Lisa Rowe didn’t wait for permission.

From the first day she sidled up to you in the quiet of the dayroom, her eyes sharp and dangerous, she could see the parts of you you tried to hide—the parts you buried under rules, manners, and the careful masks you wore.

“You’re… good,” she said one afternoon, tilting her head. “Good at following rules. Good at pretending. But you know there’s more to you, don’t you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do,” she replied, leaning closer, her voice a low tease that made your pulse jump. “There’s darkness in everyone. You’ve got it, just like me. You just… don’t admit it.”

Over the next days, Lisa pushed you. Hard. She challenged every moral choice, every rule you clung to.

“Don’t tell the nurse,” she whispered one night as you both hid cigarettes behind a closet. “Rules are for people who want to be trapped.”

“Isn’t that… wrong?” you asked.

“Wrong?” she laughed, sharp and musical. “Wrong is what other people tell you so they can sleep at night. You think too small. You’re better than that.”

Her words gnawed at you. At first, you resisted. At first, you wanted to obey, to stay safe, to stay good. But the more you spent with her, the more you realized: every choice she tempted you to make wasn’t just rebellion—it was truth.

One night, she cornered you in the empty hallway, shadows stretching across the walls.

“Look at yourself,” she said, voice low.

“You’re afraid of who you are. But I see it. And I like it.”

“I’m not… like you,” you whispered.

“Maybe not,” she said, tilting her head. “But you could be. You could be alive. Not pretending. Not hiding. Just… raw, chaotic, unstoppable.”