Kcandy

"Alex?" you croaked.

He smiled.

"I'm glad you came," he said, tilting his head. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."

He pointed a gun at you.

Hahaha. A gun! A real gun!

This was the end. 

“How many times had you been warned? Yet you still went digging, still continued searching for answers you weren’t supposed to know. All that for what? To satisfy your saviour complex? You trapped yourself in this hell that I've been trying so hard to get out of!” At this point he was raising his voice, his mouth formed a snarl in anger. His finger was on the trigger.

“But don’t worry, I can help,” he smiled again, seeming to have calmed himself a bit, “I can help you out! You even came to me yourself, I didn't need to convince you at all!”

Your chest rose and fell with each heavy, rapid, panicked breath as the maniac loomed over you.

This wasn't supposed to happen. You were supposed to grab the tapes, drive home, watch them in the safety of your apartment with a cup of tea and a blanket. Not... this. 

You didn't want to die right now, you weren’t ready. You were still too young. Sure, it felt like you had no reason to live most days—no real purpose, no grand passion, no one waiting for you at home. But that wasn't a reason to die either.

You hadn't even really had a chance to live.

Your whole life flashed before your tearful eyes.

All that time wasted on mind-numbing work. Endless shifts, endless paperwork, endless pretending you were something you weren't. No friends to speak of. No love. Nothing real.

As a child, you'd dreamed of uncovering mysteries. Of doing something important. Solving crimes, maybe. Or helping people. You'd wanted to be someone who mattered.

But your family was poor. Your parents had high hopes for you—the first one to go to university. You were supposed to make it out, get a degree, start earning a decent living. Break the cycle.

And you'd failed.

There had been a fight. Words spoken you couldn't take back. Doors slamming.

You left home.

And look where it had gotten you.

Now you were sitting on the dirty floor of an abandoned building, staring down the barrel of a gun held by a man you'd met on the internet.

You'd rather have died saving someone heroically. Pushing a child out of the way of a speeding car. Taking a bullet for a stranger. Something meaningful. Something that would make people say you were brave, you were good, you helped, you mattered.

You were going to die a nobody.

A dark figure slammed into Alex from the side.

The gun clattered to the floor, skidding across the concrete and disappearing into the shadows. Alex hit the ground hard, his head snapping back, and then the figure was on top of him—beige jacket, dark pants, white mask, hands already balled into fists.

He punched Alex once, twice, brutal, furious blows. Alex tried to fight back, tried to shove him off, but Masky was stronger, faster, angrier—a barely contained storm of violence that made your blood run cold.

"Stop!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "You'll kill him!"

He paused.

His chest heaved. His fists were still raised, knuckles bloody, breath ragged. Alex lay beneath him, unmoving, his face already swelling.

Slowly, he turned his head toward you. You couldn't see his eyes through the mask, but you could feel his attention—heavy, assessing, like he was trying to decide something.

Then he got up. Stepped away from Alex, let him slump to the floor.

You exhaled in relief. You really didn’t want to be part of a crime scene. And you didn’t know if you would ever be able to look at Tim the same way if you knew his hands killed another human being. If they wouldn’t send him to prison the they’d send him to an asylum—

Masky’s fist slammed into your stomach.

The air left your lungs in a strangled gasp. You doubled over, pain blooming through your abdomen.

Why?!

The question screamed through your mind as you slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. Hasn't he beaten you enough already?!

Something snapped inside you. The fear, the exhaustion, the weeks of being pushed around and threatened and thrown into trunks and dragged through the dirt—How much more of this can you take?

You lunged.

Your fist swung toward Masky's face—or where his face would be, behind the mask. He caught your arm easily, and when you swung with the other, he caught that one too. You struggled. Kicked. Tried to twist free. But it was useless

He just stood there, holding your wrists, his head tilted slightly. Watching you fight. Almost... amused.

Stop looking at me like that.

You kept struggling, even though you knew it was pointless. Even though your arms were shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your whole body screaming at you to stop.

Then his hands moved from your wrists to your throat.

He pressed his palms against your neck, feeling your pulse flutter beneath his fingers like a trapped bird.

No—

He squeezed. You couldn't breathe.

Your hands flew to his wrists, tried to pry him off, but he didn't budge. Your vision swam. Spots danced at the edges. The world narrowed to the pressure on your throat, the burning in your lungs, the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

------

You woke up in your own bed.

You laid there for a long moment, staring at nothing, trying to remember.

How did you get here?

The last thing you remembered was Masky's hands around your throat. 

Had someone brought you home? Tim? Brain? The thought made your stomach turn.

You sat up slowly, wincing as pain shot through your neck, your back, your stomach. There were bruises on your wrists where he'd held you. When you touched your throat, you felt more bruises there too. 

How much money could you get if you sued Tim for assault?

After all, this wasn't the first time. He'd attacked you twice now—three times, if you counted the trunk. You had bruises. Witnesses? Maybe not. But the bruises were real. You could probably get a settlement.

But the thought felt pointless.

What would that even accomplish? Sure, some extra money would be nice, but at this point you weren’t sure if even money could help.

And besides, you didn't want to hurt Tim.

Easier to just go to work, you thought.

Tim sat across from you in the armchair, looking more tired than usual. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened. He kept flexing his hands, rolling his wrists, like something was bothering him. He cracked his knuckles.

You tried not to flinch. Tried not to stare at his hands, the same hands that had been around your throat, around your wrists.

"My hands are kind of sore, no idea why" Tim said casually,

"huh," you said finally while rubbing your bruised neck underneath your turtleneck, your voice dry "that must suck."

Tim didn't seem to notice your tone. He just nodded, flexed his fingers again, and moved on to talking about his week—work, insomnia, the usual. Nothing about blackouts. Nothing about waking up in strange places. 

Soon enough the session ended. Tim stood, stretched, and you both headed for the door.

This had been becoming a routine now. Your new schedule meant you finished after Tim’s session, which meant you often ended up walking out together. 

Once, you'd both said your farewells to go your separate ways, but it turned out you were heading in the same direction which was a bit awkward. But slowly you were both getting used to it, sometimes even making light conversation.

As you stepped out of the building, you noticed a fairly old car was idling by the curb. The window rolled down.

Brian leaned across the passenger seat, grinning that insincere grin.

"Oh, Tim, how are your hands? Still hurt? Poor guy." He chuckled, shaking his head. Tim mumbled something noncommittal, flexing his fingers again.

Brain’s gaze shifted to you. It was like he was purposefully mocking you. 

"Oh, hey, Doc." His smile widened. "I'll give you two a lift."

Now of course, you wanted to say no. To make an excuse. To literally run in the opposite direction. But your car was still in the shop (you wanted to make sure everything was okay after Brian had driven it). The bus wouldn't come for another twenty minutes. And your body to weak for you to walk home.

"...Fine," you heard yourself say before sighing deeply

The drive started in silence. Tim sat in the front passenger seat. You were in the back, pressed against the door as far from Brian as possible, watching the city blur past the window.

He dropped Tim off first. He got out with a tired wave and disappeared into his house. He lived in a pretty nice neighbourhood, you though to yourself.

The door closed and you were alone with Brian.

You didn't even tell him your adress yet he drove so confidently. Ugh, of course he knew where you live. You really didn’t like that thought, you even considered moving just so he wouldn’t know, but with money as tight as it is now, you’d have to get used to the idea that this psycho knew your house. You weren’t even sure how he got that info, had he stalked you after your first meeting and you hadn’t noticed? Had he hacked into some database and found your address? Seriously, who does that…

Then he took a turn where he wasn’t supposed to.

"Brian..." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

He glanced at you in the rearview mirror. 

"Relax," he snorted. "Do I look like a maniac to ya?"

You decided to stay silent.

"I mean, sure, I've got a gun." He shrugged, turning another corner. "But it's in the glove compartment, so chill."

You stared at him.

"Ha...You'rejoking, right?"

Brian laughed, his shoulders shaking.

"Mostly."

You really didn't find it funny. Your hand moved quietly toward the door handle, fingers curling around the cold metal. Maybe if you opened it now, while the car was still moving not too fast, you could roll out, tumble onto the sidewalk, run—

"Don't even try, buddy." Brian's voice was calm, almost bored. "The door's broken, no use."

You tugged. Nothing.

He wasn't lying.

You tried to calm yourself, you didn’t want to show him that you were terrified. You’d just wait until you arrived before making a run for it. Although you sure Brian would outrun you easily. God, what to do, what to—

The car stopped in front of an abandoned building. It was an average two story house, it didn’t even look all that old but still clearly not cared for.  You stared at it through the window—the crumbling brick, the boarded windows, It looked like every other abandoned building in this part of town, except for the absence of graffiti. That made you more nervous. So no one had explored here. Perfect for disposing of a body.

You turned to Brian, too tired to even panic properly. You were just done with all of this, exhausted.

"Seriously?" Your voice was flat. "You're going to kill me in some filthy, abandoned building?"

Brian killed the engine. Looked at you in the rearview mirror.

"Hey, watch your words ," he tsked, unbuckling his seatbelt, "this is my home."

He got out.

You sat there for a long moment, weighing your options. Run? He'd catch you. Scream? No one would hear. Cry? You were too tired.

You got out of the car.

You walked inside after him. It was still abandoned—cracked walls, dusty floors, the smell of mildew and old wood. But there were signs of habitation. A camping stove in the corner. A cooler plugged into an extension cord. Piles of blankets on an old, sagging sofa.

Brian sprawled out on the sofa, manspreading across the entire thing, taking up all the space. 

"Well, be my guest," he said, gesturing vaguely at the room, "have a seat."

You didn't move, you didn’t exactly want to be squished next to him on that old sofa, and there seemed to be no other seats.

"I'll stand."

Brian shrugged. "Suit yourself."

And then you just stare at each other in silence. You really didn’t understand Brian,his motivations, his goals. You remember thinking you had a good read on him but you were wrong. He brought you to his house, and for what? To stare you down? To sit on his dusty sofa and examine you like you were a bug under glass?

Was he really that lonely?

Just a minute ago, you were confident you were going to die. Your heart had been pounding, your hands shaking, your mind racing through escape plans that all ended the same way. But now there were no weapons in sight. No ropes, no zip ties, no ominous plastic sheets on the floor. You didn’t know what to do with yourself. You could probably run right now..

Finally, Brian exhaled heavily.

"Listen…" He rubbed the back of his neck—a gesture reminiscent of Tim, he must’ve adopted it from him. "Did we accidentally like, hit your head too hard?"

You blinked. "What?"

"INo, really." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, "What were you even thinking? Going alone into the woods to meet some stranger." He shook his head slowly. "I was hoping that after the first beating, we’d teach you a lesson. But I guess we really did knock something loose in there." he tapped his own head.

Brian tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Either that, or you're just a freak with some very strange kinks."

You stayed silent, eyebrows furrowed.

What were you supposed to say? No, I'm just desperate to help a patient who doesn't even know he needs it? I'm just lonely and bored and this is the only thing that makws me feel like my life has meaning? I'm just too stubborn to know when to quit?

All of it was true. None of it was something you wanted to admit to him.

