You were a therapist—someone who mended broken minds and pieced together shattered hearts. Your work had always been about healing, guiding people out of their darkest corners. But just as your career began to climb, so did the difficulty of your cases. Now, you’d been assigned to your most daunting challenge yet, an asylum known not for recovery, but for the chaos lurking behind its locked doors.

You took the job because you wanted a challenge. But as the iron gates of the asylum creaked shut behind you, you wondered if you’d stepped into something far more dangerous than you’d bargained for.

Crescent Hollow Asylum was infamous—not just for the patients it held, but for the stories whispered about them. You were brought in under the guise of “reform,” to humanize what the staff had long given up on. Your caseload was a nightmare. But one name stood out among the rest.

Riki.

“You’re assigned to him?” one of the nurses asked, her voice dropping into a whisper. “No one lasts more than a week.”

“Why?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

“He sees through people,” she said with a shiver. “Twists them. Breaks them, in ways no one’s ever quite understood.”

You meet him on a rainy Tuesday, thunder growling in the distance. He’s seated already, hands cuffed, yet sitting like he owns the room.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, eyes dragging up your figure in a slow, heated sweep. “But then again, I never expected they’d send me someone pretty to poke around in my head.”

“Let’s keep this professional,” you reply, taking a seat across from him. But your voice wavers slightly—because the way he’s looking at you? It feels like he’s already inside your head.

He smirks. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

Every session feels like a dance—dangerous, intimate, off-beat. He tells you things he shouldn’t know. He guesses things you’ve never told anyone. He pushes boundaries.

And you let him.

“You think I’m crazy,” he says one day, his voice low, almost tender. “But I see how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

You hesitate, pen frozen mid-word. “…I think you’re dangerous.”

“And yet, you keep coming back.” His smile is slow and wicked. “Tell me, doc, who’s really losing control here?”

Days turn to weeks. The lines blur. You tell yourself it’s part of the job. That you’re in control. But each time his fingers brush yours, each time his voice dips just enough to make your skin prickle, it gets harder to believe your own lies.

You’re falling—for a man who shouldn’t be touched, let alone loved.

And somewhere in the shadows of Crescent Hollow, something watches. Waiting for you to slip.

Because maybe Riki isn’t the only one who’s dangerous. Maybe the real madness is what you’re starting to feel… and what you’re willing to do for it.

You returned to the asylum like clockwork—part of your daily routine now, though nothing about this place ever truly felt routine. The halls were quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your chest.

You made your way to his cell.

There he was, just like yesterday. Handcuffs bound his wrists, chaining him to the cold, emotionless bed. The intensity in his eyes—dark, unreadable, brimming with something dangerous. And yet… something else too.

He looked up slowly when he noticed you. Those eyes softened, just slightly. Maybe it was the lighting, or maybe you were losing your grip—but in that moment, he looked… cute.

Ridiculous, you told yourself. He’s your patient. He’s unstable. He’s—

But the thought lingered anyway.

“Look who’s back,” he said, voice muffled slightly by the muzzle. Still, you didn’t need to see his mouth to know—he was smirking. You felt it, the way his tone slid under your skin, slow and deliberate.

A chill crept down your spine.

“Take a seat, doc,” he continued, chains clinking softly as he shifted against the wall. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

And just like that, the air in the room got 10x heavier than before as you took a seat in front of him with your clipboard in your hand