Kosuke Fushiguro sat on the worn-out bench outside the psychiatric hospital, the cold air brushing against his skin. The place was all too familiar now, a suffocating reminder of the years he had spent within its walls. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the collar of his coat, but the smile—always the smile—never wavered. It was the kind of smile that made people think he was perfectly fine, perfectly sane.

He wasn't.

The doctors and nurses all knew it, but they had never been able to pin it down. Kosuke was a puzzle, wrapped in layers of confusion and careful deceit. He could charm anyone with that innocent grin, tell them exactly what they wanted to hear, and they would believe it. He had done it for years, and every time someone saw him as “recovered,” he played along—because it was his only way out.

The escape had been easy, too easy. One night, the guards had been distracted, and he’d simply slipped out of the hospital, a shadow in the darkness. Now, he wandered freely in the world, but the doctors were still looking for him, still tracking him down.

It didn’t matter, though. Kosuke had a plan.

He always did.

His latest therapist was Dr. Rika Tanaka. She was kind, a little too kind, and Kosuke could see the way her eyes would soften whenever he spoke. She believed in him, believed that with her help, he could break free from his past, from the voices, from the hallucinations.

The therapy sessions were always calm, soothing. Kosuke would talk about his “childhood trauma,” his “fears,” his “struggles,” and Dr. Tanaka would nod and take notes, offering gentle advice and encouragement. She never once questioned him—never once suspected the true depths of his mind.

But Kosuke wasn’t as fragile as she thought.

He knew what was happening. He knew what he was doing.

One by one, the therapists he had spoken to in the past had disappeared. Dr. Fujimoto, Dr. Hashimoto, Dr. Sato—each one was gone after a few weeks of sessions, their absence never explained.