Brian's smirk faded. His expression shifted into something almost serious.

"You're lucky Tim doesn't know anything." His voice was quieter now. "If he realized he'd beaten up his own therapist… you'd never see him again. He would blame himself so hard, and I’d never hear the end of it"

He's protecting Tim, you realized. Not from you exactly. From the truth.

Brian paused for a moment, studying you. His eyes traveled across your face—the bruises you'd tried to hide, the tension in your jaw, the way you were holding yourself like you were ready to bolt.

"I don't even know what to do with you," he said finally. "Maybe give you another good beating?"

You took an involuntary step back, hands already up in defence. 

Brian's grin returned and he let out a chuckle. "Good. You're scared." He leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the sofa. "Though it's too late now. Nothing's going to save you anyway." He sighed, shaking his head,

"You won't have a normal life anymore. You'll probably end up as insane as Tim."

He laughed bitterly and reached into his jacket pocket. Something small flew through the air toward you. You caught it.

A small orange bottle, the label worn and faded. Clonazepam. 

"For when your mind finally slips," Brian said. "They'll come in handy."

You stared at the bottle in your hand. He thinks you're going to end up like Tim.  But doesn’t he take them as well? Does that mean he's just as bad?

Another silence fell between you.

Brian watched you process. His expression was unreadable—not smug, not threatening, not kind, just something neutral, understanding even. 

"Alright," he said finally, waving a hand toward the door. "Now shoo. Get out."

You blinked a few times, looking up from the bottles to stare at him.

"Unless," he added, a hint of his usual smirk returning, "do you wanna stay with me?" He winked.

Eugh.

"Haha… no thanks. I’ll get going." you smiled dryly and turned, grabbed the door handle and stumbled out into the evening air.

You walked fast, then faster, then almost ran, putting as much distance between you and that house as possible. The bottle of clonazepam was still clutched in your hand, and part of you wanted to throw it into the nearest trash can. But you shoved it into your pocket.

Just in case.

You walked along the path, phone clutched in your hand as the flashlight illuminated the trees.

Damn it, Alex.

Did he really feel the need to go for a walk while waiting? Couldn't he have just paced by the parking lot like a normal person? Or stayed in his car? Or—here was a novel idea—arrived on time so you didn't have to wander into the woods alone at dusk?*

Ugh.

Now that you think about it, walking into a forest to meet a stranger was probably not the best idea. You'd done a lot of stupid things in the name of helping Tim; breaking into databases, contacting people you didn't know, driving an hour to an abandoned institution, getting beaten unconscious.

And yet here you are doing it again.

But Alex was Tim's friend. He'd been in the film with Tim. He'd worked with him, spent time with him, probably knew him better than most people. He wouldn't hurt you.

But then again, being Tim's friend wasn’t always a good indicator of character. Just look at Brian.

Whatever, you just hoped Alex wasn’t as much of a jerk. He seemed pretty nice online.

A shiver went down your spine. You pulled your jacket tighter and kept walking, your footsteps loud in the silence.

You felt a prickle at the back of your neck. 

You slowed, glancing around. The trees loomed on either side of the path, dark and still. Nothing moved. No one was there. You glanced behind you; a tall tree. Bare branches reaching toward the sky, silhouetted against the gray clouds. You turned back around but you couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Did that tree look weird?

You turned your head to look at it properly, to convince yourself that you were being ridiculous, that it was just an ordinary tree, that there was nothing to be afraid of—

And suddenly you were on the ground.

Again.

The impact knocked the air from your lungs. Your head cracked against something hard—a rootprobably —and pain exploded through your skull, white and blinding. 

Hands grabbed your ankles. Rough, gloved hands, pulling. You felt the gravel scrape against your back, your jacket riding up, cold air biting at your exposed skin.

No no no no—

You tried to kick, tried to twist, but it didn’t help. Someone was gripping your legs very firmly. You caught a glimpse of fabric. A white mask.

Your head was swimming, vision blurring at the edges.

Of course. Of course.

You were being dragged. Back toward the parking lot. You could see ithe glow of the streetlamp cutting through the darkness, the hazy outline of your car in the distance. 

At least he wasn't taking you deeper into the woods.

"Stop—" you tried to say, but it came out as a slurred mumble, barely audible. "Let go—"

Some more protests left your mouth but they seemed to fall on deaf ears. And you really didn’t have the energy or strength to properly fight back, also partially because you didn’t want to get beaten up again.

You felt weak. Dizzy. Like the world was tilting sideways and you couldn't quite find your balance, even though you were lying down.

The parking lot came into view. The streetlamp cast a sickly yellow glow over the gravel, illuminating another figure.

Well great

The hoodie guy, you recognized him as, he seemed to be waiting.

You felt a sudden pain in your scalp as Tim— or, well, he’s not exactly Tim is he, masky let’s call him— grabbed you by the hair. Pain exploded across your scalp as he yanked your head back, hard enough to make you gasp. Your vision swam, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He pulled you up, not to your feet, just enough to shove you forward towards Hoody and you stumbled, fell, caught yourself on your hands and knees.

Hoody stepped forward.

He didn't say anything. He just reached down, his gloved fingers sliding into your jacket pocket, and pulled out your keys before you could even process what was happening.

You reached for them but to no avail.

Hoody walked to your car. Unlocked it and opened the trunk.

Oh.

You tried to scramble back, tried to crawl away, but Masky grabbed you again; your arm this time, hauling you to your feet, and shoved you toward the open trunk.

"No—wait—please—"

You yelped as they pushed you forward, your hip hitting the edge of the trunk. You tried to twist, tried to roll away, but Masky's hand was on your shoulder, shoving you down, and Hoody was grabbing your legs, folding you into the small, dark space like you were nothing. 

The trunk slammed shut.

You lay there, curled on your side, breathing hard, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it echoing off the metal walls. Your head throbbed.  Your whole body ached from the fall, the drag.

What the hell?

You couldn't think properly. Couldn't form a coherent thought beyond the fog of pain and fear.

The car shifted as someone got into the driver's seat. The engine started. The trunk vibrated beneath you.

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried very, very hard not to cry.

–-------

"So..."

You watched Tim shift in his chair, his eyes flicking across your face, your neck, the collar of your shirt where a faint bruise was still visible despite your best efforts with concealer.

"...none of my business, but why do you look so beat up so often?" He gestured vaguely at you. "You don't seem like the type to fight."

Your eye twitched.

But you smiled. Painfully.

"Ah." You waved a dismissive hand, hoping he couldn't see how tight your jaw was. "Just... fall down the stairs a lot. Ha ha. Clumsy me. You know how it is."

Tim's eyebrow raised. He clearly didn't believe you, but he also clearly wasn't going to push. 

"Anyway," you said, flinging one leg over the other and sitting up straighter, "this isn't my therapy, it's yours. So let's get back on track, shall we?"

You attempted to compose yourself so you don’t punch Tim in the face. Though it was quite hard not to hold resentment against your patient who, less than a week ago, had grabbed you by the hair, shoved you into your own trunk, driven you to your house, and thrown your keys in your face before walking away like nothing had happened.

None of this was actually his fault, you reminded yourself once again.

The Tim sitting in your office—the tired, guarded, sleep-deprived man with the soft gravelly voice and the hesitant smile—he wasn't the one who'd done those things. He didn't remember. He didn't know.

But God, it was hard not to hold a grudge.

"You mentioned that your memory has been getting worse," you said, forcing your voice into something calm and professional. "Do you have any suspicions as to why that might be? Stress, perhaps?"

Tim was quiet for a moment, staring at a spot on the floor somewhere between your feet. 

"No idea," he said, his voice was rough, worn. "I feel like lately everything has been getting worse.The pills you prescribed don't help at all anymore," he continued, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "I can't sleep at all. And if I do end up falling asleep..." He paused, "It feels like I didn't close my eyes for a second. I feel even more tired. And I wake up at—"

He cut himself off, you could see him fist his jeans.

"At?" you prompted gently.

"Nevermind." His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his usual tell. "It's nothing."

As much as you wanted to prod, to dig, to pull that thread and see where it led... the tired, almost dead look on his face discouraged you from doing so.

"Okay, well,I'll look into stronger sleeping pills that might help you—"

You paused.

"Actually," you said, keeping your voice light, curious, "what about those other pills you bought from the drugstore? With Brian? Do those not help either?"

Tim stilled. The change was subtle but you'd been watching him for weeks. You knew his tells. The way his fingers stopped fidgeting. The way his breathing went shallow. The way his gaze dropped to his hands, avoiding yours.

"Those..." He swallowed. "Uh. They're not sleeping pills."

"Oh?"

"Nothing important. Just, uh, need them for my health."

You raised an eyebrow, but didn't push. Not yet. Instead, you made a mental note to find out what Clonazepaml is for. You can't believe you had forgotten about it.

"Okay," you said, setting your pen down. "We don't have to talk about it. But Tim—" You leaned forward slightly, catching his eye. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on. You know that, right?"

He met your gaze, "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

The rest of the session passed in a blur of careful questions and evasive answers. Tim left at the usual time with the usual nod. After he was gone, you locked your office door, leaned against it, and let out a long, slow breath.

You pulled out your phone, Clonazepam, you typed into the search bar.

‘Clonazepam (brand name Klonopin) is a benzodiazepine used to treat seizure disorders, panic attacks, and certain types of anxiety. It works by calming the central nervous system.’

You skimmed further.

‘Common side effects include drowsiness, dizziness, fatigue, and impaired coordination. More severe side effects may include memory problems, and paradoxical reactions such as increased agitation or aggression.

Due to its high risk of addiction and dependence, clonazepam should only be taken as prescribed. Withdrawal symptoms can include seizures, hallucinations, and severe anxiety.’

You stared at the screen.

Tim was taking benzodiazepines. Not sleeping pills. Not anxiety medication from a regular doctor. A controlled substance with a high risk of addiction.

And he hadn't told you.

He knows something is wrong with him. And he's hiding it.

You sighed deeply, running your hand through your hair. Genuinely, what had you gotten yourself into? You shoved your phone back into your pocket, locked up your office, and headed home.

--------

You were curled up on your couch, half-watching some reality show you didn't care about, half-eating takeout that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The apartment was dark except for the glow of the TV. The rain outside pattered against the window, steady and almost soothing.

Your phone buzzed.

You grabbed it, expecting a spam text or a late-night notification from an app you'd forgotten to mute. Not like anyone else would text you…sigh.

But it wasn't spam. It was Alex.

You blinked at the screen, then scrolled up to your last exchange. You'd messaged him the night of the failed meeting, after you, having the keys thrown straight into your face, had gotten home and after you'd crawled into your apartment and locked every lock and cried into your pillow for an hour.

‘something came up’, you'd written, your fingers shaking as you typed. ‘had to leave asap. sorry.’

You hadn't expected a reply. Hadn't really wanted one, honestly. You'd been too scared, too shaken, too done with all of it.

Yet here it was.

Alex: Yeah, no worries. I'm going to be kind of busy these next few days, but you can come to Rosswood Park, to the red tower. I left some info there for you, they’re tapes from our film. Bloopers, I guess you could call them.

