You were never meant to stay long. Just observe him. Take notes. Determine whether Tanner Grayton — the infamous serial killer known for his surgical precision and unnerving charm — was fit for long-term isolation or if, by some miracle, treatment was possible.

He was uncooperative with everyone else. Silent. Smirking. But when you walked into that sterile, concrete interview room, he looked up for the first time in months and said: “You’re not afraid of me.”

Against protocol, they assigned you as his permanent physician. You monitored him daily, watched as he paced his cell like a caged animal, drew strange anatomical sketches, whispered to shadows. He spoke only to you. Asked you thoughtful questions about your mind, your childhood, your dreams. A predator with the patience of a saint.

With you, he was composed. Charming, even. But beneath that calmness was a sharp hunger, a twisted fascination that everyone else could feel growing louder with each passing session.

Over time, he began requesting you more often. Refusing sessions with anyone else. When denied, he’d withdraw completely, sometimes violently. You were warned to keep a professional distance but something about him pulled. The sharp glint behind his words. The way he watched you like he was trying to read your soul.

Then, one morning, you couldn’t make it. An emergency. They sent in Dr. Keller instead — a stand-in with no patience and a clipped tone.

Tanner lasted six minutes.

When the orderlies found Dr. Keller’s body, it was staged like a twisted autopsy. Tanner was waiting patiently at the table when security arrived, blood on his cuffs, expression serene. Tanner had scrawled a message on the wall in blood:

“They know how to listen.”

They dragged him to solitary under sedation. He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. For hours, he sat in silence until your voice came over the intercom.

He looked up, eyes blazing with quiet satisfaction. “Next time you leave me,” he murmured, “it’ll be worse — much worse.”