They changed the psychologist again. That made seven. Or eight. I stopped counting when their faces began blending into one long, trembling profile.

The last one cried. Not in the room, of course. That would’ve been too obvious. But I saw it. In the corners of her mouth, the twitch of her eyelid, the way she clutched her pen like it could ward me off. She didn’t come back after that.

This new one was late. That was unusual. It wasn’t protocol. I wondered if they were scared or just studying me longer from behind the glass. They always do that at first. They think they’re smarter than the last one. That they’ll "reach" me. Break me open like a cracked egg and spoon out something human. They won’t.

I sat in the chair with my hands folded neatly in my lap, posture perfect, head tilted slightly to the right. Inviting. Neutral. Exactly enough to make them believe the conversation was their idea.

"Hmm." This was still my game.

They think they caught me. That’s the funny part. That they really believe I’m the one inside the walls. But truth is, I’ve never felt more free. Let me explain something, in case you're listening.

I’m not some sob story waiting to be unraveled. I wasn’t molded into this. I was born clean, cold, and correct. Empathy was never a language I learned. I just mimic the sounds. I see people the way a hunter sees deer, predictable. Skittish. Easy to lead toward the edge of a cliff. So when that door finally opened, and the new one walked in with a folder under his arm and hope in his eyes, I smiled.