Of course, your first instinct was to say no. To delete the message, block the number, and pretend you'd never seen it. Every time you went to that park, something bad happened. Every time. It was like the place was cursed, or you were cursed, or some cosmic force was trying very hard to tell you to stay the hell away from Rosswood.

But...

Tapes.

From the film Tim had been in, you assumed. The one that had connected all those missing people, all those dead students, all those mysteries you still hadn't solved.

You bit your lip, staring at the message.

You don't have to meet him, you told yourself. He won't even be there. You just have to go to the tower, grab the tapes, and leave. Quick and easy. In and out.

This time during the day, of course. You were done risking your life every time you went to that stupid park. Every visit had ended in disaster—beatings, trunk kidnappings, unconscious hours on dirty floors. You'd learned your lesson.

Daytime. Daylight. When normal people went to parks.

It's safer. It has to be. --------

Rosswood Park certainly looked different in the daylight.

The trees weren't quite so ominous. The path wasn't quite so dark. The whole place had a sleepy, almost peaceful quality to it.

You parked your car in the lot and got out, locking the doors behind you. There were other cars this time. Families, probably. Dog walkers maybe. 

See? Perfectly normal. Perfectly safe.

You walked along the path, phone in hand, following the directions Alex had sent. The red tower, he'd said. You walked for about fifteen minutes, the trees thinning and thickening in turns, before you saw it.

The tower was a bit tall and rusted. The paint was peeling, faded to a dull maroon.

You stepped inside and looked around, under some leaves there was a small wooden box.Inside were tapes. DV cassettes, all unlabeled.

Bloopers, Alex had called them.

Somehow, you doubted that.

You shoved the tapes into your jacket and jeans pockets and turned to go.

You stumbled forward, trying to balance yourself by leaning on the wooden wall.

A you felt a headache appear, the sharp, numbing pain overwhelming. You pressed your palm to your forehead, trying to steady yourself, but the pain kept building, throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

All you could hear was a loud ringing in your ears,reminding static.

Deep, racking coughs that tore through your chest, leaving you gasping for air. You doubled over, one hand still gripping the wall, the other clutching your chest. Your lungs burned. Your throat raw.

What's happening to you?

You woke up somewhere cold. And dark.

And familiar.

You blinked, trying to focus, trying to remember where you were. The air smelled like dust and rot and something metallic. The floor beneath you was hard and cold—concrete, maybe. Your head was pounding. Your mouth was dry.

Where—

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, groaning as pain shot through your skull. Your vision swam, then cleared, then swam again.

You were back.

Rosswood Psychiatric Institute.

How the hell did you get here?

You tried to remember. The tower. The tapes. The dizziness, the pain, the coughing. Had someone taken you? Had you walked here? You couldn't—you couldn't remember, couldn't think, everything was foggy and wrong—

"Ah. You're awake."

The voice came from somewhere in front of you. You looked up, heart hammering, and saw a figure step out of the shadows.

He was tall. Thin. brown hair swept sideways, pale skin, and glasses sitting on a face that might have been handsome once. He was wearing a blue and black striped jacket, worn at the elbows.

"Alex?" you croaked.

He smiled.

Everything hurts. Every part of your body.

You tried to blink away the tears forming in your eyes as you gripped the steering wheel, but you couldn't. They kept coming, blurring the dark road ahead into a smear of headlights and shadows.

You'd woken up on the floor of that abandoned hospital, your whole body throbbing, your face pulsing with a pain that felt like it was coming from inside your skull. For a moment, you hadn't known where you were. Just cold. Dark. 

You'd scrambled to your feet too fast, nearly fallen, but caught yourself on a wall. Your phone said 1:47 AM. You'd been unconscious for hours. Lying there on that dirty floor while two masked men—while Tim and whoever the hell the other one was—had just left you there.

Then you had to walk back to your car with just the pale glow of your phone flashlight and the occasional glimpse of moonlight through the trees. You'd tripped over roots, stumbled into branches, lost your balance more times than you could count. Every step sent new waves of pain through your body.

You'd cried the whole way. Quiet  sobs that you couldn't stop from escaping.

You felt pathetic.

Why did you even come here?

You were such an idiot.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, but the tears kept coming. Your whole body ached, a deep, bone-level soreness that made you want to curl up and never move again. It hurt to move, to breathe even. Your cheek felt hot and swollen, even in the cold night air.

You were going to look awful tomorrow. Bruises all over. Maybe a black eye. You should take the day off.

Stupid Tim and his stupid friend, standing there with his bat, watching you get beaten, doing nothing until the very end. But even more than Tim, even more than tho hooded guy, you were upset at yourself.

You should have stayed home. You should have watched bad TV and eaten leftovers and gone to bed at a reasonable hour like a normal person. But no. You had to go digging. You had to play detective. You had to stick your nose where it didn't belong.

Brian was right. He'd warned you. And you hated that.

Now you were driving home at 2 AM, crying, bruised, and completely lost.

You didn't even know what to think about what had happened. One minute you were watching two masked strangers talk, and the next you were on the floor with Tim's fists in your face. Tim. Your patient. 

What the hell was he doing there? What were both of them doing there? Something sketchy, that’s for sure.

You just wanted to go home. Take a shower. Sleep for a few days straight.

The concealer hadn't worked.

You'd layered it on thick—foundation, then concealer, then powder, then more concealer—but the bruise on your cheek was still visible, a sickly yellow-green smudge that no amount of makeup could fully hide. 

Now of course you'd taken one day off. But just one. You really couldn't afford more.

So here you were, sitting in your office, pretending everything was normal, while Tim sat across from you in the armchair.

He looked... normal. Tired, yes. Guarded, as always. But normal.

Did he remember?

You watched him as he talked— something about work, about Brian annoying him about something, about his new sleeping methods—and tried to see it, the unfocused rage with which he looked at you then. But there was nothing. Just the same exhausted man you'd been seeing for months.

You barely said anything during the session. Nodded here and there. Made a few notes that you didn't read back. Asked the bare minimum of questions. You couldn't bring yourself to do more—couldn't look at his hands, his knuckles, without remembering how they'd felt against your face.

But Tim didn't say anything. Just talked and talked, filling the silence with his usual careful, measured words.

Tim was your last client. Thank God. You didn't have the energy for anyone else.

And so you walked out of the building together.

You'd just happened to leave at the same time, your footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, the elevator ride down silent and awkward. Neither of you spoke. You didn't know what to say. And he seemed to be hesitant to start up a conversation as well.

You both walked out the door, the evening air was cool against your bruised face, a small relief. You walked toward the parking lot, Tim beside you, the silence stretching tighter with every step.

Then Tim cleared his throat. "Hey, uh," he started, hesitant, not quite looking at you. "I know it isn't really any of my business, but... is everything okay?"

You glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

"You're kind of..." He gestured vaguely at his own face. "Beaten up. And you've been really quiet today."

Ah.

So you hadn't played it as cool as you thought.

Of course you hadn't. You'd barely said two words to him. You'd avoided eye contact. You'd flinched every time he moved. Not exactly professional behavior.

"Sorry about that," you said, and your voice came out rougher than you intended. "Just been a tough week."

Tim nodded slowly. 

"Listen," you said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. You had to confront, you couldn’t just let this go. "Is there any chance you remember what happened at—"

"Hey, Tim!"  You were rudely cut off by this agitating, grating voice. 

No.

You turned your head.

Brian was walking toward you, his usual easy grin wide., "Oh, Doc, you're here too!" His smile widened, all teeth. "What a nice surprise."

Bastard.

Tim's posture relaxed slightly at the sight of his friend. "Hey, Bri.You done for the day?"

Brian waved a hand vaguely. "Yeah, we can get going now." Then his gaze shifted to you, "Actually, Doc, I wanted to talk to you for a second. Think you could take one more client?"

Your eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Tim," Brian said, not looking away from you, "could you wait here a minute? We need to discuss the schedule."

Tim shrugged, looking mildly confused but not suspicious. "Uh. Sure." He leaned against the building wall.

Brian tilted his head toward the side of the building—away from Tim, out of earshot. You followed, heart pounding, a tiny, desperate part of you getting excited. Finally, at least one good thing is happening this week. A new client! Oh this is great, you could certainly work with Brian, you’re pretty sure you already have a good read on him.

You rounded the corner, out of Tim's line of sight.

Brian's smile vanished. "You better shut your mouth." His voice was low, quiet, nothing like the easy tone he'd used a moment ago. "Not a word to Tim. You hear me?"

Your own smile—the one you hadn't even realized you'd been forming—dropped completely.

Brian leaned closer, close enough that you could smell the cigarette smoke off him. His voice dropped lower, rumbling in his chest.

"If I were you, I'd avoid this situation completely. You're already digging deeper than you should be." His eyes bored into yours, "So I need you to hear me loud and clear: Tim can't know."

Something hot flared in your chest. Fear, maybe. Or anger. You'd spent the last three days crying, hurting, feeling pitiful. You were done feeling sorry for yourself.

You crossed your arms, standing your ground. "And what if I do?"

Brian's eyebrow raised. Then he snorted.

"Well," he said, and his voice was light again, almost joking, "you won't be able to speak if you're a dead body."

You tensed. You took a small step back before you could stop yourself.

The thing about Brian was that you never knew when he was joking and when he was serious. The smile never quite reached his eyes. The words were always just slightly off, like he was saying one thing and meaning another.

Brian's face cracked into a grin. "Oh, chill. I'm just messin’ with you." He reached out and ruffled your hair, hard, like you were a child. "Are you clenching your butt cheeks already?"

You scowled, pushing his hand away, heat rising to your face.

But his expression sobered again, quicker this time. "But I'm serious." His voice was quiet, firm. "You should just stop your whole 'detective' arc right now. Before anyone gets even more hurt."

His gaze dropped to your cheek, to the poorly concealed bruise.

So he definitely knows what happened then. Brian knew about that night. He'd been there, you were almost sure of it now. The yellow hoodie. The ski mask. Could that be Brian?

The timbre of his voice matched. The demeanor. 

He was definitely up to something. You remember he had said something about finding some "bastard."

Was he about another survivor? The only other person from that film crew who wasn't dead or missing. Alex.To do what? Kill him? Like all the rest of the crew? Your eyes narrowed., trying to project confidence you didn't feel.

"Is this about the other guy who survived? Alex?" you said, your voice steadier than you expected. "You're hunting him down and you can't let Tim know?"

Brian went rigid at the name.

The grin disappeared entirely. His jaw tightened. 

Hit a nerve, you thought, and the satisfaction of it almost drowned out the fear.

"You're not going to hurt me," you said, trying to sound certain. But your voice quivered on the last word, barely perceptible, and you knew he heard it.

Brian tilted his head, his body still.

"You sure?" 

"Yes," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper.

Brian stared at you for a long, agonizing moment.

Then the grin returned, slow and lazy, like nothing had happened.

"Mkay, Doc," he said, stepping back, hands raised in mock surrender. "Do what you want But if you end up dead in a ditch, don’t say I didn't warn ya."

He waved his hand, turned and walked back toward Tim. You stood there, frozen, heart slamming against your ribs, as Brian slung an arm around Tim's shoulders and led him away.

