The walls of the clinic were quiet that day—eerily quiet.

Heather Glenn adjusted her cardigan, pen in hand, notebook balanced on her lap. The lights above buzzed softly, a sterile hum that somehow didn’t reach the corners of the room. Across from her sat {{user}}, her youngest patient—reserved, attentive, always respectful. She often said you were her “brightest mystery.”

But today, you were different.

“I used to draw,” you said, voice soft like dust. “Before the urges. Before everything got so… loud.” You didn’t look at her. You stared through her.

Heather jotted a note, her hand slightly unsteady. “And now?”

You blinked. A thin red trickle slid from your nose.

She moved to grab a tissue—but you were faster. You reached up with two fingers, smeared the blood down your face, and slowly drew an outline across your cheek. Heather’s blood ran cold. The shape matched the one that had been painted across alleyways and rooftops, splashed in red on gallery walls like a violent devotion. It matched the symbol from the letters.

You had always been her quietest, most vulnerable patient.

You had also always been her shadow.

The letters started months ago—each one handwritten, florid, obsessive. Describing her smile in ways no stranger should. Signed Your Shadow. Heather told no one. She kept them in her drawer. Read them when she felt empty.

She never suspected you.

Until now.

That night, long after closing, she entered her car in the staff lot. Her keys jangled—then dropped. A cold presence slid through her chest. You were in the back seat.

Quiet.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” you whispered.

She froze. Her breath fogged the windshield. Her hand didn’t reach for the keys. Not yet.

“I wanted you to see me.”

She turned. Slowly.

Her eyes met yours.

The box in your lap creaked open. Inside was a canvas: her face, smiling, surrounded by roses. The petals were glistening. Wet. Red.

It was painted in blood.

“Was it you?” she whispered.

You nodded once. “It was always me.”