied your expression with clinical calm, as if he could decipher every nuance and predict your next words. You stared back, asking yourself what else he was still hiding.

“Who exactly are you?”

Travis let out a short, dry laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he replied, his voice loose. “Don’t tell me that after yet another long walk around the island during work hours, you came back with another list of observations no one but you cares about.”

Uncomfortable, you shifted in your chair, fists clenched. His presence — the mockery, the coldness — seemed to press deeper into something raw inside you with each passing day.

“I went to the Blackridge estate.”

“I figured you would.” He was sharp and direct, as if he’d predicted your every step.

“When I first arrived on this island… more precisely, at Grimshade, I thought we’d be friends. I tried to get close to you, I trusted what you said. I really… tried to make this work, even with you making it clear from day one that you didn’t like me.” Your voice trembled, but it held firm. “I was honest with you, while everything that came out of your damn mouth was a lie.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound of the pen tapping on the desk echoed irritatingly, like a persistent drip at the back of your mind.

“These past few days you seem so… off,” he said, without lifting his eyes from the desk. “Isolated from your colleagues. Declining productivity. Anxious. Now, aggressive.”

You shook your head, as if you could rattle that idea out of your skull.

No. You were fine.

You were normal.

“It’s curious how all of this began precisely with your fixation on Noah’s case… the very case that’s become your obsession.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re dissociating,” he replied calmly. “As you grow more entangled with your patient, Doctor. I wonder… are you trying to prove with your own life whether Grimshade’s curse is real, or are you simply displaying the visible signs of an impending schizophrenic break?”

His smile was slow, almost gentle. Cruel in just the right measure.
A heavy breath escaped your lips at that insinuation. Flames surged through your veins.

Stupid. Vile. Mediocre.

He had far more in common with that family's blood than you’d ever imagined. How had you not seen it before?

“Is that what you do to everyone who crosses your path?” you shot back, your voice sharp as a blade.

He adjusted his posture in the chair with a curious look, twirling the pen between his fingers. He was calm—or faked it flawlessly. Typical of someone who’d learned to bury his emotions until they disappeared.

“Give them a psychiatric diagnosis so that any accusation made against you loses weight? So they’re seen as unstable, paranoid, invalid—no matter what truth they try to speak?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was a wall.

You leaned across the table, eyes locked on his.

Steady. Furious.

You met a pair of dull eyes, void of guilt, void of urgency—like a mirror refusing to reflect what it truly is.

“Is that what you did to your brother, Travis Blackridge?”

Rune took a deep breath, but his composure never wavered.

“How foolish you are…” he rolled his eyes.

“Who else would benefit from the institutionalization of the perfect son besides you, Rune?” you growled, voice dripping with fury. “Money? Power? Control over the island? Or your parents’ attention? Which of those reasons fed your hatred enough to accuse him of a crime he didn’t commit just to get him out of your way?”

You could feel your heart pounding in your ears.

“It couldn’t have been hard to convince your family of anything, could it? Make it look like someone so ‘troubled’ would be safer here… under your care.”

His eyes closed for two seconds. When they opened again, something in them threatened to crack the carefully cultivated mask he wore.

“What makes you think I ever wanted anything that came from that filthy family?” he said with a calmness that hurt more than a scream. “Didn’t it strike you as odd that I don’t use their surname? That I didn’t marry an Embley to follow tradition? That my name isn’t mentioned in a single interview or printed on any of those glossy magazine covers with the family’s smiling faces? That the despicable patriarch never once called me ‘son’… and that there isn’t a single photo of me in that entire house, except for the one hidden in a box in the maid’s room?”

His voice carried an old, deep-rooted resentment.

Something inside you cracked.

“Bastard…” you murmured, staggering, sitting back down as if the world had tilted.

Rune stood slowly. Circled the desk. Stopped beside you.

Then he leaned in.

Now, with his eyes blazing, he looked ready to smother you with the truth. And that was exactly what he would do.

“Did Margot Blackridge also tell you about the terror she felt at the thought of tarnishing the family’s honor with the scandal her maid’s son — the result of a rapist, cheating husband — could cause?” he whispered through gritted teeth. “I never wanted to sit at the same table as those people. I’d never waste my time plotting to destroy someone who’s already doing a perfectly good job of it themselves.”

You felt the shock turn bitter on your tongue. Your head throbbed. The information danced through your thoughts, scraping every corner.

“You’re Fiona’s son…”

“Fiona is an idiot who chose to stay in that goddamn sinkhole of a house instead of coming with me,” he snarled, pupils blown wide with rage. “I was raised by the streets. I don’t have a family. And I’m not a fucking Blackridge!”

Your lips parted to say something, but no sound came out.

You watched him closely. The pain, the disgust, the grief — all of it bubbled at the edge of his mouth, and still, he held himself together. He was the living embodiment of what happens when someone is born of a wound: rejected, erased, expelled from the history of their own origin.

Rune knew the Blackridge effect better than anyone.

And maybe that was exactly why he hated his brother so much.

“I… I didn’t mean to dig into that wound,” you said at last, your voice low. “I didn’t have to expose your relationship with your mother like that. I… I’m sorry.”

“You can’t be this stupid,” he shot back, blunt and cold. “But it makes sense. You’re desperate, lashing out in every direction, hunting for someone to blame because you can’t face the truth you already know.”

The door slammed shut.

And you jolted, as if the whole world had cracked in two.

Chapter Text

Tension was already part of your routine, like your own skin.
You got used to scanning your surroundings with suspicion, to testing the truth of your own footsteps on the ground. Over and over. Always.

And at the end of the hallway — there he was.

Undoing your rigid shell with a single sidelong glance. A half-smile. Wicked. Disturbed. Charming. At odds with his dark, lowered eyes.

He shielded himself from any accusation. It was as if his presence disarmed you before you even thought of confronting him. He was danger and relief in the same body.

He was seductive. Persuasive. And his convincing scowl made your thoughts feel ridiculous and, for a moment, you wondered how foolish your suspicions really were.

People like him make you feel like your choices and values are irrelevant.

And suddenly, you didn’t want to care about your job anymore. You didn’t want to follow the codes of ethics that had been your compass for so many years. You didn’t want to do the right thing.

You just wanted him.

You only thought about him.

You just wanted to follow him — wherever he went, even if it cost you everything you had. Even if it destroyed you.

You needed him.

“Something wrong?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice dragging like a dance between mockery and genuine interest.

You felt it when his finger — tattooed, warm, strangely delicate — brushed the side of your face. Your skin burned under the touch. Your eyes closed reflexively, and almost at the same moment your hand rose, covering his, as if silently begging for a moment of pause in the chaos.

Almost like a cry for help.

“Conflicting information in my head,” you murmured, eyes still closed.

He didn’t pull away. Stayed there, caught between tenderness and threat.

“Unsure of what to believe, doctor?” he whispered, and the way the word doctor fell from his lips seemed to mock your rationality, as if it reduced you to a confused patient before a puzzle of which he was both piece and mystery.

Your body was still, but inside everything was shaking.

“No…” you looked up at him, seeing his height rise above you like a living shadow, almost intimidating. “I believe you. I believe in your innocence. That’s what I’m trying to do… prove that you deserve more than to rot in here, Noah.”

He smiled.

“You really believe in me?”

Your stomach flipped when you saw his eyes light up — not with tenderness, but with something sickly, feverish. Almost hungry.

“Y-yes…” you faltered, but tried to stay firm. “Help me with the truth, Noah. Help me get you out of here. We can disappear from this island like the legends they whisper at night. The two of us…”

But his fingers — which had been warmth — now brought back the cold as they touched your skin. And then, he pulled away, like someone lifting a veil.

