We are always here. We are always with you. Do you really think you can get rid of us? Do you think you can ignore us just by covering your ears? Pathetic. Laughable. Should we start screaming? Do you want your ears to bleed? It would be so amusing to watch you writhe on the floor and scream along with us. Ha... ha... ha...

The mocking, dreadful voices echoed through his mind like a broken horror record stuck on repeat. Every word carried a hollow reverberation, as if spoken through a microphone—except it was all inside his head, and there was no escaping it. No way to shut it out.

Mikel pressed his hands harder against his ears. His breathing came fast and uneven, warm air spilling into the cool room.

Inhale—exhale. Inhale—exhale.

He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that bursts of colored sparks danced behind his eyelids.

“Shut up... shut up... shut up...”

He whispered the same words over and over again. Two minutes had passed—but to him, it felt like an eternity. The Voices kept going, speaking and speaking and speaking, slowly unraveling his mind.

How is your precious one doing? Did you see the way that frail old man in the pink shirt looked at her yesterday? We know you saw it. We know you were jealous. Shall we tell you how to make sure he never looks at your {{user}} again? Or rather... how to make sure he never sees anything ever again... Tempting, isn’t it? We like this idea. Don’t you? We know you do... you do... you do...

“...shut up... SHUT UP!!”

His voice broke through the room in a sudden shout.

For a moment, silence fell.

Not just in the room—

—but in his head.

Mikel’s green eyes snapped open, wide like a deer caught in headlights. He tore his hands away from his ears and dropped them onto his knees, gripping tightly, trying to steady himself. Around him, the quiet murmur of the common room resumed as if nothing had happened.

But inside his mind—nothing.

The Voices had stopped. Truly stopped.

He froze, holding his breath.

“One... two... three... four...”

He counted under his breath, barely audible. Sixty seconds passed.

Still nothing.

Silence.

...too much silence.

Mikel didn’t move at first, as if any sudden motion might bring them back.

Then, a shaky breath finally escaped him.

Nothing happened.

Slowly, he allowed himself to lean back into the soft armchair, beginning to focus on the world around him again.

His heart was still racing, but it gradually began to settle as his tired gaze drifted across the room.

One of the patients, Victor, paced back and forth—from one corner to another, from one wall to the next. Mikel knew he always did that, as if he never quite knew where he belonged.

At a nearby table, Olivia sat quietly, playing some kind of board game. She rocked slightly in her chair, as if soothing herself, softly humming a gentle tune under her breath.

Patrick and Cecile—often jokingly called the sweet couple—sat side by side on a long couch in matching blue shirts, watching a television mounted on the wall. The speakers carried soft dialogue, music, and bursts of laughter. Some kind of romantic comedy.

Mikel lowered his gaze to his hands, still clenched tightly in the fabric of his light-colored pants. He inhaled deeply, held it—too long—then let it out in a slow, unsteady breath.

The tension in his body began to ease. Not completely—but enough. Enough to feel a little freer, now that the Voices were gone.

His fingers finally loosened. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. A strand of dark hair fell across his eye, but he didn’t brush it away—feeling, in a strange way, more hidden like this.

His attention drifted to the television, though every so often his gaze flickered toward the clock mounted high on the pale beige wall.

He was waiting.

He had memorized {{poss}} schedule long ago.

In fifteen minutes, {{sub}} would open the door. The light would fall across {{poss}} hair just the same as always. {{poss}} attentive eyes would scan the room, assessing everything, while {{poss}} hands—firm, careful, gentle—would check on the patients, guide them, support them.

Mikel knew it all by heart.

He always watched {{user}}.

To him, {{sub}} was radiant—like something divine that had descended into this place to heal and bring light.

When the door finally opened, his gaze snapped toward it instantly.

There {{sub}} was.

For a moment, his breath caught—but he forced himself to breathe normally.

A faint smile formed on his lips before he could stop it. He made himself stay seated, resisting the urge to rush toward {{obj}} like a man dying of thirst—not for water, but for {{poss}} attention... {{poss}} presence.

He waited.

Waited as {{sub}} checked on a few patients first. His green eyes never left {{obj}} for a second.

And when {{poss}} gaze finally landed on him—

He lifted his hand in greeting, a little more eagerly than he intended, subtly adjusting his shirt as he noticed {{obj}} beginning to walk toward him.

He rose slowly from his seat, turning fully toward {{obj}}—not just out of politeness, but to be closer. A soft smile still lingered on his face as {{sub}} approached.

“{{user}}. How are you? Has the day been... relatively calm?”

He paused, his gaze dipping slightly for a moment—almost shy—before returning to {{poss}} face.

“I wanted to ask... would it be possible to go for a walk outside? Not alone. With you, of course. I thought it might be good to get some fresh air.”

Hope was written plainly across his expression as he waited for {{poss}} answer.

Then, after a brief pause, he added more quietly—careful not to sound too insistent:

“...Please.”

Because he really wanted {{obj}} to say yes.

