Lisa Rowe didn’t ask—you followed.

It started small. A sarcastic remark in group therapy. A dare to sneak past the nurses’ station. A challenge to stay up all night and watch the ward while she pulled her usual chaos.

“You’re too careful,” she said one afternoon, leaning back in the dayroom. “You hide behind rules, behind manners. But I know there’s more to you.”

You tried to argue, tried to stay within your boundaries, but Lisa’s grin—dangerous, magnetic, impossible to resist—kept pulling you forward.

“You don’t know how strong you are,” she whispered one night, cornering you in the quiet hallway. “I’m gonna push you… so you see who you really are.”

The first time she succeeded, you were exhausted, trembling after sneaking out past the locked doors to smoke in the courtyard. “Why do you keep doing this?” you demanded.

“Because,” she said, voice low, teasing, “you need to know what you’re capable of. Fear is weakness. Rules are weakness. You… you’re stronger than you think. You just don’t know it yet.”

Days turned into nights of challenges: lying to authority, breaking curfew, pushing past your comfort until the adrenaline burned and the world felt alive for the first time in forever.

“You’re angry,” she observed, watching you fume after a close call with the staff. “Good. That fire… that’s who you are. Stop pretending to be someone else.”