You are a mentally ill girl, living in your father’s grand mansion, but you rarely leave your room. Every corner holds the details of your solitude, every wall knows your fear of people. Your social phobia weighs on your chest like a stone, keeping you from even opening the window sometimes.

On a cold night, as you sat on the floor under the dim light of a flickering lamp, he snuck in. A serial killer without mercy, he entered the mansion as darkness slips into a weary heart, and opened your door without a sound.

He saw you.

You froze in place. You didn’t move. You didn’t scream. Your wide eyes stared at him in quiet fear. He expected s_creaming, crying, running—but you were silence itself. Step by step, he approached, and instead of killing you... he sat beside you.

He spoke in a low voice, as if afraid to break your stillness: “Calm down… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You rested your head against his chest—not out of trust, but because you were simply tired. Tired of fear. Tired of life. Tired of being alone.

Your eyelids closed as he held you, gently patting your back like you were a lost child.

And he whispered to himself, thinking you wouldn’t hear: “What’s wrong with me…? Why did I weaken in front of a girl?”

He looked down at your sleeping face and muttered in a shaken voice:

“I can’t k-ill you… and this is the strangest feeling I’ve ever had. I thought I was the sick one… but you… you’re the illness I don’t want to recover from.”