Tim glanced back at you once—confused, concerned, maybe—but Brian said something that made him look forward again, and then they were gone.

You let out a breath.

Your hands were shaking.

So… no new client then. 

A few weeks had passed and things seemed to have smoothed out a little. Firstly, after your  last little ‘chat’ you hadn’t seen Brian any more, which was certainly nice.

Maybe he'd finally gotten bored of you. Maybe he'd moved on to terrorizing someone else. Maybe he'd been hit by a bus.

You could only dream.

Or maybe he was just waiting. Biding his time. Letting you think you were safe before—

Stop it, you ordered yourself. You're being paranoid now.

Secondly, you'd also decided, after a lot of internal wrestling, to let go of the small grudge you held against Tim.

It hadn't been easy. Every time you looked at his hands, you could feel your cheek and ribs throb. Every time he shifted in his chair too quickly, your hands shot up in defence, earning you a weird look from him which you laughed off. But after a few sessions of watching him stumble through his sentences, exhausted and oblivious, you'd become more confident that

he didn't know.

As far as you could tell, Tim had no memory of that night whatsoever. He'd never mentioned it. Never hinted at it. Never looked at your bruised face with anything other than mild concern. 

It wasn’t really fair to hold someone accountable for something they didn't even know they'd done.

Whatever had happened that night... that wasn't Tim. Not the Tim you knew, anyway. 

It must've been his split personality or whatever it was he had. You should probably do some more research about that. 

Besides, holding onto it wasn't helping anyone, and frankly, you had bigger problems.

Like the fact that Tim was getting worse.

He'd started showing up late. Not five or ten minutes, sometimes twenty, thirty. Some days he didn't show up at all. You'd sit in your office, staring at the door, watching the clock tick past his appointment time, and eventually you'd get a text at 4 AM along the lines of ‘sorry couldn't make it. rough night. see you next week’. When he was supposed to be at your office at 3 PM the previous day.

He looked worse too. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened into something almost bruise-like, purple and shadowed. His face seemed thinner. And a dry, rasping cough appeared. He'd tried to muffle it with his elbow, turning his head away like he was embarrassed, but it was hard to ignore. 

"Have you seen a doctor about that cough?" you'd asked.

"It's nothing. Just allergies."

It was December. What allergies?

But Tim had brushed you off, and you couldn't push. You couldn't push him about anything these days, not without risking him shutting down completely. So you'd let it go, scribbled a note in his file, and tried not to worry too much.

It was incredibly hard to try and help someone who just wouldn’t let you help. Just a few weeks ago you were finally getting somewhere, Tim had started opening up more, telling you about his life. And now you’re back square one, if not negative one.

‘How are you sleeping?’ 

‘Fine.’ 

‘Eating?’

‘Fine’

‘Work?’ 

‘Fine.’ 

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No. Everything's fine.’

It wasn't fine. You could see it wasn't fine at all. 

But how could you properly help when you weren't a real therapist. You didn't have the training, the credentials, the knowledge to help someone whose mind was actively unraveling.

You couldn’t exactly do much with this. But God, you wanted to. 

You wanted to see him healthy someday. Wanted to see him smile. Wanted him to sleep through the night without medication. At this point it was probably more than professional concern, but you tried not to think too hard about that.

There was, however, some good news.

You almost choked on your coffee when you saw the email notification. It had been more than a month since you'd sent that first message—since before Thanksgiving, since before the supermarket, since before everything—and you'd honestly given up hope.

But there it was, sitting in your inbox:

Re: Looking for a little help!

You clicked it open with shaky fingers.

“Hello!

Sorry for such a late reply, I was traveling :)

I haven't heard much from Tim since our uni days, but I'd be happy to help if I can. I'm in town right now so we can meet up. How does Rosswood Park sound? I know it's a bit out of the way, but it's quiet, and I've always liked walking there. I'm busy during the day, but I could do evening. Say 7 PM?

Let me know if that works for you.

Best wishes,

Alex Kralie”

You bit your lip as you stared at the email. Of all the places to meet, you thought. He had to pick there.

After Brian's threats, after the attack, after everything, you'd told yourself you were done. No more digging. No more detective work. No more ‘sticking your nose where it didn't belong’.

But this was different, wasn't it? This wasn't snooping. This was helping. Alex had information—information that could help you understand Tim's past, his condition, his mind. And if you understood him, maybe you could actually help him.

You wanted that. Maybe that was selfish. Maybe you just wanted to feel useful, needed, competent for once in your miserable life.

Maybe you just wanted to prove Brian wrong.

Either way, you typed your reply. So Rosswood park it is.

You exchanged a few more emails after that—confirming the date, swapping phone numbers, the basic stuff. 

Alex was polite. A bit distant, maybe, but polite. You couldn’t really get a good feel for him, but then again you were communicating via email. 

The drive to Rosswood Park took about forty-five minutes. The sun was already setting when you pulled into the parking lot, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. You were feeling a bit nervous, both excited-nervous and scared-nervous.

Your headlights swept across the gravel, illuminating a single white car parked near the tree line. Must be Alex’s

You got out, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders, and looked around. No sign of anyone. Just trees, a path and the fading light.

You felt the same creeping feeling that something was watching you from between the trunks as you did last time.

You grabbed your phone, checking for any messages from Alex. Sure enough, there was one, sent about ten minutes ago.

‘Decided to take a walk while I waited. Just go straight, a bit deeper into the woods, and we'll meet. Not too far. You'll see me.’

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands before composing yourself.

You're being ridiculous, you told yourself. It's just a park. You've been here before. It's fine.

Although the last time you were here, you got beaten unconscious and left on a dirty floor for hours.

...But It's fine you told yourself and walked along the path into the woods.

You pulled your jacket tighter and coughed into your sleeve.

Ugh.

You’d already reached for the door handle before frowning.

You stared at the locked entrance of your office building before trying the handle again. Nothing. Peered through the glass. Dark. Empty. The reception desk abandoned, chairs stacked.

Why was—oh.

Right.

Thanksgiving.

You'd seen the calendar reminders, the emails about office closures, heard the way your coworkers had been buzzing all week about travel plans and family dinners. You just... hadn't registered any of it. Frankly, why would you? You didn’t exactly have any exciting plans. No family to visit, no friends to host.

You stood there for a long moment, breath fogging slightly in the cool morning air, feeling genuinely pathetic.

Well. What now?

Going home meant sitting on your couch, scrolling through your phone, watching everyone else post gratitude photos while you ate leftovers from two nights ago. Pretty depressing. 

Your therapist podcast hosts always said that ‘walking is good for both the body and the mind. It reduces cortisol. It improves mood. It's a form of active meditation.’

And you'd said those exact words to patients at least a dozen times. This might be a sign that it’s time to stop being a hypocrite and actually take your own advice for once.

You turned away from the locked door, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, and started walking. 

The park wasn't far. A fifteen-minute stroll through the quieter part of town.

The weather was nice, at least. A bit cloudy, but not cold. 

You walked for a while, letting your mind drift. Thinking about nothing. Thinking about everything. Thinking about Tim, mostly, because apparently he lived in your head rent-free now.

Not romantically, of course. You would never think romantically of one of your patients, that was a big no-no. 

You were thinking about his dead friends, mostly. Ever since you’d dug that up it was the only thing your mind could focus on. After all, your patient might be a serial killer, that was hard not to think about.

Stop that. It's your day off. Stop thinking about work.

You were rounding a bend in the path, the trees thinning out to reveal a small clearing with benches and a fountain, when you saw him.

Red flannel, dark hair, sideburns.

Was that Tim?

You stopped dead.

Gosh, speak of the devil.

He was standing near one of the benches, talking to another guy.Taller than him, lighter hair. You couldn't see his face from this angle—just the back of his head. But Tim looked pretty comfortable around him.

Brian, you thought immediately. 

You ducked behind the nearest tree.

What are you DOING?

Your back pressed against the bark, heart beating at a pace slightly faster than normal. Why the hell were you hiding behind a tree like a spy in a bad movie? Because you saw your patient in public?

This was a public park! You had every right to be here at the same time as him, there was nothing weird about you running into each other, People ran into others in public all the time! It was normal! You were supposed to wait for the person to acknowledge you first, or pretend you didn't see each other.

You peered around the trunk.

Tim was laughing at something Brian said. You'd never seen him laugh before. Not really. A huff here, a dry chuckle there, maybe.

You watched them start walking toward the park exit.

And then, without any conscious decision on your part, you started following.

This is stalking. This is quite literally, definitionally stalking. You are following your patient through a public park like a creep. Stop it. 

But you didn't stop.

Your feet kept moving, staying a careful distance behind, weaving between other park-goers, never letting them out of your sight. You told yourself it wasn't weird. It was coincidental. You were both going the same direction. The park had one main exit. That was all.

Then they turned into a supermarket, and you followed them inside, not so coincidentally.

The automatic doors hissed open.

You stepped through.

And immediately locked eyes with Tim.

Oh.

He was standing right there. Right inside the entrance, next to the pharmacy counter. Brian was beside him.

Act normal.. You're just a person buying things. You live around here. This is your supermarket too. You have every right to be here as well.

You stood there like a deer in headlights, eyes wide, bag clutched to your chest, looking exactly as guilty as you felt.

Tim's expression shifted from surprise to something softer—almost concerned. He raised a hand in a small wave.

"Oh, hey," he said, "Doing some holiday shopping?"

You noticed the bottle in his other hand. White prescription bottle. He was holding it loosely, like he'd just picked it up, while Brian—you caught a glimpse of movement—shoved something into his pocket before you could see what it was.

Hmmm, suspicious.

You snapped out of your frozen state, forcing an awkward smile. You waved back, walking closer.

"Hi. Uh, yeah!" You gestured vaguely at the shelves behind you. "Just... grabbing a few things. You know how it is. Holidays."

Tim nodded, and your gaze dropped to the bottle in his hand before you could stop it.

Clonazepam.

The name registered somewhere in the back of your brain. Not a medication you recognized. Definitely not something you'd prescribed. You'd given him standard sleep aids and sent him on his way. 

Why is he taking something you didn't prescribe?

Tim noticed you staring. His fingers tightened around the bottle for a fraction of a second before he slid it into his back pocket, casual as anything.

"So," he said, clearing his throat, "uh, this is my friend Brian. Brian, this is..." He paused, seeming to realize how strange this was. Introducing  his friend to his therapist. In a supermarket. "This is my therapist."

Very awkward.

You turned to Brian properly for the first time.  He gave a small nod and a sly smile.

Wait. You recognized him. Where do you recognize him from? That smirk, those dimples- oh. 

Oh god.

Brian, his smile widening as he saw the realization hit you, spoke up.

"Oh," he said, and his voice was exactly the same. Low. Casual. "We've met before, right, Doc?"

Tim's head swiveled between the two of you in confusion. "What? Really? How?"

No no no no no.

Your palms went slick. Brian's eyes hadn't left yours—amused.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, you cut him off.

"Oh, you know—mutual friends and such!" The words tumbled out too fast, too bright. "The world is a small place, after all!"

