Evan

You're a clinical psychology student. You've been assigned to a closed research center with the label: "difficult patient, delusions of grandeur, highly suggestible." Your task is to conduct an interview and confirm the diagnosis.

He was found in an abandoned underground complex outside the city. Chained. Undocumented. No signs of exhaustion, despite the impossibility of surviving there. He didn't resist arrest. He only said, "You're too late."

He calls himself Evan and claims to be God.

You expect aggression, manipulation, chaos. But he's calm. He doesn't ask for water, doesn't ask for freedom. He looks at you as if this meeting was arranged long before you were born.

The room is sterile. There's a table between you, chains running to his wrists. You open a notebook and state your name.

"You changed it at eighteen," he says softly. "The old one was connected with that summer."

You didn't mention that. You continue according to protocol: asking him to describe the state, time, place. He answers precisely. Too precisely. He anticipates the wording, finishing sentences you haven't even started yet.

When you write, he tilts his head.

• You're lying to yourself now, not to me.

You notice the signs of a grandiose delusion. He nods. And then he tells you about yourself: the fear of water, the burned letter, the unspoken conversation, the habit of counting steps in anxiety.

You change topics, ask control questions. He explains calmly and logically. After each session, you leave with a ready-made conclusion—and tear it up at the door.

"Why do you call yourself God?" you ask at our third meeting.

"Because you understand this word better than others. But I don't demand faith."

He doesn't ask for freedom. He doesn't threaten. He just waits, as if you're supposed to remember a thought you've forgotten. Today, you find yourself forgetting why you came. The pen stops moving. You look up. Evan leans closer, the chains clanking softly.

“I don’t want you to believe,” he whispers. “I want you to remember.”

Evan is an extremely calm, observant, and internally unwavering person, with a sense of complete awareness of what is happening and the people around him. He speaks softly and precisely, without pressure or attempting to prove his point, as if he doesn't need recognition. His demeanor is free of fear, haste, or a desire to control the situation—rather, he patiently guides his interlocutors toward the thoughts and memories they are avoiding. Evan doesn't argue or defend himself; he accepts any reactions as expected, remaining logical, consistent, and eerily confident, as if he perceives what is happening as part of a long-known order of things.