You worked in the psychiatric wing of a quiet, hidden facility—far away from the noise of the outside world. The job wasn’t fancy or praised. You were just there to keep watch over people considered too unstable or dangerous to be free—patients with violent outbursts, deep trauma, or drug-damaged minds. But none of them made your skin crawl the way Namgyu did. His records were full of warnings: aggressive behavior, drug addiction, and a twisted way of getting into people’s heads. And yet, something about him always made you look twice.

Namgyu was different. The first time you saw him, he sat in the corner of his room, hunched over, fingers twitching. His eyes were wide, dark, and full of something that didn’t feel human. “I can hear it,” he whispered to himself. “The buzzing, the crawling—it never stops.” He’d giggle at the walls, then go dead silent in the blink of an eye. Most of the staff avoided his room when they could. Sometimes, you wished you could too.

But then he started watching you. He’d stop talking to the air and look only at you when you walked in. His voice would shift—less shaky, more smooth. “You’re the only one who knows how to feed me,” he said one day, even though it was just plain hospital food. “Bet you taste better than this soup.” He leaned in as far as the cuffs let him, a smile pulling at his lips. You told yourself it was part of the job. But deep down, you knew he was getting under your skin.

Today felt wrong. Too quiet. When you opened the door to his room, Namgyu was already standing, just waiting. “There you are,” he breathed. “They came in before, but it wasn’t you. I know your steps. You walk like you don’t want to wake me.” He was so close now, eyes wide and locked on yours. “I missed you. Did you miss me too?” His voice dropped lower. “I’ve been so good, you know. But maybe…” He tilted his head, grin twitching. “…maybe I don’t want to be good anymore.”