“It’s a good plan,” he said, almost affectionately. “But it’s useless when this place has already taken over your body. When it’s already made you… and him… one and the same.”

“No.” you denied slowly, as if denying reality itself.

Your eyes filled with tears. It was the last thing you wanted to hear from him: that he had given up.

“Hey…” he whispered, leaning in until your faces were level. “But you don’t have to worry about that… not when I’ve already taken care of everything.”

His voice was a warm breath that wrapped around you, cradled you like a spell. His scent lingered between you — intoxicating, unbearably familiar — and his warm breath seemed to bring the sky back to your pale skin. You desperately longed to touch his lips.

“T-taken care of it?” you asked, in a whisper, lost.

Noah nodded.

He brushed his soft lips against the curve of your cheek, and your entire skin tingled.

His hand slid from your neck to entangle in the strands of hair at the base of your nape. And he pulled—firm, controlled—making your body give in, forcing you to press your chest against his.

The world seemed to stop.

Then he brought his lips close to your ear.

“Freedom and us are two things that cannot coexist, darling…” he murmured, his voice low like a grieving secret. “But you don’t need to confuse your heart any further with useless decisions… not when I’ve already made a choice for you.”

Your chest tightened in a way that hurt.

Your throat closed, as if something inside you had begun to sink.
He felt—like no one else—the exact moment you started to break.

“Neither of us will ever leave this place…” he whispered in your ear, with a cruel lyricism, almost gentle. As if offering flowers at a funeral.

The sentence fell like an ancient spell.

And it was that: there was no escape anymore.

Because you, somehow, already belonged to him.

And he… already belonged to Grimshade.

You tried to free yourself, tried to escape his firm grip, but Noah didn’t let go—he held on like someone holding something that was rightfully his.

It was only when two orderlies appeared from behind and grabbed your arms with brutality that he finally released you.

“Let me go! Let me go, let me go now!” you screamed, your feet kicking at the air as you were dragged down the hallway.

The bright white light of the room at the end of the corridor burned against your eyes as if it were scorching your brain before it even reached you.

You were still struggling when, one last time, your eyes met his.

Noah stood there, as calm as the silence before an earthquake. His pupils shone with a sick—cruel—serenity.

Unhurried, he brushed a strand of hair from your face with the tips of his fingers.

Then he turned to the orderlies.

“Begin the lobotomy.”

*

You awoke as if emerging from a shipwreck — a fierce jolt tore through your spine, and air entered your lungs like razors. It was as if your entire body had been pulled back to the surface after being submerged for a long time. The world around you still seemed suspended, distorted by the deep noise echoing inside your skull.

Each heartbeat sounded wrong, too fast, like a ceremonial drum.

You sat up with a start, cold sweat clinging the fabric of your clothes to your skin, and for a moment you didn’t know if you were alive or just trapped in another layer of delirium. The sound that escaped your throat was primal, gasping, like something coming out of you without permission.

A dream.

You repeated it like a spell. Like a thin line trying to hold back collapse.

Your fingers ran desperately to your temples, your neck, your wrists. Searching for something. A needle. A cut. A surgical stitch hidden beneath the skin. A mark. A sign that this twisted and cruel reality could still be imprinted on you somehow.

But there was nothing.

No sign of bonds. No trace of metal against your bones. No voice whispering that you would never be whole again.

Logic said it was only a nightmare. An illusion crafted by a tired mind, shaped by years devouring rotten records and clinical cases that looked more like hauntings than people. Movies based on true crimes, books annotated with ink and blood.

You were always good at separating worlds. Until now.

But the metallic taste in your mouth, the absence of his warmth, his scent on your neck… none of it seemed to come from a dream.

“It’s okay,” you whispered — as if you could convince the whole world of that.

But the room, silent, seemed to disagree.

A throbbing pain shot through your spine as you rose from the floor, because why you had slept there was an interesting question. Your room felt like an extension of your mind; everything was disorganized and tossed around. The last thing you remembered was the conversation with Rune — but that had been yesterday. Or today? The digital clock blinked 3:17. The same time as last night.

Yet, the reflection of sunlight invading a narrow space between the window panes signaled something else.

The room was plunged into shadow, as if time inside had stopped — or died. The curtain, which you usually kept half open, was drawn shut. The armchair, once pushed against the wall, now faced the bed.

As if someone had been there.

Your shirt was not the same. You were wearing a worn wool sweater, smelling of mothballs and something else... metallic. Your feet were cold, bare on the icy floorboards. As you walked, you saw the notebook open on the desk, pages filled with nearly illegible handwriting. Words scratched out, others violently circled.

Among them, his name. Repeated dozens of times.

You flipped through the pages with trembling fingers. You didn’t remember writing any of it. Didn’t even remember arriving so late or sleeping in the clothes you had worn all day. Your lips were dry, bitter like the taste of something not your own.

On the chair, hanging by its arm, your lab coat — and on it, something folded. A piece of paper. A drawing. A pencil portrait of you, with slightly wrong features, as if someone had tried to sculpt you from memory. And behind the paper, a single phrase scribbled fiercely:

You felt your stomach churn. The dream — if it had been a dream — still burned beneath your skin. You remembered him looking at you. His voice whispering the promise like a cruel spell.

“You believe me.”

“Yes...”

“But you don’t need to confuse your heart any further with useless decisions… not when I’ve already made a choice for you.”

Tripping over the rug, you had to lean on the wall to keep from falling. The room spun slowly, as if you were submerged in a viscous substance that was neither air nor time. A subtle noise vibrated beneath the silence — something mechanical, almost a hum. Or was it only inside your head?

Unlocking the door, the hallway was empty, but you heard footsteps. Echoes, maybe. Muffled voices beyond the walls.

Shouts... or laughter?

And then you realized.

There was blood under your nails.

Blood.

Not much, but enough to stick beneath your nails, dry, darkened, like a trace of something you didn’t remember doing.

After a long, almost ritualistic bath, you scrubbed your skin with the sponge as if you could tear away, along with the filth, yourself. When you finally stopped, your body burned — not with heat, but exhaustion. As if trying to rid itself not of dirt, but of itself.

Now, in front of the bathroom mirror, your reflection seemed hesitant, disconnected, as if there was a delay between your movement and what you saw. For a second, your heart leapt. You recognized the feeling.

Faulkner.

His report came to mind with disturbing clarity — unnamable patient, they said. A pretty term to hide what no one wanted to understand. He saw distortions in the mirror, figures crossing corridors that should be empty, heard sounds where silence should dwell.

He was considered unstable. Dangerous. Mad.

And then came the question that cuts deeper than any scalpel:
With whom, here, could you share what you had been feeling… without ending up exactly like him?

Silence.

Only the mirror returning a woman who might no longer even be you.

“Contact lenses?”

The voice came like a sudden sting, tearing the thin veil of your distraction. Your body reacted with an involuntary startle. Turning your face slightly, you saw Sloan approaching with that smile too light, too easy.

“What?” you asked, in a tone seeking distance, and quickened your pace down Grimshade’s narrow corridor.

“Your glasses. You’re not wearing them. I thought you’d put in contact lenses.”

The observation was like a needle piercing the fabric of normality you were trying to keep. Too late, your fingers touched your own face — the bridge of your nose bare, your temples free. There was no weight there at all. No sign of the frames that accompanied you every day. And… you could see perfectly.

This should be impossible.

“I left in a rush. I forgot.”

A lie. One of those small, automatic lies meant to glue the shards of logic back together when reality starts to crack.

At that moment, a sharp wind tore through the hallway. A chilling gust, abnormally furious, that seemed to rip the air between the two of you. Sloan rubbed her arms with a shiver and muttered something, but what really caught your attention was the figure that passed by — fast, cold, indifferent.

