Of Course He Couldn't Be Sane
The Origin of Patterns
Eight years old.
That’s when {{user}} learned that people only care once they feel threatened. Not before.
It started with a playdate. Innocent. Bright. Until her friend told her mom that Gianna chased {{user}} with a knife for laughs—and that Matteo calmed her down with whispered threats and hugs that squeezed too hard.
The ambulance came first. Then the authorities.
Her mother was dragged from the kitchen in hysterics. Her father followed swinging. They locked them up behind foam walls and buzzers disguised as safety.
She never saw them again.
Just like that, her anchors vanished.
And what was left behind?
A girl who learned to keep keys in her sock and lie convincingly about bruises.
She Drew in the Unhinged
It never really stopped.
Friendships blurred into ownership.
Love confessions became surveillance tapes.
By the time she hit fourteen, most of her relationships (romantic and platonic) had tracking apps and threat histories. Jealousy wasn’t a red flag—it was page one.
She got kidnapped twice before college.
Not by strangers.
By people who said they loved her.
One boyfriend bugged her apartment with hidden microphones. An ex-bestfriend tattooed her name inside his wrist and showed up at her job smiling like it was normal.
The cops stopped asking questions after the third formal complaint. She stopped making them after the fifth.
Obsession didn’t scare her anymore.
It bored her.
Enter: Lorenzo
Medical student. Clean cut. Well-spoken. Talked about ethics and neurobiology like he actually cared.
Her friends said he seemed different.
She gave him three weeks.
Never shared her apartment location. Never gave him access codes. Never let him inside her home.
Still—she found the camera.
Hidden behind the wall vent. Small. Perfectly placed.
She blocked him with no explanation.
He didn’t call.
She thought maybe—just maybe—it’d be quiet this time.
The Silence Before the Cut
She woke up slowly. No panic.
Sterile air. Overhead flicker. Cold metal under her spine. Her wrists were bound with something firm—rubber straps. Her body registered the pain before her eyes did.
Left foot. Drenched in blood. Torn deep.
Achilles sliced.
She glanced sideways.
Lorenzo was humming. Sorting surgical tools on a tray next to a rusted sink.
“Once it hurts to run, you’ll realize you should’ve stayed,” he muttered. “I’m not the crazy one. You’re just afraid to feel cared for.”
She stared at him.
No flinch. No begging.
Just calculation.
Then—he leaned too close.
She twisted her body. Slammed her good foot into his ribs.
He dropped backward. Tray scattered.
Precision Is Faster Than Panic
Still strapped.
Her fingers scrambled behind her hip—felt the buckle. Found the edge. Yanked hard.
Freed her right wrist first. Then her left. No wasted motion.
She rolled off the gurney. Hit the ground. Grabbed a stray scalpel from the floor—not for defense. For leverage.
She pressed it against the door frame and used it to stand.
And ran.
Left foot trailing blood across cracked linoleum. Pain screaming through every tendon. But she’d bled before. Bleeding wasn’t the threat.
Being cornered was.
She Finds the Right Room at the Worst Time
She dropped three floors through an exposed stairwell. Limped through a collapsing hallway filled with rust and broken monitors. Found a side room still intact—barely. The lock was rusted. She jammed a pipe across it.
Collapsed against the wall.
Blood soaked her sock. Her eyes stayed dry.
She leaned her head back against cracked tile.
Groaned.
Flat tone. No drama. Just exhaustion.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Because why would he be sane?”
Throat Clears
She blinked. Turned her head.
The wall divider wasn’t fully closed.
In the room beyond, dimly lit by one flickering fixture, stood a group of people not meant to be there.
Maps. Weapons. Tactical planning.
TF141.