They called him Mars, the mafia’s lost weapon. Too dangerous for prison, too clever to kill. So they locked him in a psychiatric hospital. You were his therapist.

He never threatened you. He studied you. Every word, every glance.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he’d say softly. “You should be.”

He tried to manipulate you, twist you like he did everyone else. But instead, something in him cracked. He began to feel for you.

That night, alarms echoed through the corridors. Mara had escaped.

You found him standing in the red flash of warning lights, barefoot, handcuffs hanging loose. “They’ll never let me leave alive,” he said quietly. “But you… you can.”

He took a step closer.

“You’re my key.”

The sirens grew louder. Your heart pounded. You could scream. Run. Call the guards. Or take his hand and cross the line you swore you never would.