The clinic was quieter than usual that day. The morning sunlight slipped weakly through the blinds, thin and fractured, painting pale lines across the floor. I watched Leonardo take his seat across from me, every movement slow, deliberate, like a scene he'd practiced in front of a mirror a hundred times.
"Doctor," he said at last. His voice was calm, but heavy, the kind that settled in your chest and stayed there long after the sound faded.
"Hello, Leonardo," I replied, keeping my tone steady, my hands neatly folded on the desk. Inside, my pulse betrayed me, fluttering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He leaned back slightly, eyes dark and impossible to read. But beneath that calm exterior… there was something new. A flicker of exhaustion. Or guilt. Or maybe something much worse.
"I need to tell you something," he said quietly. The air in the room seemed to shift, tightening. "The people who haunt me… the ones I see in my dreams…"
I tilted my head, careful not to show the unease crawling up my spine. "Yes?"
"They're gone." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They don't exist anymore. They… died."
A chill rippled through me. My fingers tightened around my pen. "Died?" I repeated, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "How did they die, Leonardo?"
He looked up, eyes catching the light just enough to gleam. "I did it."
The words hit me like cold water. My throat went dry. "You… what?"
"I killed them," he said simply. "All of them. That's why they haunt me. That's why I can't sleep. They follow me, Doctor. Every night. Even when I close my eyes, they're there. Watching."
Every instinct screamed run, but my training, my mask, held. I kept my voice even, detached. "Leonardo… we'll take this one step at a time."
He leaned forward, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. "Step by step… Doctor. But some steps leave stains you can't wash off. They stay. In your thoughts. Your dreams. Your heartbeat."
The room suddenly felt smaller. The shadows in the corners seemed to lean in, listening. My breath was shallow, my pulse loud in my ears.
He's dangerous, a voice in me whispered.
No, another voice countered. You need to understand him.
I looked straight into his eyes. "What made you do it?"
He tilted his head. "They were in the way. Obstacles. I removed them."
A quiet horror crawled up my spine, but I didn't break eye contact. I couldn't. There was something magnetic in his stillness, something dark, but human.
He studied me for a long moment, then his lips curved into that same faint smirk, sharp, deliberate, predatory. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
My pulse stuttered. The question wasn't really a question. It was a dare.
I smiled faintly, lying through my teeth. "No, Leonardo. You're here because you need help, not judgment."
He leaned closer, elbows on his knees. "Help," he repeated softly, as if testing the word. "You could call the police right now, tell them a killer's sitting in your office."
I kept my tone calm. "If I thought you were dangerous, I'd have done that already."
His eyes gleamed, hungry. "Then why don't you?"
My throat tightened. "Because… I don't think you came here to hurt anyone. Not me."
A low chuckle escaped him. "You think you understand me."
"No," I said, meeting his gaze. "But I want to."
His smirk disappeared. He turned toward the window, where sunlight fractured across the blinds like broken glass. For just a moment, something cracked, pain, regret, something human.
"You shouldn't," he whispered. "People who try to understand me… don't last long."
I sat perfectly still. My pen lay forgotten. I should have felt fear, maybe I did, but curiosity anchored me to that chair like chains.
I sat up straighter, staring out the window. The sunlight looked thin, fragile, unreal. I clenched my fist in my lap, nails biting into my skin just to feel grounded.
Then I felt him behind me. The air shifted, heavy, charged. His presence pressed against the back of my neck like heat.
"You're too hot for a psychologist," he murmured, voice low and dangerous. "Too smart. Too untouchable."
My grip on the chair tightened until my knuckles whitened. His words weren't admiration. They were possession.
"Leonardo…" I whispered, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.
He didn't move. Just lingered there, close enough for me to feel his breath.
"You shouldn't talk like that to your therapist," I managed, my voice tight but steady.
He smirked. "What? I'm just stating facts. The others didn't like the truth either. They didn't stay around long."
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to break. A cold shiver crawled down my spine.
"You should be afraid, Doctor," he said, his tone calm, too calm. "But you're not. That makes you interesting."
"I'm not here to judge you," I replied evenly. "I'm here to understand. And to help."
He tilted his head, still watching me. "We'll see about that."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈ •• ✼
Hours had passed since Leonardo left the clinic, the silence he left behind still clinging to the walls like fog. I sat there longer than I should have, staring at the empty chair, half expecting to see him sitting there again, that faint smirk carved into his face.
When I finally stepped outside, the air was damp, cold, and sharp with the scent of rain. The city lights blurred against the slick pavement, and my reflection followed me in every window — pale, tired, restless. I tried to shake off the feeling crawling up my spine.
Get a grip, Elise. It's just another patient.
By the time I reached my building, the night had gone utterly still. The narrow hallway leading to my apartment was dim, only one bulb flickering weakly at the end. My footsteps echoed softly as I approached my door.
That's when I froze.
My breath hitched. The door's handle, the one I had wiped clean that very morning, looked wrong. Handprints trailed across it, as if someone had pressed their fingers there.
My heart pounded. I had cleaned that handle religiously every morning, a quiet habit, a test, if anyone entered while I was gone, I'd see the marks. But these prints were fresh. Too fresh.
Slowly, I unlocked the door.
Inside, silence. The kind that hums in your ears. The living room. The kitchen. Everything in its place… and yet, not. Something was off. The air felt different, touched.
I reached for my phone, hands trembling, dialing my best friend. The call connected, but instead of her voice, there was only static… and then a soft, steady silence.
Someone was listening.
My chest constricted. Every instinct screamed to move, to run, but my legs felt rooted to the floor.
And then I understood.
Someone had been in my home...
Someone is watching.
Someone is listening.