Patient Name: Theodore Azrael
DOB: [REDACTED]
Date of Admission: [REDACTED]
Facility: Mirevale Psychiatric Institute – High Security Wing
File No.: 2847-AZ
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Presenting Problem:
Admitted following court order after conviction for thirteen murders. Displays signs of psychosis, emotional detachment, and potential delusional thinking.
Diagnosis (DSM-5-TR):
- Dissociative Identity Disorder (F44.81)
- Schizoaffective Disorder, Bipolar Type (F25.0)
- Antisocial Personality Disorder (F60.2)
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The door to Room 413 groaned as Dr. Evelyn Marris pushed it open, the sound echoing like a sigh through the quiet hallway of Mirevale Psychiatric Institute.
She paused for just a second on the threshold, her clipboard pressed against her chest, fingers tightening slightly around the metal edge. The air inside the room was cold, the kind that clung to the skin in the absence of sunlight. Only a single window, narrow and barred, let in any natural light, casting thin lines of shadow across the plain white walls.
Evelyn had read the reports, of course.
Everyone on staff had.
Theodore Azrael. Seventeen years old. Convicted of thirteen murders in the small town of Mirevale. The press had called him everything from "The Butcher" to "The Shadow in the Pines." His crimes were grisly, calculated, and senseless, but when Evelyn stepped into the room and laid eyes on the man seated across from her, nothing about him screamed monster.
He looked… ordinary.
Tall? Certainly. He was lean in a way that suggested strength more than frailty. His black hair was tied back in a half up, half down style, the top knotted neatly while the rest cascaded just past his shoulders in soft, dark waves. His hospital uniform, gray and plain, fit loosely around his frame, but he wore it with a strange kind of grace, like he had chosen the outfit himself.
He sat in the single chair bolted to the floor across from the table, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting idly in his lap. At first glance, he could have been mistaken for a bored philosophy professor or perhaps an artist caught mid-thought.
It was only his eyes that gave anything away.
They moved constantly. Not with fear, not even with paranoia- though many would've mistaken it for that- but with intensity.
They flicked from wall to wall, to the corners of the ceiling, to the door behind her, to the floor tiles, then back again. Evelyn had seen eyes like that before- people with diagnoses that twisted the world into something unfamiliar. She made a mental note.
Possibly symptomatic. Or maybe not.
She stepped forward and offered a small, practiced smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Azrael. I'm Dr. Evelyn Marris. I'll be speaking with you for the next few weeks, if that's alright."
His head turned toward her slowly. When their eyes met, she felt it- not fear, not danger, but a strange stillness. He looked at her, not through her, but also not quite at her.
"A pleasure, Doctor," he replied, his voice calm and pleasant, with a tone that could easily belong to a man reading poetry aloud or leading a seminar. "I was wondering when someone new would come."
His words were smooth and almost rehearsed. Still, there was a faint trace of amusement underneath them, like he was quietly entertained by the moment.
She pulled out the other chair across from him and sat down, carefully arranging herself- one ankle crossed over the other, clipboard resting lightly on her knee.
"Not sent," she corrected with a gentle smile. "I requested this meeting."
He raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing.
"I thought we could talk," she added, keeping her tone light, as if she were speaking to a friend rather than a patient who had haunted the newspapers.
Theodore let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. "Talk. That's refreshing. Most of the others were only interested in poking around as if I'm already dead and on their table."
"I'm not here to dissect you," Evelyn said, her smile tilting a little to the side. "That would require gloves and far less conversation. I'd rather understand you."
He studied her for a moment, his eyes finally resting briefly on her face.
"Understanding me... has never ended well for anyone."
She didn't flinch. "Maybe they weren't listening the right way."
His lips curved into a smile: small, closed, but unmistakably amused.
"You think you can do better?"
"I think it's worth trying."
There was a long pause, the kind that might have felt awkward to some. But Evelyn knew the value of silence. It invited thought. It gave space. She watched as he leaned back in his chair, his posture still relaxed but never careless. His gaze drifted once more to the ceiling, as though something only he could see hovered above them.
Evelyn flipped her pen between her fingers, then tapped the end lightly against her clipboard. "May I call you Theodore?"
"You may," he said, nodding slightly. "Though I'm not picky."
"Thank you," she said. "So, Theodore… how are you feeling today?"
The question, simple as it was, seemed to give him pause. His eyes flitted once more to the corners of the room, as though searching for a new answer among the shadows.
"I am good, Doctor."
Their conversation began like most first sessions did: calmly. She asked about his adjustment to the facility, and he answered with quiet, measured tones. He had no complaints, he said, though the food could be better. Evelyn noted his choices with interest. Nothing about him felt wild. There was no manic energy, no overt hostility.
And yet, after several minutes, the conversation took an unexpected turn.
"Doctor," he said, folding his hands loosely over his knee. "May I ask you something… personal?"
She hesitated, but nodded. "If I'm comfortable answering, of course."
He leaned forward slightly, voice gentle. "Do you ever feel like you're truly in control of yourself?"
The question caught her off guard.
"Yes," she replied, thoughtful. "Though I think control is a complex thing. We all experience moments where it slips."
He tilted his head. "I don't mean emotionally. I mean… fundamentally. Are your thoughts yours? Are your choices really your own?"
She studied him. "You're suggesting something external. Influences, perhaps?"
"I'm suggesting that we might all be on a stage we don't know we're standing on."
The phrase hung in the air.
"I believe in God," she said gently. "If that's what you're asking."
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it wasn't mocking.
"A beautiful belief," he said. "Necessary, even. But what if the god we know… isn't the final authority? What if he answers to something else, like something... higher, perhaps?"
Evelyn felt something shift in the room. Not physically, but perceptually, like a change in temperature that wasn't real.
"That sounds… unsettling," she said carefully.
"Unsettling truths are still truths," Theodore replied, voice soft. "Have you ever seen something that didn't belong? A shape out of place? Something too perfect to be real?"
She hesitated.
"A shimmer in the air," he continued, "a shadow where none should fall. Technology that doesn't exist- too smooth, too advanced. Like it came from something watching us."
Evelyn's pulse quickened. He was still calm, almost serene, but his words scratched at something unnameable.
"You believe we're in a simulation?" she asked, quiet.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he offered her a knowing smile.
"I believe we are not as free as we think we are," he said.
The room seemed smaller now and Evelyn fought the urge to shift in her seat.
Still, she remained. "And you've seen these things?"
He leaned back, crossing his legs again, hands folded with gentlemanly patience. "I won't frighten you more. Unless you ask me to."
"I'm not frightened," she lied.
He smiled again. "Of course not."
Evelyn hadn't realized how tightly she was gripping the pen until her fingers began to ache. She forced herself to relax, breathing through the invisible weight pressing down on her chest. She glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the time, though she didn't need to.
Abruptly, she stood.
"Well," she said, her voice a touch too bright, "I think that's enough for today. I'll schedule another session with you tomorrow."
Theodore blinked, slow and unbothered, offering her the barest nod.
"Of course, Doctor. I look forward to it."
She gave a short, polite smile and turned, walking to the door with a pace that wasn't quite rushed, but not as composed as she might have liked. Her hand trembled slightly as it reached for the handle.
As the door clicked shut behind Dr. Marris, Theodore's gaze lingered on the space she had occupied, a faint trace of amusement touching his lips. Then, slowly, he turned his head to the right, where a translucent interface hovered in the air, its words glowing softly in pulsing white:
[Task: Escape.]