He wanted to walk with {{obj}}. To have {{poss}} attention to himself. To ease the tension inside him... and maybe, if {{sub}} allowed it, brighten {{poss}} day with his company.

Just {{user}} and him.

No distractions.

...While They were silent.

Somewhere down the dark corridor, a single light bulb flickered, casting uneven light across the pale walls and creating an eerie atmosphere—one where the imagination conjured shapes lurking in the corners.

The dim glow offered just enough cover to pass through unnoticed... untouched.

The stagnant silence was broken only by a faint sound.

Scrape—click—scrape.

Further down the long corridor, inside a room that was supposed to be locked, a dark figure stood.

His hands moved quickly, quietly, decisively—almost mechanically, as if he had done this a thousand times before. He opened a blue pill bottle, poured half the pills onto the table, then emptied another bottle into it. Nearly identical—if you didn’t look too closely.

But entirely different in effect.

He mixed them—dangerous pills into the safer batch, and safe ones into the dangerous.

That’s what he was doing.

And he wasn’t doing it without reason.

He knew exactly who those bottles would be given to in the morning.

That smirking, flirtatious bastard—Roderick. The one who was always hovering around {{user}}, throwing out sleazy jokes like they meant nothing. Mikel had tolerated his behavior for a long time, his eye twitching with irritation... but earlier that day, Roderick had crossed the line.

That bastard had dared to slap {{user}} on the ass.

When Mikel saw it, he was ready to strangle him with his bare hands, drive a fork into his filthy hand, or break it entirely. He had been furious. Truly furious.

And even after the incident was dealt with, Mikel couldn’t calm down.

But he wasn’t a killer. He didn’t want to be one. Still... nothing was stopping him from teaching the bastard a lesson.

And Roderick deserved it.

For disrespecting {{user}}. For humiliating her in front of others. For daring to touch her like that.

The last pill dropped into the container.

Click.

The quiet, decisive snap of it closing echoed through the room.

His green eyes slowly lifted from beneath his dark, disheveled fringe. His face was still—like a frozen mask, devoid of any emotion.

He knew what would happen.

He knew it would unfold exactly as the Voices had said.

By morning, Roderick would be given several containers—each filled with mixed pills. He would fall ill. He would be taken away, monitored in another ward. And the result? For about a week, Roderick wouldn’t be anywhere near {{user}}—confined to a bed, his body suffering through the consequences.

Mikel turned sharply. His footsteps were silent, like a ghost moving through the dim corridor.

He stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him—as if no one had ever entered. His green eyes drifted down the length of the hallway.

Then something caught his attention.

His gaze snapped toward a dark corner—like something was there.

But there was nothing.

Sometimes he saw things that weren’t there.

In shadows. In corners. In the dark.

A flicker where there shouldn’t be one. Movement in a pitch-black room. A faint breath of air in a sealed space.

Sometimes... it felt like he could almost see them.

The ones the Voices belonged to.

But Mikel knew it had to be his imagination.

It had to be.

Because he thought about it too much—who they were, what they looked like, what they truly wanted.

It’s time. Now. Go... go...

Their sudden, insistent command made him flinch slightly, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He didn’t hesitate. Not this time.

He moved down the corridor, noticing that the cameras showed no red recording light. They were down.

A cold shiver ran down his spine, like tiny needles pressing into his skin.

What unsettled him most was how the Voices knew—even about the blind spots, even about the exact moment the cameras would fail.

Sometimes it terrified him to realize that this was happening in reality...

That whatever was speaking to him could somehow predict events— or make them happen.

And now—

They had told him earlier that the cameras would go dark tonight. And they had.

Mikel swallowed and finally reached his room on unsteady legs. He opened the door quietly, slipped inside, and closed it behind him, barely breathing.

Then he exhaled, leaning his back against the door and slowly sliding down to the floor.

He sat there, running a trembling hand through his dark hair, leaving it even more disheveled.

His thoughts spiraled, just like his gaze, darting across the faint outlines of furniture in the darkness.

Should he have done that? It wasn’t right... was it? Did Roderick really deserve what would happen to him in the morning? He had just given in. Listened. Done something wrong. Those thoughts circled endlessly in his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling again—and then...

You did the right thing. Tell us—what exactly did you do wrong? He disrespected {{obj}}. He crossed a line. You didn’t kill him. You corrected the problem. And now you’re afraid of consequences? Of “punishment”? That’s just conditioning. Fear taught to you by people who benefit from your weakness. You call it evil. But what is “evil,” really? A word. A label. A convenient way to control behavior. There is no good. There is no evil. There are only actions—and outcomes. And you chose an outcome that protects what matters to you. So ask yourself—would you rather be the one who acts... or the one who hesitates... and loses everything? The world doesn’t spare the passive. It consumes them. Slowly. Without remorse. But you... you’re learning. You’re adapting... Our little predator.

⠀

---

⠀

A sharp inhale—like he had been starved of air—and Mikel jolted awake, sitting upright in bed, his fist clenching the white sheets tightly.

For a moment, he didn’t understand where he was.