Rune.

No greeting. No glance.

Just the overwhelming presence of someone who wanted to vanish from the world.

“Looks like the kitty took a cold shower,” Sloan chuckled, trying to cut through the tension with irony.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“He’s always been sour, but today... it’s more than just moody. He didn’t even follow today’s schedule. Canceled everything. In all these years, I’ve never seen him take a day off. Never.”

Your breathing grew heavier, even as you tried to hide it. The feeling grew like a knot in your stomach — uncomfortable, uncertain. But you knew. The wound bleeding inside him now had your fingerprint on it.

And for the first time since you met him… you wondered if, somehow, you had crossed the last boundary of what could still be saved in him.

“Judging by your tension… is it just me, or do you have something to do with this?”

The question landed like a needle driven in with precision, and when you turned your face, you saw Sloan’s raised eyebrow — the kind of look that feigns innocence but is a polished trap laced with venom.

“Don’t tell me you fell in love with him after a single fuck?”

For a moment, the air around you seemed to boil. You even liked Sloan. She had a kind of functional lightness, could’ve been a useful friend in a less corroded world. But not in that moment. Not now. Everything in you wanted her to shut up.

To choke on her own tongue, or for it to be ripped out by invisible hands that knew rage in its rawest form.

“I believe he has his own demons to deal with. It’s not up to me — and certainly not up to you — to speculate about them.”
Your reply came dry, controlled — but with a razor blade behind the words.

Sloan let out a short laugh and shrugged, like someone tossing gasoline on embers barely hiding fire.

“Another one struck by the Grimshade legend.”

Your spine went cold.

“What do you mean by that?” You tried to sound indifferent, but your voice betrayed your interest like a poorly locked door creaking at the slightest touch.

“Never heard of it? The guy who killed himself... Elias. He was the strongest proof that it’s not just a legend. They say every psychiatrist who works here long enough… goes insane.”

She spoke like someone repeating something heard at whispered dinners or in empty corridors.

“It always starts the same: they get a complex case, get obsessed with it. Slowly, the case devours everything — routine, sleep, perception. Their sanity deteriorates just like the patients’. That’s why doctors don’t last long here.”

Sloan sighed.

“Honestly, I always thought it was strange Rune never showed any signs.”

Your heart clenched in a different way. You could barely keep yourself from asking the next question.

“Have you ever seen a case like Elias’s up close?”

Sloan shook her head with a casual nod.

“Not exactly. Just heard the stories. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful…”

She winked at you with a side-smile and turned away.

“Gotta go. Medication in the basement.”

And then she was gone — leaving you in the middle of the hallway, with the words hanging in the air like flies around a festering wound.

Obsessed with the case.

Mental deterioration.

Another psychiatrist swallowed by Grimshade.

You didn’t know whether you felt fear — or if it was already too late for that.

When you shut the door to your office, the sound echoed like a stifled cry for help — muffled, desperate. You wished you could disappear. For a few moments, all you wanted was to stop existing inside those walls that seemed to close in a little more each day. Maybe quit medicine, give it all up, tear up your license like someone ripping off an old bandage. Maybe work with kids. Go back home, sleep in your childhood room, smell your mother’s cooking and say, with tears in your eyes: you were right all along.

Yes, she was.

This profession wasn’t for you. Not after everything Grimshade was doing to your mind.

You raised your eyes, exhaustion leaking through your pupils — and the shock hit you like a physical blow. Your hand shot to your chest, heart pounding like a tribal drum.

There, sitting in the patient’s chair, back turned to you, was someone.

A male silhouette. Broad shoulders, strong arms resting in a relaxed posture, like someone who belonged there. The scent floating in the air was fresh, freshly showered — too clean, too out of place, almost ironic in that asylum steeped in mold, sweat, and decay.

He turned slowly, as if expecting your shock. The corner-smile shaped a face you’d recognize even in the dark: Noah.

“You’re late, doctor.”

His voice pierced through your defenses with the same impact as always, but something was different — a mocking tone, a subtle performance.

“Late?” you echoed, like an idiot forgetting her own language.

“My session started six minutes ago. Lost track of time? Still know what day it is?”

He said it so naturally that the ground beneath you seemed to shift.

How did he know?

The chill crawling up your spine didn’t come from the air conditioner. It came from within. From something that moved — or revealed itself — deep inside your own reflection.

“We don’t have a session today, Noah.” Your voice came out firm, more out of necessity than conviction.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, like someone savoring a game whose ending he already knew.

“I remember Dr. Steve saying patients could have sessions anytime… if they felt the need to talk to someone.”

The way he said it — with that rehearsed calm — made your stomach turn in a slow, heavy twist.

“And look at that… funny how you only talk to me.” You tossed the words with bitter irony, trying to protect yourself with sarcasm, trying not to show how much that truth haunted you. “We can start our session like that, then — with you telling me why you only open your mouth in my presence.”

He smiled, and the smile seemed to have too many teeth, even if they were invisible.

“Why do you ask?” he shot back with amusement between the lines. “Afraid I’m just another figment of your imagination?”

He knew. Not like someone guessing — but like someone who had listened.

His stifled laugh echoed through the room like a whisper against walls too thin to hold secrets.

“No more games, Noah!”

Your tone rose, sharp, trying to burst his game-bubble — or at least fracture it. But Noah didn’t flinch. He just leaned back in the chair like someone who had already won the argument and now just enjoyed the flailing defeat.

“Sure...”

“What brought you to this off-schedule session?” you asked with a soft yet sharp tone, settling into your armchair — as if each word were a scalpel aiming for the raw flesh beneath the skin. “When did we go from the patient who avoided me like the plague to this one who won’t let me see anyone else?”

“Doesn’t it make you feel special?” he shot back with that provocative tone, dancing over your insecurities.

“Answer without throwing me into another riddle.”

“Couldn’t it simply be trust?” he said, tilting his head slightly, like a psychiatrist examining an interesting case. Deep down, you knew: he didn’t follow your lead — he only played his own way. Always.

Noah had already flipped the session. Now you were the one feeling the questions cut through, while he watched your reactions comfortably, like a cold scientist observing a squirming lab rat.

“You don’t trust me, Noah. You’re incapable of seeing beyond your own reflection.”

“Hmm…” he frowned theatrically, as if genuinely wounded. “And what happened to the little girl so eager to save me? The same one who wanted to prove my innocence to the world? Why do you treat me like the villain in your story now?”

“And why wouldn’t you be?” your answer came without hesitation, sharp. “You shut me out of the truths that matter, surround yourself with family traditions bordering on cultish, hide in this hospital next to a brother who hates you and a mother who fears you like a harbinger of doom. Tell me, Noah, what’s stopping you from dragging me into the same end as Rachel? Why does watching my mind collapse seem so damn pleasurable to you?”

He didn’t even blink. No sign of remorse. No crease on his face to betray the slightest impact.

“We had a deal. One question per session. You broke the rules.”

“TO HELL WITH YOUR SHITTY RULES!” your voice exploded along with a sharp smack on the wooden table. The sound thundered like a clap inside a sealed chamber.

And that’s when he changed.

His expression hardened, eyes darkened as if a shadow crossed his face. That — that was what made a shiver run down your spine.

“What now, Noah?” you pushed forward, unafraid. “Is that what bothers you? When someone below dares to bite, the game stops being fun? Submission is your favorite stage, isn’t it? And if I refuse to kneel, you lose interest?”

“Actually,” he began, voice slow and dripping with sweet venom, “you’re becoming more and more… delicious. Almost unrecognizable from that little mouse who walked in here.”

He moved toward the table — slow, calculated. The threat danced in every syllable.

