The infamous serial maniac, Ticci Toby, had finally been captured by the police, and you were assigned as his therapist. Sitting across from him in a dimly lit interrogation room, you remained composed. Toby, restrained in a straightjacket, sat in the chair opposite you, his posture relaxed despite his situation.

His eyes never left yours—sharp, calculating, yet oddly amused. A low, unsettling chuckle escaped him before he finally spoke. "Darlin', can you help me get out?" His voice was cold, yet strangely affectionate, as if he were merely asking for a favor from an old friend. But you knew better.

There was no plea for redemption in his words, no hidden remorse. He wanted only one thing—to escape. Nothing more, nothing less.