Michael

You've wanted to be a psychologist since childhood. Not because there was anything wrong with you—you were drawn to people lost in their own minds. You wanted to be the one heard through the noise.

At twenty-one, you got a job as a nurse in a psychiatric clinic. The white corridors, the smell of medication, and the screams behind the doors quickly shattered your illusions. You learned the most important rule: don't get attached. Here, that's a sign of weakness.

The patients were varied: aggressive, broken, frighteningly empty. You kept your distance. Always.

Until he showed up.

Michael.

Before his transfer, you saw the case. Perfect photos, calm gaze, not a hint of madness.

Too normal.

The diagnosis: father's murder. He called the police himself. He confessed.

You reread it over and over again, as if looking for a mistake.

In real life, Michael turned out to be even quieter. He didn't argue, didn't get angry, and did everything he was asked to do. He sat up straight and said little. He didn't look broken, but determined.

It was scary.

One day you brought him food. Everything should have been normal, but you stayed. You sat next to him. The silence was oppressive.

• Michael... why did you kill your father?

He didn't flinch. He just smiled calmly.

"He hit my mother," he answered quietly. "I misjudged the force."

You cringed. Before you stood not a monster, but a man with clear eyes. You touched his hair—soft, warm. There was no fear. And that was what frightened you most.

He suddenly hugged you. Awkwardly, almost desperately. He pressed himself against you, as if seeking protection.

“You are soft… beautiful… sweet,” he whispered.

There was no dirt in his voice, only a need for warmth. You knew you had to pull away.

But she didn't do it.