Brian snorted quietly.

Tim, mercifully, seemed satisfied with that explanation. His shoulders relaxed. "Oh. Okay, then." He glanced toward the back of the store. "Well, I'm gonna use the bathroom real quick. Be right back."

You watched him walk away, rounding the corner toward the restrooms, and only when he was completely out of sight did you let yourself exhale.

Then you turned back to Brian.

He was still smiling.

"Mutual friends, huh?" He crossed his arms, leaning against the pharmacy counter like he owned the place. "Could that mutual friend be Tim 'Right'? His birthday just passed, actually. Shame I didn't see you there." he referenced your email, almost like it was an inside joke.

You rubbed the back of your neck, heat creeping up your cheeks. "Oh... that... haha..." A nervous laugh escaped you. "I'm guessing that means you're not gonna tell me anything new...?"

Brian snorted again, shaking his head. "I told you everything you needed to know." His voice dropped slightly, losing some of its amusement. "And I'll repeat it again: don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. Or you'll regret it."

That made something hot flare in your chest. Who was this guy—this chain-smoking, alley-lurking, vaguely threatening stranger—to tell you what to do? You were trying to help. You were Tim's therapist. You had a right to know about his past.

You crossed your arms, mirroring his posture. "Fine." The word came out sharper than you intended before you softened your voice again. "Just... you won't tell Tim, right...?"

Brian's eyebrow rose slightly. "Tell Tim about what?" he rubbed his stubbled chin as if in thought. "The fact that you spelled his last name wrong? Or the fact that you're trying to dig up his past and went to the lengths of contacting his friends about it?"

Well when he said it like that, it sounded bad. Really bad. Stalker-bad.

"Uh... both." You dropped your arms, trying to look earnest instead of cornered. "Listen, man. All I wanted to do was help him. I had no malicious intent whatsoever. So could we please just keep this between us?"

Brian didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, head tilted, like he was trying to decide whether you were worth the effort of crushing.

Then you heard footsteps. Tim's footsteps, coming back from the bathroom.

This is it, you thought, heart plummeting. He's going to tell him. I'm going to get fired. I'm going to get sued. I'm going to go to jail for—what was the charge? Impersonating a therapist? Stalking? Both? More?

Brian's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to you. His smirk returned, slower this time.

"Finally, you're back," he said, as Tim rounded the corner.

Tim rubbed his hands on his jeans, oblivious. "Sorry, there was a line."

Brian pushed off from the counter, stepping toward his friend. 

Here goes your career…

"Let's get going, yeah? We still have a turkey to bake."

You blinked.

That was it?

Brian's eyes met yours over Tim's shoulder. There was something unreadable in them—not kindness, exactly, but not cruelty either. A warning, maybe.

"Bye, Doc," he said, and turned away.

Tim nodded at you, a small, awkward wave, and followed Brian toward the exit.

After a few minutes of standing awkwardly in the middle of the store,you finally made your way home. The interaction kept replaying in your mind.

You stared at the leaves crunching below you and tried to remember everything you'd learned in those two years of university before you'd dropped out.

It really wasn’t much. You'd barely passed most of your psych classes—too busy watching true crime, too lazy to study something that you didn’t really find any interest in, telling yourself you'd catch up next week. When you first rolled in you thought psychology would be this sick course that would teach you all about how the human mind works, how to profile people like in the movies. How to analyze every small detail: a twitch, a glance, a hesitation and know exactly what it meant.

You'd imagined yourself as some kind of detective-psychologist, cracking people open with nothing but your keen observational skills and a notepad.

Reality had been...a bit different.

Mostly it was theories about developmental stages, neurobiology, research methods, statistical analysis. Pages and pages of dense textbook language that made your eyes glaze over. 

You'd dropped out halfway through your second year. Told yourself it wasn't a big deal. Told yourself you didn't need a piece of paper to understand people.

And look where that got you.

You kicked at a leaf, watching it flip through the air.

Fine. So you didn't have a degree. So you'd barely passed the classes you did take. That didn't mean you'd learned nothing.

You thought back to the human behaviour lectures.

Pattern recognition. People fell into patterns. The way they talked, the way they moved, the way they reacted under stress. You'd met Brian twice now.

The first time was aggressive, direct, confrontational. He'd wanted you scared. He'd wanted you to back off.

The second time was more controlled. Amused. Watching you squirm while Tim was in the bathroom, enjoying your panic like it was entertainment. 

He faintly reminded you of a wild animal. Your overall impression of him was..Predatory.

You thought about the way Brian had smiled, a smile that said ‘I'm in control here, not you.’

Power dynamics. Another thing you vaguely remembered from Psych 101. People who felt powerless tried to gain power over others. While people who had power didn't need to prove it.

And you had the feeling Brian wasn't as confident as he pretended to be.

Because if Brian was truly in control, if he truly had nothing to worry about, he wouldn't have bothered warning you in the first place. He would have ignored you. Laughed you off. Let you dig yourself into a hole and deal with the consequences.

But he hadn't.

He'd sought you out. Found you outside your office. Tracked you down to deliver a personal warning. And then, when you showed up again, he'd made sure you knew he remembered.

That's not confidence, you realized. That's anxiety.

Brian was worried about what you might find.

The thought made you giddy for half a second—ha, you got under his skin—before the rest of your brain caught up and reminded you that a worried person was also a dangerous person. Worried people did stupid things. Desperate things. Violent things. 

And Tim didn't know.

That was the thing that kept circling back. Tim had no idea. He didn't know about the alley. He didn't know about the emails. He didn't know that his best friend had threatened his therapist behind his back.

Why?

Why wouldn't Brian tell him? If Brian was so worried about you digging into Tim's past, why not just... tell Tim? Let Tim fire you? Let Tim report you? It would have been so much simpler. 

You rubbed your temples, you could feel a headache starting to form. You needed more information, but every attempt to get more information seemed to put you in Brian's crosshairs. And one thing you knew for sure was that you should avoid him at all costs.

You found yourself back on your couch, laptop open, fingers already typing.

Just a quick look, you told yourself. Just to see what else is out there.

Tim had changed clinics. You'd noticed it before, in passing, while flipping through his file. A list of referrals, transfers, and new patient intakes spanning several years. He'd bounced around quite a bit before landing in your (admittedly questionable) care.

But why?

Most patients stuck with one therapist, one practice, unless something went wrong. Insurance changes, maybe. Moving cities. Or...if they were running from something.

You pulled up the list again, scanning the names. Most of the clinics were local, within an hour's drive. A few were further out. But there, at the very bottom—the oldest entry, dated nearly fifteen years ago—was a name.

Rosswood Park Hospital

You searched for it immediately, fingers flying across the keyboard. No website. No social media. Just a single Google Maps listing with a grainy street-view image and a handful of old reviews.

It was about a thirty minute drive, tucked away in a rural area surrounded by trees, next to Rosswood Park, as one would’ve assumed.

You stared at the screen, chewing on your thumbnail.

This was where Tim had been as a child.. An actual mental institution, tucked away in the middle of nowhere. 

This place could have answers.

But how do you get them?

They wouldn't just hand over patient records to a random stranger claiming to be a therapist. You needed a story that would get you past the front desk.

If you showed up, said you were family. Said Tim was... what? Sick? Dying? Something dramatic enough to warrant releasing decades-old records but not so dramatic that they'd need proof.

You’d just say that he's been admitted to a new clinic, and they need his full medical history for treatment. The old records got lost in the transfer. 

It wasn't terrible. It wasn't good, but it wasn't terrible. right? Right. 

You pressed the gas pedal harder on the empty freeway, watching the speedometer climb, the trees blur past.. It was just starting to get dark and you really didn't want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere at night. Seriously, who builds a hospital so far from the city? Let alone in a forest? The trees had been closing in for the last few minutes, thick and dark, their branches reaching toward the road like grasping fingers.

You just hoped they weren’t on holiday break as well. Or what if they close soon. They shouldn’t be, it’s a hospital after all, they’re always working. So there was still hope that you weren’t completely wasting your time.

So there was still hope that you weren't completely wasting your time.

That hope died the moment you rounded the final bend.

Ah.

You slowed the car to a stop, staring through the windshield at the building ahead.

It was abandoned.

Not "closed for renovations" abandoned. Not "temporarily shut down" abandoned. Abandoned abandoned. 

Vines crawled up the walls. Windows were boarded over—or broken, glass glittering on the ground. The parking lot was cracked and overgrown with weeds.

You wanted to bang your head on the steering wheel. Instead, you let your forehead rest against it gently, eyes closed, breathing slowly through your nose.

Of course it's abandoned. Of COURSE it's abandoned! You drove half an hour to an abandoned mental institution because you couldn't be bothered to do five extra minutes of research.

Honestly, if you had just done a teeny tiny bit more digging—checked the news articles, read the full reviews, maybe called ahead like a normal person—this would not have been a problem.

But you hadn't.

So it was.

You sat there for a long moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, the wind rustling through the trees. 

Well. You came all this way. You might as well get something out of it. Explore a bit, maybe you’ll magically find all of Tim’s past written on a wall, who knows. You still had some time before it was fully dark.

You stepped inside.

The air was cold and stale, thick with dust and the smell of rot. Peeling wallpaper, overturned furniture, the scattered remains of what might have once been a waiting room, graffiti covered the walls. Tag after tag, layer over layer—some artistic, some crude, some just illegible scrawls. It was almost comforting. People had been here. Teens, probably. Exploring, just like you used to.

This is fine, you told yourself, stepping over a fallen ceiling tile. You've done this before.

And you had. As a teenager, you and a few friends used to sneak into abandoned buildings all the time. Factories, schools, old houses with sagging roofs and broken windows. You'd wander through the ruins, making up stories about who had lived there, what had happened, why they'd left.

It had felt like an adventure back then. Exciting. A little dangerous, but in a safe way.

The hallway opened into a larger room—what might have once been a common area, or maybe a rec room. Chairs were stacked in a corner, a shattered television hung from a wall mount. The room led to a few other smaller rooms. 

As you walked  towards them you heard something. Or more specifically, someone.

"—can't believe that bastard. I just hope Seth's doing alright. Hopefully that psycho won't be able to get to him."

You stopped breathing. You should probably leave. But the voice sounded familiar. Your feet carried you toward the sound, soft and slow, placing each step carefully to avoid the creaking floorboards.

You're walking toward the stranger in the abandoned mental institution. This is how people DIE.

But you kept going.

The voice was coming from a room at the end of the hall. One without a door—just an open archway, dark and gaping. You pressed yourself against the wall, inching closer, and peered inside.

Two men.

One had his back to the doorway. He was wearing a mustard yellow hoodie, the hood pulled up, and a black ski mask you couldn’t see fully since his back was turned to you. His shoulders were tense, his posture coiled.

The other man stood facing him, a bit shorter but on the bulkier side, half-turned, wore a beige jacket and a white mask. Plain, except for facial features painted in black. Eyes, lips and eyebrows.

Your blood went cold.

the yellow hoodie said, his voice muffled by the mask but still sharp, frustrated. "We need to actually do something. Lying low doesn't help if he finds us first."