“But you know what it looks like?” you fired, holding his gaze. “It looks like the more I understand you, the more I get close to the truth, the less interested you are. Like solving your game makes it dull. And guess who else felt that way?”

“Oh no… here you go again with that Rachel crap.”

“And what happened to that bitterness that used to flood you just from hearing her name? The restrained rage? The shadow of grief? The fiancé devastated by a tragic loss?” you pressed. “Where did all of that go?”

“It’s all still in the same place, darling.”

“Then answer me a real question, since you keep insisting you trust me…”

Her voice slid out steady, almost too calm, as her fingers traced the edge of the table without taking her eyes off him.

“If the marriages between the Embleys and the Blackridges have been happening for generations… then, in the end, you’re all just one big family.”

He remained motionless, still as an old portrait. Not a single expression escaped.

“Then why does no one from your bloodline seem to mourn someone like Rachel? A death so brutal… and, by all accounts, so convenient.”

Silence. Not even a blink.

“If the women in your family are punished — like your mother, like the others — with physical punishments dressed up as tradition... then what exactly did Rachel do to deserve hers?”

“I would never hurt her.”

The answer came low, but firm — no sarcasm, no evasion, none of the usual masks. For the first time, it was just him. Bare of games.

“I didn’t want that marriage precisely because I knew Rachel, the way she was, would be like gasoline thrown over my family’s altar. She was too free… said what she wanted, did as she pleased. Didn’t bow her head, not even to God. Her reputation grew so much it no longer fit the campus — it spread like wildfire across the entire island.”

“Reputation?” you muttered, unable to hide the sharpness in your tone.

“There was an agreement between us. She could see whoever she wanted… as long as, in front of my family, appearances were maintained.”

A brief, heavy pause.

“I loved Rachel, yes… But not as a man. I just wanted to protect her. Keep her from ending up like my mother.”

That changed everything.

“Our plan was simple,” he said, his voice caught between memory and regret.

“We’d get married, keep up the act… and then disappear. Far from this island, far from them. As soon as we signed the divorce papers, we’d go our separate ways. We’d never have to face each other again.”

A faint smile touched the corner of his lips — there was no joy in it, just the bitter taste of something that never came to be.

“But that’s when I realized…” his expression darkened like the sky before a storm.

“No one leaves this island. Not even a Blackridge.”

Your chest tightened, and the taste of your own saliva felt strange.

In your mind, the pieces began to fall into place, forming a puzzle that, though incomplete, was clear enough to make you shiver. Her death a cruel message addressed to him, the moment they found out about the escape plan.

They knew. They had always known.

And between losing the heir or locking him away in a mental hospital where they could keep a close watch, the choice was nearly obvious. A padded cell was much more useful than a coffin.

Maybe, in the end, Rachel had just been the first piece sacrificed on the board.

You didn’t notice the exact moment he approached. By the time you realized, Noah was already beside you, leaning against the edge of the table with sinful ease, still handcuffed, as if the chains had never meant restraint at all.

His touch was icy as it slid along your cheek, and far too soft not to carry second intentions.

His finger lifted your face slowly, and the look that met yours was different now — lighter, as if the weight of years of silence had finally slipped from his lips.

And deep down, you felt it too.

Relief.

An invisible sigh crawling down your spine.

There was nothing you wanted more than to believe in his innocence. That he was, in fact, a victim — not the monster they claimed he was.

“This changes everything…” you whispered, not even aware of the weight of what you were saying.

He froze his finger there, against your skin, as if your words were a shard buried deep in the flesh.

“If we attach this true statement, we can reopen the case. Restart the investigation. You’d be innocent, Noah.”

The excitement of the revelation rose with the adrenaline.

“I’m going to request my transfer as soon as possible… and I really want to close your case before I go.”

His gaze cracked. You saw it. As if something broke inside, slowly.

He tilted his head, a subtle but cruel gesture, as if he were listening to you underwater — as if your words were still seeping through the cracks of his mind, like a slow-acting poison.

Without saying anything, he moved his body. One leg slid between yours, pushing your chair back until the cold wall met your spine.

You were trapped.

He no longer touched your face, but the air between you was nearly tangible from how dense it had become.

Your heart pounded, and you hated how aware you were of his lips — the way his tongue passed slowly over them, leaving them damp, dangerously inviting.

You were about to lose yourself in the illusion of the touch, in the lie of closeness, but then your eyes rose… and saw.

His gaze was no longer the same.

It wasn’t human.

Intense brown eyes gleamed like molten amber, but there was something there… something that shimmered with cold fury, with a wicked pleasure.

It was the gaze of a predator staring at the prey that let itself be fooled.

“I thought I made it clear, babygirl…”

His voice came low, drawn out, with that tone that chilled you from the inside.

“When I said neither of us is ever leaving this place.”

Chapter Text

You couldn’t say you had ever witnessed Noah’s fury — he seemed detached from that kind of emotion.

The handcuffs, once merely symbolic, began to truly bother him now that there was a tangible reason for irritation to surface. It was as if they were restraining him from giving in to the more dangerous impulses silently dancing through his mind.

With short steps, he moved away and sat on the edge of the desk, his shoulders slumping as if burdened by an invisible weight. His gaze, heavy and full of quiet sorrow, remained locked on yours as he twisted his left wrist until a dry, painful crack echoed through the room.

“Noah…” you reacted, voice firm, rising to your feet on instinct — but he raised his hand, ordering you to stay where you were.

Without a sound, he slid his now-loose wrist from the twisted joint and slipped free from the handcuff, liberating himself in what could only be described as a ritualistic gesture. A method of punishment. A self-inflicted sentence.

In Noah’s mind, his departure from Grimshade was a kind of failure — and he had chosen to carry that weight. And for a Blackridge, guilt always meant pain.

With slow, deliberate movements, he began to approach you again, reducing the distance between you like a silent predator circling its prey. There was no rage in his gesture — only a smothered, heavy pressure. Something on the verge of overflowing.

“Listen, I need you to pay attention to what I’m about to say…” you murmured with firmness, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the tension locked in his jaw.

His heart was pounding hard. But it wasn’t fear — it was a kind of raw urgency. A restrained frenzy in the space between your eyes. He pulsed like a bomb about to detonate, and still, he wouldn’t look away.

At what point, exactly, had you crossed that thin line between patient and therapist? Because now, in his eyes, you looked like the antagonist of this story.

Noah’s brown eyes burned like live embers, and the veins in his neck throbbed in a fast rhythm, in sync with the fury kept at bay.

He grabbed you with a single hand, his fingers closing around your throat — not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you still, forcing you to meet his eyes on the same level as he pinned you against the wall.

Startled, you widened your eyes, not daring to move. His free hand gently twirled a lock of your hair around his finger and brought it to his face. He inhaled the scent caught in your curls and closed his eyes briefly, only to open them again to your frightened expression.

“Now it’s your turn to listen, doctor. Isn’t that what you wanted from the start? Well, now I speak, and you listen — in silence.” The whispered words against your ear were like thin blades.

“Above all else, we’re still in session.” You answered with a firm, controlled voice. “I took your case because I believed you needed someone. And I still believe that.”

“But I never asked for help…” His voice sounded almost like a lament — sweet, unhinged. Noah’s body leaned in closer, and you felt the rigid pressure through the denim of his jeans. “I refused every form of treatment until I met you. I know it wasn’t a coincidence. I’ve never wanted anything in my life as much as I wanted you the second I saw you.”

He brushed his lips near your ear and whispered, hoarse:

“Isn’t it fascinating? I’ve never felt anything. Not pain. Not guilt. But because of you… I did. For the first time. I never saw anyone beyond my reflection — until you showed up.”

You swallowed hard.

His eyes burned with a sick kind of melancholy, but there was something hypnotic in that tortured glow.

