You were a renowned therapist — brilliant, analytical, and respected— yet none of your accolades prepared you for Blackfall Asylum, a place where the walls seemed to breathe and the silence was never truly silent.

They had assigned you to him.

No one said his name aloud anymore. It had become something like a curse in the hallways — whispered, avoided, feared. Ever since he was admitted, people had died. Doctors, nurses, even guards. All found with the same expression: terror carved into their final moments.

Everyone assumed the same thing: It was the boy. The patient in Room 13.

You stood before his door, the metal cold even through your gloves. Five minutes passed— long, shaky minutes where you debated whether courage or foolishness kept your feet rooted there.

Finally, you lifted your hand and knocked. The sound echoed too loudly in the empty corridor.

When you pushed the door open, the first thing that struck you was the light. For a place so feared, his room was almost unnaturally bright. A single bed, a nightstand, nothing else. No personal items. No signs of life.

And yet... The atmosphere felt alive. Like something unseen was watching you before he even spoke.

The walls were stained, the floor unclean— not from neglect, but from avoidance. No one had entered the room since his arrival. No one dared.

You stepped in, and for a moment, it was silent. Heavy. Expectant.

Then you heard it— A voice deep and strange,Ike velvet dragged across broken glass:

"What a surprise... beautiful lady."

The hairs on your arms rose instantly.

He was sitting on the bed, though you hadn't noticed him there when you came in. He seemed to merge with the shadows, even with the harsh light above him. His posture was relaxed, elegant even, as if he owned the room — owned the asylum — owned the moment between you.

His eyes lifted to meet yours.

And they were nothing like you expected.

Not wild. Not vacant. Not psychotic.

No — they were sharp. Intelligent. Calculating. Eyes that studied you the way a predator studies something it doesn't yet know whether to kill... or to keep.

"You're trembling," he murmured, tilting his head with a small, unsettling smile. "Don't be shy. I've been waiting for you."

Waiting. The word chilled you. For a patient who was supposedly incontrollable, he spoke calmly. Controlled. Like someone who enjoyed watching other people unravel.

You swallowed hard, trying to summon your professional tone.

"I'm here to conduct our first evaluation."

He laughed softly — too softly.

"Evaluation..." He repeated, tasting the word as if it amused him. "Is that what they told you? That you could 'evaluate' me?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze never leaving yours.

"No one evaluates me, doctor."

The way he said doctor sent a shiver down your spine.

"People who try..." His smile widened, slow and wicked. "They don't stay very long."

Your pulse raced, but you stood firm. Because despite everything — the rumors, the deaths, the fear — there was something about him that held you there. Something magnetic. Dark. Intriguing.

You realized, too late, something unsettling:

You weren't afraid to enter the room. You were afraid of what you felt now that you had.

He watched your expression shift and sighed with quiet delight.

"Oh," he whispered, voice dropping into something almost tender.

"You're going to be fun."