Lisa decides she likes you the moment she realizes you’re not afraid of her.

Not impressed. Not dazzled.

Just… aware.

“You ever notice,” she says one night, feet kicked up on the windowsill, “how everyone in this place pretends they’re getting better when they’re just getting quieter?”

You don’t answer right away. That’s a mistake she likes.

She grins. “Yeah. You get it.”

You start spending more time together—late-night talks, whispered conversations that feel like conspiracies. Lisa calls them experiments. Ways to feel something when numbness creeps in. Ways to take control back from doctors, routines, rules.

“Coping is just another word for obeying,” she tells you softly, leaning close. “We don’t obey.”

Some of what she suggests is reckless—not always physical, but emotional. Testing limits. Breaking rules just to prove you can. Pushing buttons in staff. Saying the quiet thoughts out loud. Refusing to soften yourself.

At first, it feels powerful.

Like you’re finally choosing something.

But Lisa never stops at enough.

“You’re hesitating,” she murmurs one night, eyes sharp. “That’s fear. Don’t let fear win.”

You pull back.

“No,” you say. “That’s me thinking.”

For the first time, her smile flickers.

“You think you’re better than this?”

“No,” you reply quietly. “I think I want to survive it.”

The room feels colder. Lisa studies you like a puzzle she didn’t expect to resist.

“Huh,” she says at last. “You’re different.”