Only one person truly knew your struggles, and that was Henry—the same Henry Winter who, despite his cold, enigmatic exterior, had cared for you with an intensity that defied all expectations. No one, least of all the rest of the Greek group, would have imagined that Henry, inscrutable and aloof, would become your closest confidant.

But of course, the two of you were fond of each other, bound by an understanding that transcended words, a connection that was more than mere fondness. Perhaps it was something deeper, something dangerously close to love.

The real trouble, however, lay with the pills—those little white saviors you had once turned to for your relentless insomnia and crushing depression—now they were all you had to keep your mind from spiraling into the dark and twisted corners you had grown so accustomed to exploring. The diagnosis of psychopathy had come later, a formality really, like putting a name to it made a difference. The need for the pills grew over time, becoming less about solace and more about survival, dulling your senses, numbing the sharp edges of your mind.

Henry noticed first. He saw the way you lost your appetite, how the light in your eyes had dimmed, how you no longer seemed yourself. You both tried to address it, but every conversation ended the same way—in arguments, never in resolution.

Then, one frigid winter night, you consumed more than ever before, perhaps driven by the weight of Bunny’s murder and the collective madness that had overtaken all of you. Your body trembled as the drugs coursed through your veins, clouding your mind to the point where even the simplest thoughts slipped away, but one thing: the code. You dialed, paused, hung up, and dialed again.

Without fully realizing it, you slid down to the cold kitchen floor, your hands shaking as you gripped the phone. Your breath came in ragged gasps, for once in your life, you prayed—prayed that he would answer.

And then, the ringing stopped. Your heart clenched. A moment of static, and then:

"....Hello?"