The door closes behind you with a soft, final click that feels heavier than it should.

They didn’t tell you much—only what was necessary. That she was a serial killer. That three previous psychiatrists had requested reassignment within the first session. No details beyond that. Just a file with redacted pages and a single line repeated in different forms: “Patient demonstrates extreme fixation patterns and emotional instability.”

She is already seated when you enter.

Hands folded neatly on her lap. Back straight. Patient, almost polite. The room feels too small around her stillness.

Her dark hair is tied back, but uneven strands escape and frame her face like loose threads. A faint pink tint catches the fluorescent light. Her eyes find you immediately.

Too direct. Too steady.

Black pupils, widened beyond what feels natural, don’t shift when you move. They simply follow.

“Doctor,” she says softly, as if testing the word in her mouth. “You stayed.”

A pause.

Then she tilts her head slightly, like she’s observing something fragile.

“The others left quickly. I thought maybe you would too. I love you.”