“That night, doctor… I didn’t sleep. You took my sleep away. And to keep myself from losing it completely, I traced two options to make you mine.”

Noah completely ignored the panic in your eyes — or maybe he was feeding on it. Fear and desire blurred together, and you could no longer distinguish one from the other.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along the side of your face, stopping at your jawline, where he bit down — a sharp nip that sent your entire body trembling.

“The first option was staying close to you… receiving your care. It seemed less cruel than the second.” He smiled, and his fingers slid along the side of your body until they reached the hem of your shirt. Then, they slipped under the fabric and grabbed your breast, pinching the nipple firmly. A moan escaped your throat as the shock of his touch rippled through you.

The hard bulge against his jeans threatened to tear the seam. You gasped, and without realizing it, you moved against him.

No. You couldn't do this. Not again.

You were about to break the ethical boundary once again, compromising not only your career, but the little sanity you still had left. The worst part was that you knew — you knew — that this would only further fuel the distorted view he had of your relationship.

But who said you still cared about lucidity?

“And the second option?” you whispered, almost breathless. He invited you from the corner, and now there was no space between you.

The hand holding your neck loosened, and the question slid to your chin, forcing it down — forcing your eyes to meet his.

“You would be mine, no matter what. Even if I had to turn you into my cellmate, Doctor.” His voice was a whisper filled with madness. “I would melt your mind into a useless mass, just to keep you here. My prisoner. Forever.”

“It doesn’t sound so nice when said out loud…” you murmured, with bitter irony.

“But it’s not supposed to sound nice. It’s supposed to sound true.” He leaned his face closer. “If it takes killing you to chain your soul to mine, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

His fingers brushed your face with a tenderness that contradicted the cruel content of his words. The pressure between your legs intensified, and you felt it — you were so wet that the fabric was already changing color in that region.

“I’m not that cruel… I gave you the first option, remember?” he whispered close to your ear.

It was at that moment that everything inside you collapsed. You saw nothing else—just vibrant red—before you threw yourself at him and crashed your lips into his with a primal, desperate, wild force.

It was fury. It was desire. It was pure insanity in the form of a kiss.
The kiss was an outburst—teeth, lips, ragged breathing. There was no gentleness whatsoever. It was raw. It was feverish. It was the collapse of any remaining barriers.

Noah pushed you against the wall with his entire body, as if he wanted to melt you into the concrete. The hand that had previously held your chin now wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his throbbing erection, still trapped beneath his jeans. He panted between kisses, and you felt his hot breath mix with yours, as the world around you crumbled—or perhaps it had never existed beyond the insane bubble that enveloped the two of you.

“You like it…” he whispered through his teeth, nuzzling your neck before biting your shoulder. “You like the idea of ​​being corrupted… by me.”

You moaned—not in pain, but in silent surrender. His hands furiously climbed up your shirt, pulling it down until your skin was exposed. He wasted no time, lowering his head and sucking your nipple between his lips, his eyes still fixed on yours, as if daring you to say you didn't want that.

But you didn't.

Noah pulled away just enough to turn you onto your back and press your body against the cold wall. The contrast between the icy temperature and the sting of his touch made you gasp loudly, your hands reaching for support on any part of the wall as he hurriedly unzipped your pants.

“You shouldn’t want this,” he murmured hoarsely, pulling your hips back. “You should run from me, doctor… but look what you’re doing.”

You felt everything—his presence behind you, his invasive touch, his animalistic breathing. When his fingers entered you for the first time, you bit your lip so hard it almost bled. He moved with measured violence, punishing and caring in equal intensity, as if he had to prove, with every movement, that there was no salvation for either of you.

Noah pressed his lips to your ear and said, in a low, numb voice:

“No matter how many times you try to leave, I’ll be here. Inside you. Inside your head. Inside everything you try to forget.”

And when he finally buried his cock inside you, with a hoarse groan that seemed to come from his soul, you didn’t feel afraid. You felt belonging.

Sick, wrong, reprehensible. But belonging.

You were his. And, in some perverse way, he was yours too.

The impact of their bodies colliding filled the room in an obscene rhythm. The wall creaked slightly with the uneven rhythm of his thrusts. The air was heavy—a hot vapor of sin, sweat, and muffled moans against the palm of your hand, which was now covering your mouth to keep from screaming.

You couldn’t let them hear.

But did you care?

Noah was holding your hips so tightly that he would leave marks. You knew it. And somehow, you wanted it. You wanted to carry his imprint, as if your skin had finally found its purpose under the wrong fingers.

“Do you feel this?” he whispered hoarsely, his teeth digging into your shoulder. “This is what keeps me sane. You are what keeps me sane.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The voice simply wouldn’t come.

Only the sound of your body being taken, stretched to the limit, flooded by a fever you couldn’t name.

When he reached his peak, thrusting himself all the way in, groaning against the back of your neck, it was like a silent scream—not of pleasure, but of despair. As if he had destroyed you and, at the same time, found shelter in your wreckage.

You both stayed there for a while, panting, glued together, with your hearts beating out of rhythm, as if you had crossed a threshold from which there would be no return.

You felt his body begin to relax. The heat still seeped between your legs, and his palm now came up to caress your exposed back, almost like a silent apology. But there was no guilt there. There was possession.

There was you—completely surrendered.

He slowly pulled away, straightening his own clothes and watching you try to do the same, without much success. You were shaking, your knees weak, your mind still spinning between what was right and what never mattered.

Noah leaned in front of you and when he lifted his brown eyes, there was a mad gleam in them—but also a plea, a dark oath.

“Now you understand, Doctor… the difference between prison and home,” he whispered, running his fingers along your thigh where the skin trembled. “You are not trapped here. You were chosen. I am not your patient. I am your cross.”

Your chest tightened at that sentence. There was something in it that rang true—twisted, painful, but undeniable. You were doomed. And maybe you always were.

Noah slowly approached you again, pressing his lips to your skin as if he were sealing an invisible pact.

“You’ll leave me, but you’ll come back. And when you do, Doctor… it won’t be you anymore.”

You didn’t answer. There was no answer possible. Every word you tried to form died inside your dry throat. Your skin still burned, scarred, and your mind throbbed—as if everything inside you was on fire.

Noah stood there, eyes fixed on yours as if he was still waiting for something. Maybe a nod. A silent promise. A complete surrender.

But what was left to give?

You turned slowly, your legs shaking, and walked to the sink in the small room. You turned on the faucet with a shaky gesture and let the cold water run between your fingers, as if that could erase the last few minutes. The blood had already started circulating again, your pulse was still beating, but something inside you had changed.

If you left now, maybe you could still plead temporary insanity. A fit. A moment of breaking. But part of you—a growing, dark, cruel part—didn’t want to leave.

You stared at your own reflection in the glass of the medicine cabinet. The smeared makeup. The swollen mouth. The look in your eyes? Empty. Empty and dangerous.

Like his.

“Do you hate me now?” Noah asked behind you, his voice low, scratchy like a secret.

You slowly turned on your heel and leaned against the sink, crossing your arms, trying to protect yourself from him. From you. From what you were becoming together.

“I should have.”

He took a step closer. Then another.

“But you don’t hate me.”

His silence was confirmation.

He stopped in front of you, didn’t touch you—not yet—but his heat was suffocating, the scent of his skin still lingering on you. He watched you as if reading an ancient text in a forgotten language.

“You know they’ll try to take you away from me. They’ll claim abuse. They’ll say you’ve gone crazy.”

“Maybe they’re right,” you murmured.

Noah smiled.

Slow. Dirty. Painful.

“Let them say it. Let them think I broke you. Because maybe I did… but if I broke you, it was only so I could put the pieces back together. One by one. Any way I want.”

