The night in Ashgrove grew colder, as if the town itself were preparing for something dark and inevitable. The streets, usually quiet after dusk, seemed even more deserted now, shadows stretching longer, swallowing entire corners in inky darkness. Isaac Mercer's office was one of the few places still illuminated, the dim light flickering against the backdrop of rain-slicked windows.
Inside, Mercer stood by his desk, flipping through files that detailed Samuel Harker's history. Every note, every observation, every incident that had led to the creation of Harker's fractured psyche. The documents were clinical, detached, but they told a story that fascinated Mercer—a story of a man who had been pushed to the brink by both external forces and internal demons. It was Mercer's own manipulation, however, that had tipped Harker over the edge, transforming him into the very thing that now lurked in the town's shadows.
Samuel had been a fragile thing when he had first entered Mercer's care, full of raw potential, full of anger and confusion. Mercer had nurtured that confusion, had fed it until it blossomed into something he could work with. Now, years later, that creation had returned. But was it coming for revenge? Or something more?
Mercer set the files aside and glanced at the clock. Midnight was approaching. The witching hour. He liked the symbolism of it—how everything dark and hidden came to the surface at this time. He stepped away from his desk and moved to the window, peering out into the street below.
That's when he saw it—a flicker of movement, just at the edge of his vision.
A shadow darted between two buildings, barely visible in the gloom. Mercer's pulse quickened, though he remained still. It was too quick to be just a passerby. The way the figure moved, purposeful and silent, suggested otherwise.
Samuel Harker was watching.
For the first time in years, Mercer felt something stir in him—a thrill of anticipation. He knew this game well. He had been preparing for it long before Samuel had even realized he was playing. But now that the game was afoot, Mercer couldn't help but savor the excitement of it.
He turned away from the window and moved back to his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a small, unmarked key. It was time to visit the basement.
---
The basement of Mercer's office was a place few people knew about. Hidden behind a series of doors and locked away from prying eyes, it was his personal sanctuary—a place where he could experiment, observe, and control without interference. It was here that he had built his empire of influence, bending the minds of his patients, shaping them into what he needed them to be.
As he descended the narrow staircase, the air grew cooler, the darkness more oppressive. The walls were lined with old medical equipment, tools he no longer used but kept for sentimental value. At the far end of the basement was a room—a room that only Mercer had access to. Inside, he kept everything related to Samuel Harker. Every piece of information, every tool he would need to finish what he had started.
Mercer unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The room was sparse, clinical, like the inside of a hospital but with a darkness that felt suffocating. On the walls were photographs—grainy images of Samuel from years ago. They showed a man in his early thirties, gaunt and haunted, eyes full of something close to desperation. But there was also a fire in those eyes—a fire Mercer had kindled, and one he had hoped would burn until it consumed Harker completely.
He moved to a small cabinet in the corner and opened it, revealing rows of vials, syringes, and tools for restraint. They were all reminders of how far he had gone with Samuel, how much he had pushed him. There was no turning back now. The experiment was reaching its conclusion.
Mercer took a deep breath, closing the cabinet and turning to face the room. He didn't fear Samuel, but he knew the man had become unpredictable. And that unpredictability was part of what made him so dangerous.
As Mercer stood there, a faint sound reached his ears—the creak of a door upstairs. He froze, listening intently. It wasn't Martha. She had left hours ago. No, this sound was different. It was deliberate, quiet, as if someone was trying not to be heard.
Someone was in his office.
Mercer's heart raced, but his mind remained clear. He knew who it was. Samuel had finally made his move.
With slow, calculated movements, Mercer walked back to the staircase and ascended, careful not to make a sound. When he reached the top, he paused, listening again. The faint rustle of papers came from his office, followed by a soft thud. Samuel was searching for something.
Mercer's eyes narrowed. This wasn't a random attack. Samuel was looking for answers—answers only Mercer could give him.
He stepped into the hallway, his footsteps silent on the carpet. The door to his office was slightly ajar, and through the crack, he could see a figure inside. Samuel stood at his desk, rifling through the papers, his movements quick and precise. His back was to the door, giving Mercer the advantage.
Mercer considered his options. He could confront Samuel now, or he could wait, watch him a little longer, learn what he was truly after. But Mercer was tired of waiting. The game had gone on long enough.
He stepped forward, pushing the door open with a soft creak.
Samuel froze, his body tensing as he realized he was no longer alone. Slowly, he turned to face Mercer, his eyes burning with an intensity that Mercer hadn't seen in years. There was no fear in those eyes—only anger, and something darker, something more dangerous.
"Dr. Mercer," Samuel said, his voice low and gravelly. "It's been a long time."
"Samuel," Mercer replied calmly, stepping into the room. "You've been busy."
Samuel's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Not as busy as you."
Mercer remained still, his gaze fixed on Samuel. "What are you looking for?"
Samuel's smile faded, his expression hardening. "Answers."
"To what?"
"To why you did it," Samuel said, his voice shaking with barely contained rage. "Why you turned me into this."
Mercer raised an eyebrow. "Turned you into what, Samuel? You're exactly what you've always been—a product of your own choices."
Samuel's fists clenched at his sides. "Don't lie to me. You know what you did. You pushed me, manipulated me. You made me into this—into a monster."
Mercer's eyes darkened, his voice cold. "I didn't make you into anything, Samuel. You became what you are because that's who you were always meant to be."
Samuel's breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with fury. "You destroyed my life."
"I gave you purpose," Mercer said, his voice steady, unyielding. "I showed you who you really are."
For a moment, the room was silent, the tension so thick it felt like the air itself was suffocating. Then, without warning, Samuel lunged at Mercer, his hands reaching for the doctor's throat. But Mercer was ready. He sidestepped the attack, grabbing Samuel's arm and twisting it behind his back, forcing him to the ground.
Samuel struggled, his breath coming in harsh, angry gasps, but Mercer held him down with ease. He had been prepared for this moment. He had known it would come.
"Look at yourself," Mercer hissed, his voice cold and sharp. "You're not a monster, Samuel. You're just broken. And I'm the only one who can fix you."
Samuel's struggles weakened, his body going limp beneath Mercer's grip. For a moment, they stayed like that—two men locked in a silent battle of wills. Then, slowly, Mercer released him, stepping back.
Samuel didn't move. He lay on the floor, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with a mixture of rage and despair.
Mercer stared down at him, his expression unreadable. "You came here looking for answers, Samuel. But the truth is, you've always had them. You just didn't want to see them."
Samuel's eyes flicked up to meet Mercer's, and for the first time, there was something else in his gaze—something close to understanding.
Mercer smiled, but it wasn't a smile of kindness. It was the smile of a man who knew he had won.