Page 94 of Psycho Obsession

And then, the door opens.

A woman walks in. She’s wearing a white lab coat, her hair pulled back in a severe, professional bun. She’s carrying a tray with two cups of water and a blister pack of pills. She looks at me with a pity so sharp it feels like a knife.

“How is he, Detective?” the woman asks.

I freeze. The voice.

It’s the melodic, smooth tone from the “Cutter.” It’s the voice of the “Replacement.” It’s the voice that told us to burn the city.

I look up at her face. It’s Hallow.

But it’s not my Hallow. This woman is older. Thirty, maybe. She has the same icy blue eyes, the same delicate jawline, but she’s wearing a name tag that says Dr. H. Maddix, Chief of Psychiatry.

“He’s still deep in the delusion, Doctor,” the detective sighs, standing up. “He thinks you’re his sister. He thinks you died in the harbour tonight.”

The doctor—the woman who looks exactly like the girl I just watched jump into a fire—walks over to me. She reaches out, her hand cool and steady, and rests it on my forehead.

“It’s okay, Jex,” she whispers. Her voice is a perfect, terrifying match for the humming in my head. “The fire wasn’t real. You were just having another episode. We found you and your brother in the basement of your old house. You’d been there for days.”

“No,” I rasp, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “The boat… the harbour… we were in the water! I felt the cold!”

“You were sitting in a tub of ice, Jex,” shesays, her smile never reaching her dead, professional eyes. “You were trying to ‘extract’ something from your neck with a pair of kitchen shears. We got there just in time.”

She leans in closer, her breath smelling of peppermint and secrets. She leans so close that the detective can’t hear what she says next.

“The simulation of the ‘Revolution’ was a bit messy this time, Asset 401,” she whispers, her voice dropping into that cold, melodic predator tone. “But the data on the ‘Brotherly Sacrifice’ was exquisite.”

I stare at her, the room fracturing into a thousand jagged pieces. Behind her, in the reflection of the glass, I don’t see a doctor. I see the girl in the white lace dress, her face charred black, her eyes glowing with a feral, victorious light.

She reaches into her lab coat pocket and pulls out a small, rusted Zippo.

“Let’s see what happens,” she whispers, flicking the lighter, “when I tell Ryker that you were the one who pushed her into the fire.”

She turns toward the door to the next room, the small flame dancing in the sterile white air.