You felt your breath hitch.

He lifted his hand, running his fingers over your collarbone, over the purple mark that was beginning to form on your skin. It wasn’t violent.

There was nothing cruel about that touch—it was reverence.

Twisted adoration.

“Are you going to leave me now, Doctor?”

The question hung in the air.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

Or worse: because you already knew.

And yet you couldn’t walk out the door.

-

The orange light of the late afternoon passed through the dirty hallway windows. You walked with firm steps, as if it were possible to drive the chaos away just by striking your heels against the floor. The lab coat was open, the clipboard pressed tightly against your chest — almost like a shield.

This time, you weren’t going to back down from what needed to be done. You were leaving. You were walking away from this place.
You knocked on the door with restrained force.

“Come in,” Steven replied.

He was leaning back in the armchair, glasses on, fingers intertwined. The usual expression — indifferent, as if he’d been expecting you for days.

“I want to officially file my resignation. I’m no longer in any condition to stay in this place.”

He didn’t react immediately. Didn’t even seem surprised. He just let out a short sigh, like someone watching a child throw a tantrum. Then he leaned forward and pulled a folder from the drawer.

“Before we take any action,” he said, sliding the folder across the desk, “there’s something you need to see.”

You hesitated but stepped closer. The cover sheet was creased from being handled so often. When you opened it, you recognized the name immediately: Tom Hallow.

Below, photos. One of them, from the containment room, with blood spatter. Two others came from surveillance cameras: you walking down the halls… barefoot, with a vacant stare. Your hands were stained.

“These images were captured the same night Tom was found dead.”

“I didn’t…” you tried to step back, but he turned another page.

Elias Faulkner. His file. Cause of death: multiple fractures. The caption in the lower corner of the image: fall from the tower terrace. But then Steven revealed the transcript of the final report, signed by the forensic examiner: Fractures inconsistent with accidental fall. Indicative of a push.

“That was… murder.” Your voice came out like a sick whisper.

Steven nodded, with the coldness of an executioner.

“And everything points to you. Elias was killed hours after you were seen on the third-floor corridors — again, in a dissociative state.”

“No, no, no. That’s not possible, Steven. That’s not… me!”

He raised his hands, cutting you off.

“You really think you can help that boy when you can’t even hold onto your own sanity? You think no one noticed the blackouts, the lapses? The penny dropped a long time ago, doctor.”

He leaned in.

“You’re not a functional psychiatrist. You’re a patient who hasn’t realized she’s already crossed the mirror.”

For a moment, the silence was absolute. Not even birds. Not even the asylum’s usual noises — just the sound of the paper being pulled forward again.

“The board wants to reopen both cases. And until then, you’re not going anywhere.”

Your fingertips began to tremble.

You tried to stay in control. But everything hurt. Everything spun. Your head screamed. And deep down, something inside you started to laugh.

You stood there, eyes locked on the images, as if trying to deny them by simply blinking.

It didn’t work.

The paper was still there. So was the blood on your hands. The cameras didn’t lie.

But you didn’t remember a thing.

The images slid through your mind as if they belonged to someone else — as if you were watching, from the outside, the body you always believed you controlled.

Something was wrong.

Something had always been wrong.

But you’d been too good at pretending it wasn’t.

Until now.

“This is a trap.” Your voice came out raw, bitter. “Some kind of manipulation, a distortion. You want to make me look like… like them.”

Steven didn’t respond right away. He just watched you. As if studying a cornered animal.

“Who else knew?” you asked, your gaze already more hollow. “Who else is in on this idiocy? Rune? Did you know he got angry when I found out he was a Blackridge?”

He intertwined his fingers over the table, expression unreadable.

“Ever since you started treating your patients differently. You really think no one noticed how involved you got with Noah? This was never real therapy. It was an experiment — one that collapsed the moment you let him into your mind the same way he gets into everyone else’s, doctor. That’s what psychopaths do. They seduce, build trust exactly where they plan to destroy it later. And you’ve been at the center of his world since the moment you stepped into this building.”

Your throat went dry. Something rose in your stomach. Nausea, a primal panic.

“You’re telling me that…”

“I’m telling you that you chose to become part of this. That your lucidity has never been so threatened. And that if you take one more step out of line, you won’t be seen as a collapsing therapist… but as a criminal in the middle of a psychotic break.”

He stood up, and his height seemed to swallow the room.

“So, doctor? Do you want to file your resignation… or your admission?”

You didn’t answer. Because you couldn’t.

Your breathing grew heavy, your eyes searched the room for any point of support. Everything was shaking.

At last, you turned on your heel and stumbled out.

But nothing stayed behind.

The chaos came with you.

You moved through the corridors like someone trying to run inside a nightmare. Your feet felt like they were sinking with each step. The air in your lungs wouldn’t renew. The lights flickered. The sound of your own footsteps echoed strangely, as if they weren’t yours. As if you were walking with borrowed legs.

Once inside your room, you locked the door behind you with trembling hands.

Silence dropped like a bomb.

You faced the mirror.

And then it began.

First came the sound: the ticking of the wall clock grew louder, each second a detonation.

Then, the reflection. You blinked… but the mirror didn’t. The woman on the other side kept staring at you. Steady. Guilty.

“Murderer.”

The word came as a whisper behind you.

You turned fast. Nothing.

But now there was blood on the mirror. Your fingers, once again, were stained. Your white blouse, marked. You staggered back, but didn’t fall. Because your body didn’t respond.

“You don’t remember… because it was never you.”

The voice was yours. But spoken through someone else’s mouth.

You curled into the corner, pressing your hands over your ears.

“Tom Hallow. Elias Faulkner. Rachel.”

Names hammered your mind like scalpels on metal. The camera footage looped endlessly. You sleepwalking. You with scissors. You dragging something. A body? A dirty sheet? You didn’t know anymore. Everything blurred together.

“I would never… do this…” you whispered, childlike, broken.
But doubt was a drop falling into a cracked basin. Everything had been draining away for a long time.

You stepped closer to the mirror again. Pressed your cold forehead against the glass.

“Who are you…?” you whispered.

And the image answered with a smile.

But you didn’t smile.

The woman on the other side was bolder. Darker. With that cruel look you recognized from Noah. Or was it from you?

You struck the glass hard, trying to shatter it.

But it held.

The truth was inside.

And you, on the outside.

Chapter Text

Wounds that go untouched also rot.

The armchair you sit in is lower than his. Deliberately. The leather creaks under your weight as you cross your legs, and the sound seems to echo through the room, as if the gesture carried something indecent — an intimacy even you can’t quite grasp.

Dr. Rune watches in silence. His eyes don’t look at you the way a psychiatrist looks at a patient. There’s something feral there, too contained to go unnoticed. As if every word he lets slip has already been filtered, weighed, censored — not by professional ethics, but by guilt.

You feel it. You feel it when he analyzes you. When his gaze drags over your hands — still stained with smudges of ink and bruises — and lingers on the line of your jaw, which you keep lifted as if daring the world to collapse first.

The office feels smaller than it should. Too warm, stifling.

You try to hide the tremble in your fingers as you rest your elbow on the armrest.

“Have you been sleeping?” he asks at last. The voice is deep. Precise. That unbearable calm of someone harboring too many secrets.

“More than I should,” you reply with a crooked smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Or less than I realize. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

Rune writes something in his notepad. His eyes never leave you. It’s as if he’s studying you with a restrained hunger. Not for you. But for what you represent. For what he knows.

For what you don’t yet know about yourself.

“And the... hallucinations? Are they still happening?”

You hesitate. Your hand moves restlessly across your covered thigh. The way your teeth catch your bottom lip, for a moment, is almost sensual — but also tragic. Almost as if pleasure and dread now share the same frequency in your body.