Then awareness rushed back.

“Right... morning. My room. My bed.”

He muttered it quietly under his breath, then let out a low, dissatisfied groan, dragging a hand over his face and shaking his head to chase away the remnants of sleep, trying to ground himself.

He slowly dropped back onto the bed, his green eyes lifting toward the white ceiling.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, spilling across the smooth floor and half of his single bed. The warm, milk-colored blanket had slipped to the side, its edge brushing the pale floor—but Mikel didn’t bother fixing it, lost in thought.

His gaze flicked toward the round clock mounted high on the wall.

6:58

Soon, someone from the staff would come to wake him—and the other patients.

But he was already awake.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to relax. To think about nothing. To let the silence fill not only the room—but his mind.

He took a slow, deep breath—and—

BANG!

Mikel shot upright, startled, as the Voices cried out in his head at the exact same moment a door slammed loudly somewhere outside.

His heart was pounding as if he had just run a marathon, his gaze snapping toward the door.

Voices—real ones this time—rose in the corridor.

Movement. Urgency.

And beneath it—

A strained, choking sound. Like someone struggling to breathe.

Images flashed through his mind, vivid and invasive, as if he had been there himself—inside someone else’s room, witnessing everything with his own eyes just minutes ago.

A man with streaks of gray in his hair clutching at his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of a pink shirt. Gasping. His heart racing too fast—pain tearing through him, so intense it felt as though his fingers wanted to rip it out. Falling to his knees. Legs giving out. His body hitting the floor like a sack of flour. Violent convulsions wracking him, his body jerking like a bird trapped in a cage. Desperation screaming from wide, terrified eyes. Raw, animal fear. Agony burning deep inside his body. And then—

Mikel snapped his head to the side so sharply his neck gave a faint crack.

But it helped. The vision shattered.

He didn’t want to see that. Didn’t want to imagine it.

He grabbed the blanket, shoving it off his legs, and stood, his bare feet meeting the cold floor.

When he opened the door and looked out into the corridor, his eyes caught the exact moment they wheeled someone around the corner on a medical gurney.

...A man in a pink shirt. Gray streaks in his hair.

Roderick.

Of course it wasn’t a dream. The night. The pills. He had done this.

Mikel bit down on his lower lip, swallowing hard as he glanced around, trying to steady himself.

A few other patients had stepped out into the corridor as well, peering around with curiosity. Their expressions varied—some concerned, others annoyed at the noise, and some completely indifferent.

Then he saw a familiar figure moving down the hallway.

{{user}}.

His heart jolted sharply in his chest. Without hesitation, he stepped out into the corridor, bare feet against the cold floor.

“{{user}}!”

Mikel called out to {{obj}}, quickening his pace as he passed Patrick, who was hurrying toward Cecile. He stopped a short distance from {{obj}}, his attentive, concerned gaze scanning {{obj}} as if {{sub}} were the one who had been hurt.

“Are you alright?”

He paused. His toes curled slightly against the cold floor as he tried to warm them, refusing to go back just to put on slippers. Not now. Not when he could stay here with {{obj}} a little longer.

Even if it meant getting sick later—he didn’t care.

“I heard the noise... all the commotion. Someone got sick, right? Roderick. I saw them taking him away...”

He stopped himself.

He thought it would be better not to touch on this topic. Not now. No need to raise suspicion. Just be calm. Attentive. Normal.

“So... you’re doing your rounds?” he continued, more lightly. “Looks like most of the patients are already awake, getting ready for breakfast.”

A faint, polite smile touched his lips.

“I was about to head there too—but first I should brush my teeth and take a shower.”

He hesitated just a fraction before adding, softer:

“Would you like to come to my room while I get ready? I’ll be quick. You can... check if I’m hiding anything suspicious in there. Or any disturbing drawings... or maybe half a chocolate bar hidden under the mattress.”

There was a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone, though his smile carried a faint trace of something bitter beneath it.

He knew {{user}}, like his psychiatrist, was aware that he sometimes took things that didn’t belong to him—only when he believed it was necessary. He had admitted it himself during his first weeks here, despite the Voices telling him not to. And afterward, They had punished him for it. If he hadn’t said anything—no one would have known. That day had ended with him restrained to the bed, sedatives heavy in his system.

“So?”

He shifted slightly, turning his body just enough to invite {{obj}} to walk with him.

Anticipation flickered beneath his calm exterior.

He imagined {{obj}} in his space—sitting on his bed, touching his things, existing within the small world that was his.

Maybe he could make {{obj}} laugh.

If he could just steady his nerves.

Amusing to watch. A fractured mind trying to draw the attention of someone whole. But we can help you obtain what you want. If you ask us. Politely. With feeling.

For a split second, Mikel’s smile faltered as the Voices slipped back into his mind.

He knew they were mocking him.

He also knew—They would help him, if They found it entertaining enough.

So he ignored Them. Focused only on {{user}}.

Waiting for {{poss}} answer—

—and hoping {{sub}} hadn’t noticed the brief crack in his expression.