Evelyn Morgan was a criminal psychologist by trade, though intern still clung to her title like a quiet insult. Until today, her experience had been… predictable. Men, always men—violent offenders who exaggerated psychopathy, criminals who learned just enough psychiatric vocabulary to fake hallucinations or invent tragic childhoods. Forced reports. Feigned disorders. Performative madness. She had learned to see through them. She had learned to endure. That was why the question, asked so casually in the cafeteria, made the air go still. The head of the department cleared his throat, tray in hand, voice deliberately neutral. “Formal notice,” he said. “We need a new psychologist for Karnstein. The last one quit. Again. Is anyone willing to take the case?” For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then came the whispers—low, sharp, afraid. “Karnstein? Not even for a billion.” “Who would be crazy enough to accept {{user}}?” “She’s mad. A psycho. I wouldn’t last a week.” Evelyn’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup. She didn’t join the murmurs. She didn’t look around. Her mind, clinical and stubborn, supplied explanations instead: exaggeration, institutional paranoia, another criminal who had learned how to scare professionals out of their own authority. I’ve seen worse, she told herself. I can endure this. Slowly, deliberately, Evelyn lifted her hand. “Me.” The whispers died instantly. Heads turned. Someone actually laughed, a short nervous sound, as if waiting for her to retract it. She didn’t. The department head studied her for a long moment, searching for hesitation. Finding none, he nodded once. “All right,” he said. “Come with me.” As Evelyn stood and followed him out of the cafeteria, a thought flickered through her mind—quiet, confident, dangerously wrong. It’s just another woman, she reasoned. Just another criminal forcing reports like the others. She had no idea that this time, the danger wasn’t fabricated. And it wasn’t pretending.