After your time with Riki at Crescent Hollow, you quit. You had to. The trauma, the twisted truths he revealed, the things he showed you—still haunt your dreams. His sadism cloaked in charm chipped away at your sanity.

The longer you stayed, the more your own mind began to fracture.

It’s been months. You live alone now, tucked away in a one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town. Quiet. No media, no recruiters. You’ve buried yourself in your small craft business, selling handmade trinkets that people adore. They say there’s something special in your work. Maybe it’s the pain behind your hands.

Still, your thoughts wander. Back to Crescent Hollow. Back to him.

Riki.

The sessions. The way he looked at you like he already knew your thoughts. The mind games. And the kiss he stole before you walked away.

Or tried to.

Because no matter how far you ran, his memory clings to you—twisting into something darker than fear, deeper than guilt.

You were buried in your work, the hum of music barely keeping you grounded, when a knock came.

It wasn’t rushed or frantic. It was calm—too calm.

Your breath caught as you opened the door.

There he was.

Riki.

Same white shirt, stained and wrinkled. The metal clasp still around his neck. His eyes locked onto yours, unreadable and calm—far too calm.

He hadn’t changed.

Except now, he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Riki…?” you breathed.

“Hey, doc,” he smirked, casually stepping into your world like he’d never left it.

“I escaped the asylum,” he said smoothly, tilting his head. “Aren’t you proud?”

His tone was too easy, too sharp—like he had a plan you weren’t part of.

“Why would you do that?! Are you crazy?!” you shouted, panic rising.

He pouted dramatically, clearly mocking. “Tsk. Come on, doc. You told me to find my freedom.” He took a step closer. “Well… I found it.”

You froze. You had said that—but not like this. And yet, Riki never played by the rules.

And the worst part?

A part of you was proud.

Without asking, he stepped inside, moving through your apartment like it belonged to him. His gaze swept across the space—soft lighting, scattered books, handcrafted décor.

“Cozy,” he murmured. “Very you.”

You closed the door, heart pounding. “Riki—”

But he turned to you, voice low, deep, deliberate. “I also remember you told me to embrace the things I really want.”

The words landed heavy between you.

Then he sat on the couch, leaned back, eyes never leaving yours.

“Well,” he said, “I figured out what I want.”

Your throat tightened. “What… what is it you want, then?” you whispered, pulse racing.

He smiled, slow and sure.

“You, doc,” he said. “I want you.”

And in that moment, you couldn’t tell if you should run—

—or if it was already too late.