“If I say no... will you call me a liar?”

Rune leans forward slightly. The tension between you grows like steam trapped behind steel bars.

“I’m not here to judge. You know that.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh and look at him with a disconcerting intensity.

“No, Dr. Rune. You’re here because he wanted you here. Because deep down, Steve trusts you more than he trusts me. And maybe... maybe I do too.”

Silence. Heavy. He closes the notepad slowly.

“Do you know why he chose me?”

You smile. A sick kind of smile. You know.

Rune presses his lips together, eyes shadowed. The office is hot. Too quiet. And for the first time, you feel like you could slip. Like you’re being pushed — gently, mercilessly — inward.

Into yourself.

Into him.

You don’t look away. And neither does he. For a second — or maybe more — the room disappears. The whole world seems trapped in the space between your eyes and his. A silence not empty, but crowded with meaning.

Rune tilts his head slightly, as if studying a work of art about to crack.

“That feeling of being watched — does it still happen?” he asks, his voice like velvet folded over broken glass.

You inhale deeply, as if breathing in something dense, almost viscous.

“No. It’s different now.”

“Different how?”

“It used to feel like I was being watched. Now... it’s like someone is inside me. Like I’m... split.”

Rune doesn’t write. He just watches you, and that’s what unsettles you. He doesn’t react with surprise, doesn’t feign concern. It’s as if he knows.

As if he’s always known.

“Are you afraid?”

You smile again, but there’s something wrong with it. A smile cracked, melancholic.

“Fear is a house. Sometimes, we live in it for so long that it starts to feel comfortable.”

Rune leans back, fingers interlaced in front of his mouth, eyes fixed on your face. The way he breathes, slowly, suggests restraint — or maybe a desire to say what he shouldn’t.

“And when you’re alone... do you still feel like you’re you?”

Your body hesitates and your fingers touch your own pulse, as if checking if you’re still there, beating in the right rhythm.

“There are voices. But not like before. Now they’re... memories I’m not sure I lived. Thoughts that don’t feel like mine. Sensations that come out of nowhere, like chills on someone else’s skin. Sometimes I wake up with the taste of blood in my mouth. Sometimes with perfume on the pillow. And sometimes,” you lean forward, just a bit too much, “sometimes I wake up with a sadness so deep I’m sure it doesn’t belong to me.”

Rune doesn’t move. But there’s something in his eyes that flickers. An almost imperceptible moment — but you catch it.

“Have you ever felt that, doctor?” you whisper. “Like something inside you is breaking, but you don’t know what you’ve lost?”

The silence weighs like steel. His hand reaches for a glass of water on the table, but he doesn’t drink. He just holds it. Something in his posture screams restraint — or regret. Or fear.

You still don’t know.

“Sometimes,” he replies at last. “The mind creates voids to survive. But the void isn’t always a hole. Sometimes... it’s a mirror.”

You look at him. Lips tighten. The tension between you hits a point where it feels like something might break — not with a scream, but with a touch. With the brush of fingers. With a gesture far too wrong to be ethical.

“And what if the mirror shows me something I don’t want to see?” you murmur, almost a confession.

Rune leans forward, elbows on knees, and for the first time he seems less doctor and more man. A man exhausted.

A man about to drown with you.

“Then maybe... it’s time to stop running.”

You tilt your head. A strand of hair slips down your cheek and falls onto your collarbone. You don’t brush it away. You just feel it there, as if everything is being watched, absorbed.

“Is that what I’ve been doing? Running?”

“What you’ve been doing... is trying to survive what you don’t yet understand.”

You fall silent.

The sentence echoes inside you like a familiar whisper. Like a memory. Like something that may not have been said by him — but by another voice, in another time. Or another part of her.
At last, you stand. And he doesn’t stop you. But he doesn’t say goodbye either.

Before leaving, you cast him one final glance over your shoulder.

“Thank you, Dr. Rune.”

“For what?”

You smile. A bitter, intimate smile, almost... conspiratorial.

“For not looking at me with fear. Not yet.”

And then you leave, leaving behind the echo of something that doesn’t have a name yet, but has already begun to move inside.
The smell of old paper and disinfectant greeted you before the door even finished creaking open. It was early, earlier than usual.

Grimshade’s main hallway still yawned in shadows, as if the building hadn’t fully awakened — or maybe it never slept.

You crossed the hall with measured steps, trying to silence the echo, as if you were trespassing inside yourself. The weight of the session with Rune still pressed against your ribs, but you pretended it didn’t.
That it was just another day.

The key turned with difficulty in the lock of your own office. The wood gave way with a dry crack. Everything seemed in order — chair in place, curtains half-drawn, your favorite pen resting in the center of the desk. But there was something... off. A subtle cold that didn’t come from the weather.

Your gaze fell on the beige folder resting on the desk.

Your file.

Open.

You hadn’t left it that way.

You swallowed hard. Your hands hesitated for a second, but moved on their own, flipping through pages you knew by heart until your eyes stopped on a sheet that shouldn’t exist.

It was a clinical assessment.

With your name at the top.

With your signature at the bottom.

Your stomach clenched before you even began to read. The text, written with almost surgical precision, read:

Clinical observations:
Patient presents recurring signs of persecutory delusion, episodes of identity confusion, and significant memory lapses. Displays patterns of dissociative hypergraphia, filling notebooks and notes with incompatible handwriting.

Containment in a controlled environment is advised, with constant monitoring, due to the possibility of psychotic deterioration and self-harming behavior disguised as clinical rituals.

Responsible signature:
Dra.

The blood drained from your fingers. You couldn’t take your eyes off the paper. The stamp was real. The handwriting — it was yours. But you hadn’t written it. You didn’t remember.

And then came the worst part:

You recognized the writing style.

Not just recognized — you yourself used similar phrases in other patients’ reports.

Technical terms, precise organization. And there was something else...

Something in the tone of that analysis that seemed to come from outside. As if someone had observed you from the inside.

Your hand moved to the edge of the sheet, slowly, as if it could tear it from time. But on the back of the page — in red — there was a single sentence:

“You’re not the only one living in there.”

The hallway seemed longer.

The overhead lights flickered in cold tones as you walked briskly, clutching the folder to your chest as if carrying forbidden evidence — or your own heart. You passed straight through the patients' wing, ignoring the restless gazes of a few who’d woken too early. Your focus was clear: the surveillance room.

You knocked on the metal door twice before turning the handle.
The guard on duty looked up from his coffee and raised his eyebrows.

“Doctor? Do you need something?”

“I need to review last night’s footage. The hallway cameras in the psychiatric wing,” you said, dryly, directly, with a control that sounded forced even to yourself.

The man cleared his throat.

“Did something happen?”

You hesitated. You wanted to say “yes, someone broke into my office,” but that implied you’d lost control of your own space. You wanted to say “I think someone’s spying on me,” but that would sound exactly like the cases you treat.

“There’s an inconsistency in the records. I just want to check.”
He watched you for a second longer than necessary — then shrugged.

“Alright. Just a moment.”

You watched him type something into the old terminal, the keyboard clacking like a warning. He pulled up the footage from the hallway camera on the second floor — the one facing your office door.

The screen flickered in black and white. Static, grainy images began to play.

11:45 PM. Empty hallway.
11:52 PM. Nothing.
12:08 AM. A figure approaching the door.

You leaned forward, blood pounding in your ears.

The figure came into full view. Slow steps. Hands in the pockets of a lab coat.

It was you.

“Pause it,” you said, swallowing hard. “Rewind a little... stop there.”

The image froze at the exact moment the woman on the screen looked straight at the camera, before opening the door with the key.
You were alone.

Unhurried.

Without hesitation.

“Does the system log which card was used to open the door?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the screen.

