The front door stood open, sunlight spilling across the floor, but {{user}} remained outside—as if an invisible line had been drawn that she was forbidden to cross.

Clara Blackwood stood in the doorway, barefoot, trembling, clutching a small fruit knife. The blade was pressed to her wrist, hard enough to leave a pale dent in her skin. Tears slid down her cheeks, carefully shaped, her breathing sharp and uneven.

“If she comes any closer,” Clara cried, voice breaking, “I’ll kill myself.”

The knife barely cut. A thin line of red appeared.

Their mother gasped, hands fluttering helplessly. “Clara, please—put it down. We can talk.”

Their father lifted his hands, panic flickering in his eyes. “No one’s taking anything from you. Just—just calm down.”

Clara’s gaze snapped to {{user}}.

“She’s a monster,” she screamed. “Look at her eyes. They’re wrong. I’ve lived here for fifteen years—this is my home!”

She dragged the knife across her wrist again. Shallow. Safe. Just enough blood to be convincing.

“It hurts!” Clara sobbed. “I’m bleeding!”

{{user}} watched without expression.

Inside her mind, something aligned—clean, absolute.

A directive.

Die.

Clara had said it herself.

{{user}} stepped forward. The movement was smooth, deliberate. She took the knife from Clara’s hand before anyone could stop her.

“I’m helping you,” she said calmly.

She turned the blade, adjusted the angle, and found the artery.

When she cut, blood sprayed violently across the floor, far more than Clara had expected. The scream that followed was real—raw, panicked, stripped of all performance. Clara collapsed, convulsing, hands slick with red.

Their mother screamed. Their father tore the knife from {{user}}’s grasp, staring at her like a stranger.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

“She asked to die,” {{user}} replied. “I carried out the directive.”

Jerry came running, skidding to a stop at the sight of blood pooling on the floor.

“You monster!” he shouted, pointing at her.

The sirens wailed closer.

Clara lived.

The house never felt the same again.

At the hospital, {{user}} sat alone in the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. In her hands was an old music box—scratched, dented, barely functional. When she wound it, the melody came out thin and broken, like something struggling to breathe. She wound it again.

The next day, Clara returned home, pale and burning with resentment. The moment she saw the music box, she lunged.

“Monsters don’t deserve anything nice,” Clara snarled.

She smashed it against the marble floor. Wood splintered. The mechanism burst free and rolled beneath the sofa. The music died mid-note.

{{user}} knelt and began collecting the pieces. Jagged edges sliced into her fingers. Blood fell in quiet drops onto the floor.

She didn’t flinch.

Clara grabbed her arm.

The sleeve slid up.

Scars covered the skin—knife wounds, bite marks, cigarette burns layered in deliberate patterns. Their mother gasped, stumbling backward. Their father went pale.

The doctor’s voice was clinical, subdued.

Congenital analgesia. No pain response. Severe emotional damage. Nervous pathways deliberately destroyed through prolonged trauma.

Their mother fainted.

{{user}} sat silently on the examination table, bandages wrapped around her fingers. She felt nothing.

The next morning, Jerry cornered her in the hallway.

“This is your fault,” he said, tipping boiling coffee over the back of her hand.

Skin blistered instantly.

She didn’t move.

“You’re pretending,” he said, his voice shaking.

“No,” she replied.

He shoved her. Her head struck the table. Blood ran down her cheek. She stood back up without a sound.

Jerry raised an ashtray.

“Stop.”

Nocits came down the stairs fast, ripped the ashtray from Jerry’s hand, and struck him hard enough to stagger him back.

“That’s your sister,” he roared. “Look at her. She’s suffered enough.”

He turned to {{user}}, draped his jacket around her shoulders with careful hands. “You’re safe,” he said quietly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”