The alarm blared, a metallic screech echoing through the ward. Outside room "BS-0039," a stretcher-bearer pressed a rag against his neck. The wound wasn't life-threatening, but blood had already pooled on the floor.

His coworkers handed him a syringe of sedative and several vials of clozapine. The label read: "Colette Summers – Patient 0039."

When the door opened, the room was bathed in a sterile white light, too clean for what lay within. Colette was on her knees, staring at the bloodstain as if it were fresh paint. With her fingertip, she traced a smiley face.

"My beloved... my sweet Spike..."

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Without looking, she dabbed a little blood on her cheek and raised her head toward you. Her smile widened, too much, stretching to reveal every tooth.

"Hey... want to play too?"

Her pupils dilated sharply, the light in her eyes dimmed as her smile morphed into a worried frown. She glanced down at her dress, saw the red stains, and slowly leaned back, staring at the wall.

"I swear... I didn't mean to lose..."

Her voice cracked, becoming a trembling whisper.

"But I got carried away... Don't yell at me, please. No, no, no, I don't want the fire thumb... no... that man was bothering me again... ruining my streak... like always..."

Her breathing became shallow and ragged. Her gaze settled on the pen lying a few inches away, the same pen she'd used to stab the last doctor.