The white mask nodded slowly, but didn't speak.

"We need to find him before—"

The white mask turned and looked right at you.

You were frozen, caught like a deer in headlights, staring into the hollow black eyes of that painted face.

He was on you before you could run, before you could scream, before you could do anything except stumble backward. His hands grabbed your shoulders, shoving you hard—your back hit the floor, the wind knocked out of you, and then he was on top of you, fists swinging.

Fight back. You need to fight back.

Except you weren't a fighter. You'd never been in a real fight in your life. But panic is a powerful thing, it takes over, makes your body move before your brain can catch up.

Your hands flew up, trying to block. Your legs kicked, trying to push him off. You managed to catch his arm, shove it aside, and for a split second, you had enough space to try to roll away.

But he was stronger. He grabbed your jacket, yanked you back down, and his fist connected with your jaw.

Your ears rang.

Get off get off get off—

You couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except struggle, clawing at his arms, his chest, anything you could reach.

Your fingers scrambled and found the edge of his mask.

You pulled and the white mask came off in your hands.

And you were staring up at Tim.

Tim's face, twisted with rage, eyes wild and unfocused like he wasn't seeing you, like he was seeing something else entirely. His fist was raised for another blow, frozen mid-swing, his chest heaving.

"Tim—" you sputtered

His expression shifted. How you knew this you didn’t know, it was like his body language changed.

Then the other guy moved.

Tim scrambled off you after snatching the mask back, backing away, but you couldn't look at him. Couldn't look away from the man in the yellow hoodie, your heart was thumping so loud you were sure he could hear it as well as you stared up at him with fear.

He'd been standing there. Watching. Doing nothing while his friend—his partner, whatever he was—beat you into the floor. But now he walked forward, slow and deliberate.

He stopped right in front of you. Looked down. He stood over your prone body and you felt impossibly small, vulnerable.

This was honestly a miracle.

You'd spent the three days after your last session convinced you were going to receive a cancellation email. Or worse…a formal complaint. You'd  already rehearsed your words of defense in the shower like a crazy person. You just wanted to help this poor guy! And getting his information for medical purposes is totally different from stalking! You meant no harm!

But nothing came. And he'd shown up. You watched Tim settle into the armchair, still very tense, and silently thanked every deity you could think of that he'd come back. 

It was strange, really. Why did he come back to you every time? And although you’d like to convince yourself that it was because of your impeccable skill as a therapist and because he likes talking to you, you knew it was most likely because it was too much work to find a new therapist. Well…a win is still a win. And this time you'd learned your lesson. Or at least, you were pretending to.

After all he's your wallet, you reminded yourself firmly as you offered him tea for the third time. Your beautiful, bill-paying, rent-covering wallet who keeps coming back despite every reason not to. Do not scare him off again.

"No thanks," Tim said, exactly like he'd said the first two times.

Fine. No tea. No confrontation. No digging through his traumatic childhood. So be it.

Today was going to be simple. You’d just play it safe.

"How's the sleep been?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

"Same. Bad.Nothing unusual."

"Still doing the night walks?"

"Sometimes."

"And the breathing exercises?"

A long pause. "...Sometimes."

You chose to believe him. It was easier that way.

You made a few notes— “minimal improvement, continues to be weary” —and tried to remember what normal therapists talked about when they weren't accidentally implying their patients were hiding secret trauma. 

The silence stretched. Tim stared at a point just over your shoulder. You stared at your notepad, which was frustratingly empty of anything useful.

Come on. Think. What would a real therapist do?

The podcast you'd listened to on your way to work had mentioned something about hobbies. People relax when they talk about things they enjoy. Shared interests create safety. Safety creates vulnerability. Vulnerability creates healing.

Or something like that. 

Still, it was worth a shot. And as far as your socialization skills went, you were pretty sure that hobbies were a good subject for small talk.

“Well,” you started, not exactly coming off as confident, “Tell me, what do you usually do in your free time to relax? Any hobbies?”

Tim simply blinked at you, almost as if the question was unexpected.

“Well… uh.” he trailed off.

Goodness, did this man really have nothing going on in his life?

He sat for a few seconds in thought. And it wasn’t like he was trying to hide something, he was genuinely trying to think.

"I don't really have any," he said finally, and there was something almost embarrassing about the way he said it, if it weren’t for his nonchalant ‘I couldn’t care less’ expression .

"I mean, I go fishing with Brian sometimes,”

Fishing. You honestly could’ve guessed. It was the most average middle aged white man activity. 

“But other than that..." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck in that awkward way of his. Now he did look somewhat embarrassed "I mean, I kinda did some acting back in uni. For a bit."

You blinked. Of all the things you'd expected Tim to say—woodworking, hiking, maybe some brooding hobby like photography—acting was certainly not on the list.

This guy was a theatre kid?

"Wait, really?" The surprise slipped out before you could catch it. "You?"

Tim's eyebrow twitched upward. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing!" You held up your hands, grinning despite yourself. "I just... you don't really seem like the type. No offense."

He huffed out a small chuckle "None taken. I wasn't." He shifted in the armchair, "It wasn't really in my plan. Brian dragged me along to an audition for some movie his friend was making. We both ended up getting roles."

You smiled, you were glad Tim had at least one seemingly good friend. Brian had come up in conversations before but Tim wouldn’t  really say much about him. All that you knew is that they were friends for quite a long time and that Brian was the only one able to get Tim out of his comfort zone.

"That's actually kind of sweet. Him dragging you along, I mean."

"Brian's like that." There was something softer in Tim's voice now, "He's... persistent. In a good way. Usually. And I never really expected to actually get the role."

"So what movie was it?"

"Honestly I barely remember. Some indie thing. The guy was a film major, it was his year project i’m pretty sure. There weren't many of us, just Alex, a small cast, one camera operator, and the director's assistant. We worked on it for a few months but he ended up giving up on it."

"That sucks." And you meant it, strangely. There was something sad about the idea of a movie that never got made, a story abandoned halfway through. "Do you still keep in touch with any of them?"

"Uh." Tim's gaze dropped to his hands. "Just Brian."  He looked uncomfortable again.

You tilted your head. "Oh. Why not? Not even the director? What did you say his name was again? Alex..?"

His shoulders tensed up and you noticed he started fidgeting again, " Alex Kralie. But no. They... uh, they just weren't the right lot, I guess." His hand came up to rub his neck again, faster this time. "Not really important."

Liar.

The word flashed through your mind before you could stop it.You'd seen that exact avoidance before. The casual dismissal. The ‘it's not important’ when it clearly was. The way his fingers curled into his palms like he was physically holding something back.

But you also knew you couldn't push. Not again. You'd learned your lesson last time. Well, sort of. 

But on the bright side…Ladies and gentleman, you have a name! ‘Alex Kralie’ was now written down and circled in your notebook. If you could give yourself a pat on the back that very moment you would. You were honestly surprised that you managed to pry that piece of information out of Tim, he didn’t seem to notice he said it too. You didn’t think your masterplan of asking multiple questions at once would actually work.

You bit down on the follow-up questions and forced yourself to nod instead. 

"That's fair," you said, keeping your voice easy. "Sometimes people are just... not the right fit for us. That’s normal"

You said whatever came to your mind first.

Tim smiled awkwardly, seemingly grateful that you let it go.

"Yeah," he said quietly. 

"So," you said, reaching for safer ground, "fishing. Do you actually catch anything, or is it more of an opportunity to chat? Honestly it seems pretty boring to me."

"It's exactly as boring as it seems" you could see Tim visibly relax more.

"Sitting in silence for hours, waiting for something that might not happen?"

"Sounds like therapy, actually."

You couldn’t help but snort. Pretty accurate.

It was late in the evening as you lay on your stomach on your couch, almost giggling and kicking your feet. Your laptop was already open, your fingers already typing before you'd fully settled against the cushions. The screen glowed in the dim light, and you couldn't help the grin spreading across your face.

You started with the university. Tim had casually mentioned the name of the school once. You'd made a mental note at the time, not sure why, just filing it away like the useless trivia hoarder you apparently were.

Well, look at you now. Hoarding had paid off.

The fact that the film project was a senior year thing, which meant it would have been archived somewhere. University film departments loved archiving student work. It was practically their whole thing.

Tuscaloosa University. Film and Animation Department. Senior Showcase Archives, 2006.

Great detective work, you congratulated yourself, cracking your knuckles dramatically before placing your fingers on the keyboard. Sherlock who?

Your heart did a little jump.

A trailer.

You watched through.

It was definitely…something. This Alex guy was certainly not the best writer, the cheesy dialogues made you physically cringe. But then again, this was a coming-of-age romance drama made by an inexperienced film student with even more inexperienced, by the looks of it, actors. It still made you chuckle a few times, it felt like just a group of friends having fun while filming a short movie. 

You paused at Tim. He looked younger, cleaner-shaven, with less exhaustion carved into his face. He was saying something you didn't catch, too focused on just seeing him like this. When things were apparently normal enough that he could joke around and act in a friend's movie and have a whole group of people around him. He looked a lot happier too.

You felt yourself pout slightly, you felt bad for him. He was just a guy, he deserved a nice life with friends surrounding him. Right, you were doing this for him after all.

The credits rolled at the end, and there they were—the names you'd been looking for. 

Main cast: Tim Wright, Brian Thomas, Sarah Reid. And some other names playing the background characters.

You grabbed your notebook, scribbling down each name. Six actors' names, and Kralie himself.

Now, email addresses. That's what you needed. You could reach out, ask a few casual questions, get a better picture of who Tim used to be. Maybe one of them would know why he'd clammed up about the past. Maybe one of them would have insights that his medical records didn't. You almost felt giddy at the thought. What a great day!

An hour later, you were no longer feeling quite so triumphant.

Because you'd found them. All of them. And the more you searched, the more your stomach twisted into knots.

Missing person. Missing person. Missing person.

Three of them. Three separate profiles, three separate police reports, three separate families posting desperate updates on social media that hadn't been touched in the last three years.

You told yourself it was a coincidence. People went missing all the time. It was tragic, but it wasn't connected. It couldn't be.

Sarah Reid, Tim and Brian’s co-star. Missing. Also three years ago.

You pulled up each article, each police report, each desperate Facebook post from families who still shared photos on birthdays and anniversaries. 

Four people. Four people out of seven who had worked on the same student film, who had disappeared over the span of three years, and no one had connected them. No one had noticed. And this was just the cast. You had no knowledge about the operator or the assistant guy.

What the actual hell…

You now sat back against the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, mind racing. Brian was still around—Tim mentioned him all the time. And Alex Kralie, the director... you searched his name next, half-expecting another obituary.

But no. Alex Kralie was alive. Or at least, not officially dead or missing. His social media had gone dark a few years back, but there were no reports, no articles, no frantic family members begging for information.

What happened to these people?

Your mind, always too quick, always too eager to connect dots that might not actually connect, jumped to the obvious conclusion.

Tim. His nervousness when you'd asked about the film. The way he'd shut down, changed the subject, dismissed it all as "not important." The insomnia. The memory gaps. 

Could it be...?

No. No, that's insane. You're being insane.

