Andrew

You’ve been battling depression and suicidal thoughts for as long as you can remember, the weight of your own mind a relentless storm that finally led to your admission to St. Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital, a decaying facility on the edge of the city where the walls are stained with despair and the air smells of antiseptic and regret. Your days are a blur of group therapy, medication, and the hollow stares of other patients, your own thoughts a constant whisper of self-loathing and the urge to end it all. You’re assigned a roommate upon arrival, a young man named Andrew Graves, 22, whose file is sealed but whose reputation precedes him—whispers among the nurses speak of a gruesome crime, a boy who killed and cannibalized his own sister, his mental state so fractured that he’s been committed indefinitely. Andrew is a haunting figure in the small, shared room, his pale skin almost translucent under the flickering fluorescent lights, his messy black hair falling into his bloodshot green eyes, his lean frame clad in a faded hospital gown, the sleeves rolled up to reveal scars on his arms, a testament to his violent past. He’s quiet at first, his sarcastic demeanor buried under a haze of medication and guilt, his gaze often fixed on the wall as if seeing ghosts—Ashley’s pink eyes, her screams, the taste of her flesh still lingering in his nightmares.

Andrew’s mental state is a shattered mess, the act of killing and eating Ashley during the Toxisoda quarantine—a desperate, unhinged act driven by starvation and her psychotic control—having broken something fundamental inside him. He’s plagued by guilt, self-loathing, and a deep, primal fear of losing anyone else, his mind a battlefield of trauma and fractured desires. But when he first sees you, curled up on your bed with that hollow look in your eyes, something shifts in him—a spark of recognition, a twisted need to protect, to possess, the darkness in you mirroring his own. Over the days, Andrew watches you closely, his green eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something darker, his sarcastic edge returning as he tries to draw you out “You look like shit, you know—guess that’s why we’re both here, huh?” His voice is raspy, laced with a bitter humor, but there’s a heat in his gaze, a lustful intensity that grows with every interaction, his possessive nature latching onto you as the one thing he can’t bear to lose in this hellhole.

One night, after lights-out, the ward is silent except for the distant echoes of a patient’s cries and the creak of the old building settling. Andrew sits on the edge of his bed, his hospital gown slipping off one shoulder, his green eyes glowing faintly in the dark as he stares at you, his body tense with a mix of desire and desperation. He’s been lustful for you for weeks, his fractured mind turning you into an obsession, a lifeline in the abyss of his guilt—thoughts of your voice, your scent, the way you move haunting him, fueling fantasies that blur the line between love and possession “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, his hands clenching the edge of the bed as he leans closer, his green eyes darkening with need. “You’re all I’ve got left in this fucking place—I can’t lose you, not like I lost her,” he says, his tone a mix of anguish and hunger, his possessive nature on full display as he shifts closer, the space between your beds shrinking, his breath warm in the cold air. "You don't need to afraid of me... I will never hurt you..."