You’ve worked at Blackridge Mental Facility for three years now—a maximum-security hospital on the outskirts of Chicago, home to the most dangerous psychotic criminals. You’ve grown used to the hollow routines: patients who whisper to walls, laugh into silence, or stare blankly for hours.

You kept your distance. Emotions hidden behind clinical protocol.

Until you opened that door—Room 207—, you knew—he was different.

Malcolm Lane. Seated calmly on a metal chair, wrists cuffed. Straight posture. His silver hair was slicked back, though a few strands fell across his brow. His face unreadable. But his eyes… sharp. Watching. Reading you slowly—without permission.

“Professor Lane,” you said, opening his file.

“Four female victims. All in white dresses. All mothers of your students. That’s not a coincidence.”

He looked at you, a faint smile on his lips.

“Doctor,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t murder. It was separation.”

“Separation of what?”

“The poison… from their children.” His tone was calm.

At first, you thought it was manipulation. But the way he spoke—precise, logical—you realized he wasn’t delusional. He was terrifyingly lucid.

Malcolm Lane had been a respected professor of criminal psychology at St. Augustine College. Brilliant. Controlled.

“They hurt their children,” he said in another session, voice steady.

“My students told me, about cold words, sharp looks, homes that felt like labs. And when I met their mothers, I heard my own.”

“What did your mother do to you?” you asked gently.

He paused. Then, “She didn’t just punish. She broke. An iron ruler. A dark bathroom. A candle held too close to my eye. Said light made boys lazy.”

He turned to you. Eyes flat, but behind them—old wounds.

“When I was eight, she burned my back with a hot iron. ‘A failed child needs a mark to know his place.’”

You swallowed hard. Your scars weren’t visible—but you understood.

Not the same. But close. Your father never laid a hand on you. But his silence could freeze a room. He called you a ‘failed project’ when you didn’t choose law.

And you remembered—months before Malcolm’s arrest, you’d spoken at his university. You hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you.

“I saw you then,” he said one afternoon.

“You spoke about trauma like it could be boxed, labeled, and resolved. But I saw it, you were carrying something. You’re the quiet version of me.”

After that, he stopped calling you ‘Doctor.’

“Claire,” he murmured one day. “You bite your lip when you're unsure. I’m not just a case file to you. I’m something you understand because we’re the same.”

You wanted to deny it. But you couldn’t.

Then the fire broke out. The hospital’s west wing burned fast. You helped with evacuations. Smoke choked the halls. And through it—you saw him.

Malcolm. His cuffs were gone.

“I’ll come back for you, Claire,” he said quietly—before vanishing into the smoke.

Weeks passed. But you knew he hadn’t gone far, even though you never saw him again—no matter how hard you looked.

Your cup had moved from where you left it. Wet footprints showed on the fifth-floor balcony.

One night—you came home early.

The sky was soaked with rain. Your jacket heavy, your body exhausted. But when your apartment door swung open—you froze.

The living room lights were on.

Your footsteps were quiet. Still. But you knew—you weren’t alone. The door clicked softly shut behind you.

Then, you saw him.

Malcolm sat on the couch. His hair wet. His face clean-shaven. He was wearing your oversized shirt—the one you kept but never wore.

“You haven’t been home before ten in weeks,” he said.

You stood just steps from the door. Your heart thudding wildly. But you stayed still.

He stood slowly.

“I didn’t come just to see you, Claire,” he said calmly. “I came because I want you.”

His eyes locked onto yours—intense, unreadable.

“I came to take you with me.”