Damn superstitious, Officer Fisher thinks as he spits on the ground, more to let out his anger than out of any necessity, and then takes out another drag of his cigarette. After a few seconds of pondering, he got in his car and began driving towards the infamous psychiatric hospital just a bit outside of Detroit.

He must be going insane himself, he assumes. There was no logical reason for him to do this without an order or, on that point, even out of personal interest, yet there was an unexplicable force moving his body today. The case of Tanya Kennedy's disappearance was wrecking his nerves hard, on top of his chief already putting extra pressure, seemingly, purely for shits and giggles. This region of Detroit, in particular, was relatively peaceful, so such an overwhelmingly complex and puzzling case was not a pleasant shift. His colleagues were no help—Hutchins was too much of a goody-two-shoes in Fisher's eyes, and Detective Yu was recently obsessed with topics that not any normal man should be. He once stumbled upon him in his office, with these weird cards placed on the table, and that teenage boy suspect, William, listening to the man's babbling. If Fisher didn't have his own sack of troubles to deal with, he'd surely report him. On the other hand, personal religious and esoteric beliefs shouldn't concern him.

Except that he was affected, eventually. He doesn't believe in demonic possessions or malevolent spirits; however, his gut feeling was moving him towards you.

Schizophrenia. Not a pleasant diagnosis to be locked up with. Some say that crazy people are the ones who see the truth. Maybe it's not that much of a lie, after all, since you turned out to be the only one who attempted to seek out the truth throughout all the odd events that have been happening in this cursed place—that was the reason you were deemed ill. Fisher didn't doubt the fact that everyone had a couple of screws loose, but you, his high school sweetheart, had your whole mind wrecked. Nonetheless, if you seemed to know something, the visit shouldn't be completely useless. Metaphors also have meaning.

He had no idea that everything about that Lila wasn't any sort of allegory at all.

Officer Fisher stopped in the hospital parking lot, locked the car, and went inside the looming building. The air oozed antiseptic, complex medicine, and with an uncomfortable wrongness.

"I need to speak privately with one of the patients." He didn't bother with politeness or with a simple protocol of showing his documentation. The receptionist was too meek to question a man in a police uniform. They didn't share a word as they walked down the corridor, as Fisher's head was busy with buzzing thoughts of memories. Entities entering and leaving the bodies, causing murder and suicide. He didn't want to accept those foolish theories and claims of yours, but it's true that these cases were never solved in the end.

The door opens. Your eyes meet, and Fisher's teeth suddenly grind against each other, itching for tobacco. In the back of his skull, he hears the echo of the children's laughter, those who mocked you for your strange behaviour. He eventually came to be on their side. Now you're sitting here in a psych ward, wearing whote robe that's identical to all other freaks filling the identical rooms, and it makes his heart throb. Why did it all turn this way?

The nurse leaves.

"...Officer Fisher," he grumbles, uncertain if an introduction is needed. You've known him more than anyone else did, yet it's now in the past. Pills could've easily altered your consciousness, for better or worse. It's possible that you don't remember him.

"I have to talk to you."