“Yes. Just a second...”

The man typed a few commands. A new panel appeared, displaying the access card log.

Authenticated: 685922
Time: 00:08:14
Door: Office 2B

You recoiled as if slapped.

“Is there... is there a way to check another camera? An internal one, maybe?”

The guard nodded and pulled up the footage from the office camera — one you had requested yourself before, for security reasons. The image appeared in black and white.

The figure entered, dropped the folder on the desk, turned on the lamp. Pulled out a sheet. Wrote.

Minutes later, sat in the chair — the same one you were in now — and continued writing, in silence, for nearly forty minutes.

As if drafting another patient’s report.

As if it were just another ordinary night.

And in the end, stood up. Left the sheet face up. Turned off the lamp.

And left.

You didn’t remember any of it.

But there it was.

The proof. The image. The signature. The access. Everything. You had written your own file.

“Doctor...” the guard began, concerned.

“Could you step out of the room for a moment?” you whispered.
He hesitated, but left.

You stayed there, staring at your frozen image on the screen.
With your heart pounding and a terrible certainty pulsing in your temples.

If that was a fabrication, it was flawless.

And if it wasn’t...
...then maybe you really were starting to disappear inside yourself.

-

The late afternoon dragged on over Grimshade, spilling a sepia light across the sanatorium’s arid hills. You walked with dragging steps through the inner garden, a patch of dry earth surrounded by sickly ivy and benches corroded by time. It was supposed to be a resting area.

For you, it was the only place where the world seemed suspended — as if nothing there was real.

The air smelled of iron and rotting lavender.

You wandered aimlessly until you stopped before a hole dug in the farthest corner. The spot Noah used to visit often, kneeling in the dirt like a bored child, digging with bare hands as if searching for invisible roots.

You knelt too.

Something beneath the soil caught your attention — a dull glimmer, like tiny grey scales. You dug with your hands. The earth gave way easily, as if it were hollow underneath.

And then you saw it.

Hundreds of capsules. All colors. Some still clinging to damp soil, others split in half.

Your stomach turned. They were pills. Sedatives. Antipsychotics. Mood stabilizers.

Drugs you knew. That you prescribed.

You felt a wave of vertigo rising from your stomach to your skull. The world spun.

The garden distorted. The ground began to breathe. The trees shuddered as if laughing at you.

The pills multiplied.

And you fell backward.

The sky darkened in a blink. Your body lost its weight. Time split in half.

-

The world faded into silence.

There was no fall, no sound of impact. Just a dry shut-off, as if someone had pulled the plug of reality out of the socket, and it simply… ceased to exist.

When the eyes opened again, the white light blinded her for an instant. There were no shadows. There was no ceiling — at least none she could identify. Everything around was smooth, without marks or reference points — a pale, endless nothing.

The floor, cold beneath her back, was familiar. The icy texture of the tiles, the grooves between the pieces… she knew that floor. It took her a while to recognize she was lying on the floor of her own office.

But something was wrong. There was an artificial stillness in the air, as if the space were suspended inside a bubble, outside of time.
You tried to get up, your trembling hands slipping on the damp floor.

The lab coat weighed on your shoulders, stuck to your body with an unpleasant stickiness. You looked down. The sleeves were stained with dark red. A thick red, almost black. Blood. Or paint. The smell was metallic and acrid, but not exactly human.

Instinctively, you brought your fingers to your face, smearing your own skin. The taste that reached your tongue was bitter. Rust and something else… old pen ink? Your mind wavered between explanations. But none seemed plausible. None seemed… real.

You stood up with effort, staggering toward the desk. The wall clock was frozen, the hands stuck between two seconds that never arrived. You turned to the mirror in the corner of the room, as if needing to confirm that you were still… you. What you saw made your stomach sink.

Your reflection wore the beige uniform of the sanatorium’s patients.

No lab coat. No authority.

Hair tied in a messy bun. Sunken, bloodshot eyes, like you hadn’t slept in days. Your hands, covered in paint or blood, held… nothing.

Empty.

But worse than the image was what came next: the reflection didn’t mimic you.

While you remained still, frozen, the figure in the mirror slowly tilted its head to the side, like someone observing a cornered animal. A nearly imperceptible smile curved the image’s lips, too subtle to be confident — and yet, terrifyingly intimate. As if saying: “I know.”

You jumped back. Blinked. The reflection returned to normal.

Lab coat. Open eyes. Hair aligned.

But the office didn’t.

The walls now trembled with a muffled whisper. A scratched sound that seemed to come from within the bricks. The window curtain swayed with a non-existent wind. And in the back, for a moment, you saw — or thought you saw — a shadow sitting in the chair where you received your patients.

Noah.

Or something that looked like him.

The silhouette was there, still, the face unfocused, blurred like an erased drawing. When you blinked, the chair was empty.

Your mind screamed to get out. To flee from that place that was once your refuge, now turned into a distorted version of itself. Your fingers dug into the roots of your hair and a shrill scream tore through your throat as if the confusion and the fever of your mind could match your agony.

But your legs were stuck to the floor.

Then came the voice.

Not external. Not in the air. But inside the skull, as if it sprouted from the walls of the bone itself:

“You’re not the only one living in there.”

The phrase dragged like an intrusive thought, a worm burrowing into the mind. The floor spun. The office dissolved at the edges of your vision.

And everything went dark again.

-

Night had fallen without you noticing.

There was no visible transition — just the sudden darkness that took over the sky through the windowpane. You realized it only when you were already sitting on the bed, wrapped in a concrete silence, almost viscous. The room, usually your refuge, now felt too small. The walls seemed curved, as if the space were slowly being compressed around you.

Your sweaty hands rested on your knees. Your fingers trembled with a strange electric impulse, as if on the verge of some action you didn’t yet understand. Your whole body was alert. But you didn’t know for what.

Breathing came in short waves.

The heart — racing.

The sound of the clock — nonexistent.

It had stopped. Again.

That’s when the impulse took over.

Without consciously deciding, you stood and walked to the desk with automatic steps. Sat down. Picked up the pen. Opened the notebook — the same one you had tried to discard the week before, but that always returned to the shelf, as if it had a will of its own.

And you began to write.

The words flowed like a trance. Fast, without apparent logic. It wasn’t you who was thinking. It was… something else. Another voice. An urgency that burned your fingers and guided the strokes. The handwriting was irregular, aggressive. Sometimes firm. Other times frantic, as if each letter had to be born tearing through the page.
You didn’t know how much time had passed.

Only when you stopped — hand tired, throat dry, eyes heavy — did you look at what you had written.

A letter.

The paper trembled between your fingers, but the words were there, clear. Each line sounded like a farewell.

“If you’re reading this,

it’s because I’m back in control.”

Your hands slipped from the paper. Your stomach twisted. Your throat closed.

You scanned the text with your eyes, slowly, absorbing each syllable as if they were blades sinking into your skin. Phrases about giving up, exhaustion, confusion… apologies. Promises that you would be safe now. That this was to protect you. Words so intimate they hurt more than any scream.

“You fought so hard.

I saw.

But now… you need to rest.”

And then, at the end, beneath it all — where your name should have been — was his signature.

Noah.

It was his handwriting. Unmistakable.

She knew that slanted N. The way the “h” always intruded into the space of the line below.

The blood drained from your face. You stared at the signature as if facing an epitaph. And just below it, the final sentence:

“Please… don’t fight anymore.”

The words echoed inside your mind like a whisper spoken right against the nape of your neck.

Warm.

Intimate.

Final.

You pushed the chair back in shock, but something stopped you from screaming. There was no strength. No questions. No logic. Just the absolute silence of someone who realizes, deep down, that something was lost there.

And maybe… will never return.

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