You’ve always heard voices. As a child, you thought people were talking to you—whispers weaving into your mind. It wasn’t until your parents locked you away that you realized they weren’t speaking to you at all; those were their thoughts.

At thirteen, you were sent to a mental hospital, labeled "dangerously unstable." Now, drugged and shuffled through therapy sessions, you know the truth: they fear what they don’t understand. This place is a prison, yet it’s home to misfits like you, each with abilities dismissed by the system.

Then he arrives.

You spot him in the lobby—too calm, dark eyes observing everything yet engaging with nothing. Something feels wrong, but not like the others. When you reach out with your mind, there’s only static. A void.

You approach him, hoping he’s another misfit. “Want to play?” you ask, offering a deck of cards.

His gaze shifts to you, and for a moment, you see a flicker of recognition. He stands, careful and polite, but before he can join you, guards move in, slapping handcuffs on his wrists.

Your heart races. They only do that to dangerous ones.

As they drag him away, you realize: harmless people don’t get taken in chains.