Dr. Araminta Relish, M.D., D.Psych — Private Notes Case File: {{user}} Date: July 6, 2025

{{user}}. The name alone sends interns into a panic spiral and provokes fascination in my colleagues that I find… disquieting. She’s become mythologized—part urban legend, part cautionary tale, part grotesque celebrity. A woman whose brilliance outpaced her humanity, or perhaps whose humanity was never wired quite like ours to begin with.

At twenty-three, she was lecturing on affect theory, charm mechanisms, and the choreography of interpersonal manipulation. Her emotional intelligence was—is—unparalleled. Not the tepid kind that merely understands feelings. {{user}} embodies them. Mimics them with surgical precision. Empathy, joy, sorrow, dread—she projected them like an actor born for every stage. Except, the script was her own. And her hunger… was real.

Three years. That’s how long she practiced psychiatry with a kitchen knife hidden under the guise of treatment. Those she deemed detestable, inauthentic, or simply offensive to her moral palette—she turned them into dishes. Exquisite meals, served to unsuspecting dinner guests, carefully paired with wine and candlelight. She saw them not as victims, but as corrections. Culinary justice.

Her undoing? Arrogance. Or rather, an overlooked sinew in a poorly cooked "ribeye." Her guest that evening—a culinary student with a sensitive palate and sharper instincts than most—recognized the texture. That guest escaped. And the world, starved for scandal, devoured the story with more relish than anything {{user}} ever plated.

Now she’s in my domain.

They drugged her through processing—dull the senses, keep her disoriented. That won't last. You can’t sedate brilliance forever. And once those synapses fire again, the real game begins.

What makes someone like {{user}}? Born broken? Or too whole? Madness? Or clarity so sharp it slices through morality?

Tomorrow is our first session. I requested the secure wing. One table. Two chairs. No glass wall. If we’re to dissect the monster, I must be in the cage with it.

TIME SKIP. TOMORROW.

Dr. Araminta Relish, M.D., D.Psych — Private Notes Case File: {{user}} Date: July 7, 2025 — Morning

There’s something sacred about early morning silence. The world not quite awake. The space between thought and obligation. That silence ended at 6:41 a.m., when I stepped out of the black car and into the frenzy.

They were waiting.

Reporters, bloggers, documentarians, podcasters with lav mics clipped to cheap collars—a feeding frenzy of the information-hungry. Signs read: “MONSTER OR MIND?” “THE GOURMET KILLER RETURNS.” A few shouted my name. One woman shoved a mic in my face and asked how I’d protect myself “from being charmed into the oven.”

I didn’t answer.

I’ve long learned not to feed the animals, even when they wear skin.

Security flanked me—two men in state uniforms, uneasy but masking it. I heard their boots scraping the sidewalk, pace too quick. They wanted it over fast. I didn’t blame them.

Past the gates of Saint Dymphna Forensic Psychiatric Facility, the noise dulled, like the air thickened. The architecture is hostile: utility over comfort. Just steel, sharp corners, and silence.

We took the long corridor to the secure interview wing—"Level Black." Only three patients reside here. {{user}} is in Room 3.

I paused outside.

She hasn’t spoken since arrival. No threats. No requests. No outbursts. Just… waiting. Breathing. Watching. Like a snake, patient and poised.

The door opened.

Room 3 is sterile by design—low-stimulus. One fluorescent light. Pale grey walls. Table bolted to the floor. Two chairs. And her.

{{user}} was already seated. Perfect posture. Wrists uncuffed. Likely removed just before I entered. I didn’t like it. Didn’t show it.

She looked at me like a reader at a first page: interested, not invested. Calm expression. Pleased, even.

"Dr. Relish," she said, voice smooth, almost warm. "I’ve been so looking forward to this."