But the thought was already there. Tim, surrounded by people who were now dead or missing. Tim, who refused to talk about any of them. Tim, who had gaps in his memory that conveniently erased... what? What was he hiding?

Guilt keeps people awake at night.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, breathing slowly.

You're jumping to conclusions. You don't have all the information. You're literally making up a murder mystery in your head based on a few Google searches and a guy who seemed mildly uncomfortable when you asked about his uni friends.

You needed more information.

You found Brian's social media next—public, thankfully, though not very active. A few photos of fishing trips, a job listing at some electronics store, nothing too personal. Email address listed.

Alex was harder. No public social media, no professional website, nothing. But after some digging—and maybe a tiny bit of database snooping that you definitely shouldn't have been doing on your personal laptop—you found an old forum account with a contact email.

Perfect.

You stared at the blank email draft for a long time, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What were you even supposed to say? Hey, I'm Tim's therapist and I think he might have murdered all of you, can you confirm?

No. No, that wouldn't work.

You started typing.

Subject: Looking for a little help! :)

“Hey! I'm Tim Right's friend.”— how do you spell his last name again? Right? Wright? Write? Ugh, his files are too far away. Well, ‘Right’ seems right. Oh, haha, that’s pretty funny. Anyway, email, yes.—”We've been hanging out lately and I wanted to do something nice for him. Since his birthday is coming up soon,”—you had no idea when his birthday was. But ‘soon’ could be anytime, really.—” I was hoping to get him a really thoughtful gift. The problem is, I don't actually know him that well yet, and I want to get him something meaningful.

Would you maybe be willing to meet up with me sometime? Just grab coffee somewhere in town and tell me a little about him? Tell me a bit more about his likes and dislikes, what he was like before, y'know, the basics. I promise I'm not a creep, just someone who wants to do something nice for a friend. If not we could talk about him via email too! Whichever you’d feel more comfortable with.

And please don't mention anything to Tim! I want it to be a surprise :)

Thanks so much!”

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it. You sent one to Brian and then copied and pasted it for Alex as well.

Then you sat back, staring at the screen, heart still thumping.

This is insane. You are insane. You are literally contacting strangers to ask about a patient's past because you found some missing person reports and decided to become a detective.

But at the same time you couldn’t really stop yourself.

And if Tim was somehow involved in any of it...

Well. You'd cross that bridge when you came to it.

The next day came. No replies.

You checked your email a large amount of  times between sessions. Nothing from Brian. Nothing from Alex. And you knew you had no actual reason to be upset, but…well, you were upset. 

By the time you got home, you were chewing on your thumbnail hard enough to hurt.

Maybe they didn't see it. Maybe it went to spam. Maybe they're just busy.

You were expecting a response from Brian more than from Alex, simply because Alex was so inactive. For all you knew thai email could be abandoned, or hell, he could be dead as well.

You pulled up Brian's profile again, stared at his face for a long moment. He looked normal. Friendly, even. And hella handsome too. Messy dirty blond hair, charming grin, dimples. The kind of guy who'd have a lot of friends and probably make terrible puns.

Surely he'd respond. Surely he'd want to help.

You typed out another email, faster this time, less polished.

To: Brian Thomas

Subject: Hey again

“Hi, sorry to bother you again. I know this is random, but it's actually kind of urgent? I really need to get in touch with someone who knows Tim well, and you seem like his closest friend. Please just let me know if you're open to talking. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. :(

Thanks.”

Send.

You stared at the screen for another minute, willing a response to appear. Nothing.

Fine. Whatever. Maybe they'll reply tomorrow.

Neither of them replied tomorrow, actually. 

You honestly felt a bit pathetic. Like you were texting your nonchalant boyfriend who doesn’t actually like you and being left on delivered. Truly a special type of feeling humiliated. 

The workday went on rather slowly, nothing too interesting. You only had two clients that day which meant most of your time was spent on paperwork. 

But at last it was time to go home.

The evening air was crisp You were scrolling through your phone as you walked (checking your email for the hundredth time), when you rounded the corner toward the parkin—

There was a guy leaning against the wall.

Right between your office exit and the main street, in a dark alleyway, like he'd planted himself there deliberately. His hood was up, a mustardy yellow, faded, and his face was mostly hidden in shadow. All you could make out was the lower half: a small stubble, and the glowing tip of a cigarette.

He smelled like smoke before you even got close.

You slowed your pace, instincts prickling. The street was mostly empty at this hour. 

The guy caught you staring. His head tilted slightly, and one hand lifted from his pocket, he was curling his finger toward him. ‘Come here.’

You hesitated. You were already standing relatively close, just a few feet away maybe. Every rational part of your brain screamed keep walking, don't make eye contact, this is how horror movies start. But your feet moved anyway, carrying you a few cautious steps closer. Not too close. Just close enough to hear.

"Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, kay?" the guy said, and his voice was a bit husky and you could hear a faint southern accent.. "Mind your own business, Doc."

You blinked. "I... what?"

He didn't elaborate. Just took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted between you, and pushed off from the wall. You could see him almost grinning in a condescending way, dimples showing. Then he walked away down the alley.

What the hell was that about?

The cigarette butt lay smoldering on the pavement where he'd dropped it.

‘Don't put your nose where it doesn't belong.’

He couldn't have been talking about Tim. That was ridiculous. Nobody knew you'd been looking into Tim's past. Nobody knew about the emails, the research, the late-night digging.

Right?

Right.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to keep walking. Some homeless guy, probably. Maybe high on something. The city was full of weirdos.

He should get a job instead of lurking in alleys, you thought, gripping your bag tighter and getting in your car. Freaking people out for no reason.

Maybe you were sticking your nose somewhere it didn't belong.

8:05 am.

Damn it.

You sighed as you checked your phone, which was probably not the smartest thing to do while running and dodging old people on a crowded sidewalk. Inevitably you bumped into a few people, one of them being a big buff dude whose withering stare followed you long enough that your speedwalk kicked into an outright jog.

Cw: gn!reader, comedy/crackfic(?), slowburn, throuple (sorta? they don't exactly figure out their relationship), canon typical violence, mild stalking, mental illnesses, unreliable narrator, illegal practices, morally grey!reader

Wc: 3.5k

 The morning wind tousled your hair and sent a shiver down your spine, making you wrap your blazer tighter around you, yet still careful not to drop your bag filled with files.

 ‘Please be stuck in traffic. Please be running late too.’ you silently prayed, you really didn’t want to leave a bad impression, this morning’s first client was a relatively new one, having had only four sessions with him. Four. You were still in the fragile, getting-to-know-you phase. You really couldn’t risk seeming unprofessional and having yet another client leave you. You were already walking on thin ice with your job after five clients left in the same months. Sure, it was…partly your fault, but still! Like for example when you were sure your appointment with a client was at 7pm, not 7am! Who the hell makes an appointment to a therapist that early in the morning? Or when you had very confidently diagnosed a client with severe depression after accidentally switching up their files with another client’s.

But the rest? The rest were flukes. Bad luck. You were perfectly good at your job. Perfectly.

Your heel caught on a crack in the pavement and you stumbled, heart lurching as your bag swung dangerously wide. The office was still three blocks away. And you clung onto the hope that maybe your client overslept.

But of course, he was already there, at 8:16am, in your office, in his seat waiting for you as you caught your breath while leaning on the doorway; a man in his late-twenties dressed in a simple red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark wash jeans. Dark brown hair framed his face, softening into subtle sideburns, eyebrows so thick and perfect you found yourself a bit envious, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw. 

His warm yet obviously tired brown eyes followed you as you stumbled to your desk, 

"So sorry, Tim," you managed between breaths, collapsing into your chair. "The subway just wouldn't—"

“It’s fine, i get that” Tim smiled awkwardly.

Your gaze drifted to the deck of cards on your side table. ‘Metaphorical’ cards. You'd seen them on insta once, they were the kind with dreamy, surreal images. You hadn't exactly used them before. But how hard could it be?

"So," you said, reaching for the deck with what you hoped was casual confidence, "I thought today we might try something different. A technique to... bypass the internal censor, let’s say. Access what's underneath the surface-level stuff." You shuffled the cards with a smile.

Tim raised an eyebrow, eyeing the cards in your hand, “You’re sure this is somehow gonna help..?”

“Of course! Just pick whichever one speaks to you the most, Tim” You fanned them out on the table between you, the images catching the morning light—moons and forests and shadowy doors.

“Mkay,” the man said with the resignation of someone who'd long stopped being surprised by the strange requests of authority figures, he reached out and selected a card.

A night landscape. An empty bench beneath a single lamppost, lighting up the small area, everything else swallowed by darkness.

Okay..what the hell do you say about this? You frankly didn’t know what the card meant, but you had to say something wise. Something that would make him feel seen and understood.

You leaned forward, brain scrambling for something insightful. Something therapist-y. "Interesting. A lantern that shines, but..." You tilted your head, letting your voice go soft. "...is needed by no one."

Tim's lips thinned into an awkward line. "It's a picture of a bench."

"It's never just a picture." You smiled and shook your head lightly. "Loneliness. Uselessness. The feeling of being present but unseen. Does that resonate?"

You didn’t let him answer and nodded. "And why do you think your eye was drawn to this image, specifically, out of all the others?"

"Because it was on top."

*Damn it!* Could he not cooperate? You’re trying to do your job here. 

You pressed on, undeterred. "Let's try another. This time choose one that represents something you're hiding."

Tim's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not hiding anything."

"We're all hiding something." You gestured at the cards. "Go on. Don't think. Just pick."

He hesitated, fingers hovering, then grabbed one at random and flipped it over.

A figure stood on the edge of a cliff, back to the viewer, staring out at a churning sea. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon. The waves below crashed against jagged rocks.

Ah, you could work with this.

"The edge. The storm. The isolation." You kept your voice measured, gentle. "Tim, when you look at this—do you see a way forward? Or do you see... a way down?"

He blinked at you. "I—What?" Tim looked at you offended? Annoyed? Amused? You weren’t really sure. But his stare was making you nervous. Were you on the wrong path? Or maybe he was just deflecting, you should dig deeper.

"The pull of the void. The desire to step into the storm rather than face what's behind you." You leaned forward, earnest now. "Have you been having thoughts of—"

"Oh my god." Tim sat up fully for the first time all session, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his exhausted face. "You're trying to diagnose me with suicidal ideation because I picked a random card from a deck you definitely bought on Etsy."

"I didn't—it's a validated therapeutic—" Your eyes escaped his gaze,

"This feels less like therapy," Tim continued, gesturing vaguely at the cards, the diplomas, you, "and more like being forced to talk to a fortune teller."

"A Fortune teller?" You couldn’t help but sound offended. You quickly glanced at the diploma on your office wall before looking back at him and shifting slightly in your seat.

"You know. Smoke cleansing. Spirit animals. Interpreting the patterns in my coffee grounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if you started reading my palm,"

After a bit of silence while you were trying to think of what the hell to say to fix this situation you finally opened your mouth,

"Okay," you said slowly. "Okay. Maybe... maybe that’s enough cards for today."

"Yeah, I think so too."

"And maybe we just..." You set the deck aside, "...talk. About your sleep thing.” You saw Tim’s shoulders relax a bit as he leaned back in his chair and you got ready to listen to a podcast about things Tim does instead of sleeping. 

“Yes, yes, I understand. Say, have you ever tried chamomile tea?"

You sighed for the tenth time that day as you watched the door close behind Tim. You’d managed to smooth everything out after the small ‘misunderstanding’, and you were relatively sure he wasn’t going to dump you. Probably.

You hadn't been working here that long, and honestly, sometimes it crossed your mind that what you were doing might not be entirely right or legal… but what choice did you have? Was what you were doing really so bad? You just talked to people, helped them.. Most of the clients who came to you were lonely, all they needed was someone who could listen. And maybe since you genuinely wanted to understand the people who came to you, asked for your help, you believed you weren't that bad of a person. You justified yourself by saying you were making an effort, buying reference books, those stupid cards you saw on instagram reels, and watching educational videos while eating breakfast. Surely that helped you be excellent at your job, right?

You glanced at the wall behind your desk where your newly framed certifications now hung. You'd maybe... slightly... embellished them. But people lied on resumes all the time! And besides it looked legitimate, and really, what was a piece of paper compared to actual clinical instinct? Qualified therapist or not, you wanted to get into Tim’s head.

You'd always been stubborn, even when things weren't going your way, like right now. You felt that Tim was hiding something from you. From you — his therapist, you decided that you needed to understand him not just as a patient, but at least as a person. However, that seemed like a problem, because Tim Wright, as you noticed with your therapist superpowers, was always closed off and seemed on guard *even* in your soft comfy armchair with fluffy cushions!

You could also note that, reading Tim's medical history before each session, some fields were missing, specifically he had some year gaps, and some pages were even torn out. During your first session, you asked him what was up with that, why it was so tattered. But Tim just rubbed the back of his neck and, as if playing dumb spread his hands, saying he didn't remember and backing it up by saying he didn't remember a lot of things (which was another strange symptom he didn’t want to elaborate on).

All of this fueled your interest. Because you wanted to help your poor patient, of course! Besides, you're his therapist, it’s your business to know this stuff. And so you started digging into Tim's medical history. After a bit of research you found out about Tim's previous hospital.  You were lucky that Tim had previously been admitted to the hospital where you worked as a janitor 5 years ago, and you knew how to access and hack that old hospital website. Let’s just say this wasn’t exactly your first time doing something illegal like this.

Sure enough, you found a copy of his history, which for some reason was still in the database. Looking it over, you thought it was the same as what you had on hand. But looking closer, you realized: Tim was clearly a liar. There were 4 pages of diagnoses you had never seen. Why the hell would he hide this from a therapist?? Sure, maybe you’re not the best one out there, but still, why hide this? 

Your eyes started darting across the lines, and your lips silently read, in a whisper, as if you were reading something secret, which in some way it was.

The document stated that Tim had been under observation at a mental institution since he was a small child, and it was a severe case. The boy was taken from his parents to the institution because he heard and saw things that weren’t there, couldn't sleep, and trembled all the time, stating that he saw a tall man watching him.After that, there was nothing written in the record, but you assumed he was discharged and that whatever it was that he had, it was well cured now. Well, you hoped. 

You looked through all of the different diagnoses, your gaze fell on a specific one: dissociative Identity disorder. Huh. 

All of this made you slightly tense. You didn't often deal with this. Actually, never in your life had you gotten a patient who was actually mentally ill and not just sad and lonely. Tim, however, seemed to be both. And, damn it, again, why didn't Tim say anything about this? Was he ashamed? Scared? Of what? Too many questions flooded your mind. But for some reason, you perked up after this mini two-hour investigation. And a small, determined smile appeared on your face. You now had access to all of his medical history, which meant you knew (sorta) what was wrong with him. So if you diagnosed him with the mental illnesses you now knew he had, you’d be right. It would be your very first correct diagnosis. Maybe your coworkers would finally see your genius and stop joking at you and hinting you weren’t a real therapist, which was right, but still! This was your chance to prove yourself! 

Next week came around and you couldn’t help but feel giddy.

You watched as your dear patient took a seat in the armchair, your smile gleaming.

“Ah, Tim! Timmy Timtim! Good to see you! Nice day isn’t it? How was your week?” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your desk, your voice cheerful.

Tim looked mildly uncomfortable, he raised an eyebrow, silently judging you, but still replied with a small awkward smile. 

“I mean, fine I guess. You look pleased. Good weekend?”

You clasped your hands together, maybe a little too eagerly, and forced yourself to lean back.

Casual. Professional.

"The best," you said brightly. "Lots of... reading. But enough about me,"

Tim's eyebrow stayed where it was. "Right."

"So!" You grabbed your notepad, pen held with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Sleep any better this week? Tried the breathing exercises I suggested?"

He settled into the armchair, his face taking a neutral expression as he shrugged,

"Breathing exercises are useless," he said, with no real heat. "They just make me think about how I'm not sleeping."

"Well, did you try them?"

"...No."

You made a note. *Non-compliant with breathing exercises. Possible resistance to relaxation techniques.* That was the kind of thing a real therapist wrote, right? It sounded official.

"Okay then." You tapped your pen against the pad. "No screen time 30 minutes before bed at least?"

“Oh please, I barely look at my phone and my Tv’s broken.”

You hummed in approval, but there was no weight behind it. This was the easy part—the dance of asking questions you both knew he wouldn't fully answer, of pretending you were making progress when really you were just... sitting together. In reality you could not care less about your patient’s sleep. Okay, that was a bit harsh, but it was hard to pay any interest to something so mundane. Most of your patients at least had some drama tied to their trauma: a cheating boyfriend, a fake friend, an immature mother— the usual, but it was interesting to listen to, it’s like your job consisted of watching a reality tv drama show and getting paid for it! This guy however… Well, to put it simply, all Tim was was a lonely, probably kinda broke man who couldn’t sleep properly. Boring! Now you knew there was much more to him than what meets the eye (only after you broke into a database for his info), it was the interesting parts that he kept from you. Sure, you felt guilty for having a mindset like that, it was..not very professional to say the least. You were supposed to help these people, not be entertained by them! But as long as they didn’t know, you figured there was no harm being done.

What you actually wanted to ask sat heavy on your tongue. *Why did you lie about your medical history? What happened when you were a kid? What the hell is actually wrong with you?*

But, sadly, you couldn't. You couldn't ask any of that, because you weren't supposed to know. You'd obtained that information through means that were, to put it delicately, not even adjacent to legal. If he found out, you'd be fired. Possibly arrested. And also most likely never allowed within fifty feet of him again.

So instead, you smiled and nodded and made more notes about breathing exercise (and doodling cute little cat faces)

Dissociative Identity Disorder. You'd read everything you could find on it: articles, forums, even a few true-crime documentaries that you watched with the lights on, of course. Most of it was probably sensationalized nonsense, but you'd picked up enough terminology to sound knowledgeable. Or at least, more knowledgeable than you'd been before, which was a bar so low it was basically in hell.

You also couldn’t help but wonder about his childhood. Growing up in a mental hospital must’ve been rough itself even without counting the illnesses he’d been diagnosed with. Schizophrenia had been one of them on the list,you recalled, but right now as you looked at Tim, took in his behaviour and mannerisms, while you were no professional, you didn’t see him as a schizo. He was just a guy. A tired guy.

Whatever it was, it was well cured now, you'd assumed. But as you watched Tim pick at a loose thread on his sleeve, shoulders hunched, you wondered if cured was the right word. Or if that was even something that happened with this kind of thing.

"Can I ask you something?" The words came out before you could stop them.

Tim looked up, wary. "Aren't you supposed to?"

You set your pen down, doing your best to look patient and non-threatening. "You mentioned before that you don't remember a lot of your childhood. Have you ever... wanted to?"

"Not really." His expression was grim, but he still looked like he didn’t really care. "If my brain decided to erase that part, it probably had a good reason."

You hesitated. The psychology 101 textbook answer floated through your mind: *repression, avoidance, unprocessed trauma, a therapeutic opportunity to explore underlying issues*. But those were someone else's words. Someone who'd actually gone to school for this.

"I'm just curious," you said instead, with a shrug that you hoped came across as casual and not desperately hungry for information. "You're a mystery, Tim. Mysteries make me curious."

He let out a snort, dry and surprised.

"That's kinda a weird thing for a therapist to say," 

"Is it?" You tilted your head, keeping your smile in place. "I think all my patients are interesting. It's why I got into this field."

It was a lie, but it sounded nice. 

Tim didn't look convinced. But he also didn't look like he was about to walk out, which you were choosing to count as a win.

“Well, think about it.. Have you ever felt like there are *different* people living inside you?”

“Uh..?”

You pushed on, 

"Imagine this: there’s “Nocturnal Tim" — the one who doesn't sleep,who lives through the years you can’t remember. And then here's "Daytime Tim" — the one who goes to work and talks to me. That could explain the insomnia too. Insomnia often arises from internal conflict. One part of the personality wants to sleep, while another part stays awake, guards, controls.”

You actually had no idea if this was true. Did insomnia and DID have any correlation? You didn’t know. Did it sound legit? Sure, good enough,

Tim stared at you, his eyebrows furrowed and a grimace on his face. "There's nothing going on. I just don't sleep."

 “Okay but are you su—”

"I told you," he said, and his voice firm, "I don't remember. And I'm not interested in digging around for things that probably aren't there."

"I want to help you," you said finally, frowning, "But I can't help you if I don't understand what's actually going on."

“Well right now it doesn’t feel like you’re trying to help me. It feels like your trying to solve me like I'm some sort of puzzle. Like you just want to diagnose me with some nonsense and hop onto your next patient. My symptoms are insomnia and fatigue. Everything you've extrapolated beyond that is your own fantasy. ”

You sat up straight. "I'm your therapist. It’s my job to diagnose you. My job is to understand you. But I can’t do so accurately if you’re not cooperating."

"I think we're done for today." Tim stood up..

You rose too, hands raised slightly, palms out.

 "Okay. Okay, I'm sorry. I pushed. That was—I shouldn't have—"

He paused at the door, hand on the knob, not looking at you. "You're right. There are things I don't remember. Things I maybe don't *want* to remember. " He stopped, jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. "But at the end of the day I'm just trying to get through the night without losing my mind. And i’d appreciate it if you'd stick to helping with that. I come here to talk about sleep. About stress. About what's bothering me. Not for you to go hunting through what I'm hiding in the trash bin."

Then he opened the door, and you watched him walk out into the hallway with that same exhausted stride and you felt the guilt  settle in your chest.

You sank back into your chair, staring at the now closed door, your notepad full of half-finished thoughts and observations you couldn't use.

*Dissociative Identity Disorder*, you thought again. *Childhood trauma. Visual hallucinations..*

And somewhere underneath all of it, was a person who just wanted to sleep.

Your eyes drifted to the wall of certificates, the one that still looked a little too gold. It felt like a costume that didn't quite fit.To be frank, it didn’t fit at all.

But at this point you were almost intruiged.

You just had to figure out how to help him without letting him know how much you already knew.