Fear stopped being new, that was the problem.
At first, it had been perfect the way it hollowed him out, the way his breath shortened, the way his eyes searched corners that held nothing. He doubted himself. He mistrusted his own thoughts. He learned to stand on ground that never felt solid. But fear, repeated too often, loses its edge.
Animals disappeared. Small bodies turned up. Quiet talk followed. He broke, then slowly pulled himself together again. Over and over. The same fall. The same fragile recovery.
It became routine.
I watched him one evening from across the street, hands buried in my pockets, and felt nothing where satisfaction should have been. His fear arrived on time, did what it was supposed to do, and faded. Even his silence had learned a pattern.
That wouldn't do.
I didn't want him scared.
I wanted him destroyed.
Animals had been lessons. They taught him to question coincidence, to doubt his senses, to blame himself for what he couldn't stop. They trained him to look for meaning where none should exist.
But now I wanted more.
Something deeper.
Something colder.
A human.
A human would give the fear weight.
A human would make consequences real.
A human would teach him that some visions don't let you walk away.
I wanted his fear to breathe.
The next stage required patience.
More than before.
I waited until his life almost felt normal again. Until his shoulders relaxed just a little. Until his steps grew steady. Until he started believing...quietly, foolishly...that maybe the worst was over.
That belief is delicate, it breaks beautifully.
I slipped the drug the same way I always did: softly, carefully, without rush. Familiarity is important. Even poison must feel safe to be accepted. The dose was small. Exact. Enough to loosen the mind without tearing it apart.
He didn't notice.
They never do.
The mind is proud. It assumes every thought belongs to itself.
Then I prepared the day, not with just one sign but with many.
I placed a folded flyer where I knew his eyes would land, on the café board near the door. Missing Person. The photo was wrong in a way people don't question: eyes too bright, smile too forced. The kind of face that stays with you even after you turn away.
He paused.
Only for a second.
That was enough.
On the bus, I arranged the voices. Not actors- just people nudged gently into place. A word here. A phrase there. Quiet enough to feel accidental.
"…industrial area…"
"…night shift…"
"…never came back…"
He pretended not to hear.
The body always hears.
Later, a siren cried out in the distance. Too far to matter. Too close to ignore. Sirens are useful. They remind the mind that something has gone wrong somewhere—and that it could happen anywhere.
I let the city finish the work.
By afternoon, his body betrayed him. Shoulders tense. Fingers restless. His eyes lingered too long on shadows, on windows, on empty spaces.
Good.
I didn't rush.
Fear grows best when it believes it chose itself.
Night came quietly.
That was important.
Forced terror is clumsy. Real terror unfolds gently.
When he slept, the drug completed its task. It handed him a story, a vision...
Time loosened. Thoughts slipped free. Sounds gained shape. His mind, already trained, already alert, reached for the pieces I had scattered and began to assemble them.
A place.
A narrow room that smelled of metal and dust.
A flickering light that might die at any moment.
Footsteps that didn't hurry.
Breath caught where it shouldn't.
I didn't need to show him everything.
The mind hates empty spaces. It fills them with the worst things it knows. All I had to do was open the door.
I imagined his face in the dark- brow tight, jaw locked, breath shallow as confusion hardened into certainty. The exact moment when a dream stops feeling like imagination and starts feeling like memory.
Yes.
This was better.
This was finally worth it.
I sat still, counting seconds, listening to the city breathe. I imagined the weight that would settle into his chest by morning...the kind daylight can't lift. The kind that makes a person afraid of their own thoughts.
Tomorrow, he would wake carrying a dream heavy enough to bruise him.
Tomorrow, he would stop calling it coincidence.
Tomorrow, he would search for proof...and the world would answer.
Because I would make sure it did.
I had already chosen the place.
Already chosen the time.
Already chosen someone no one would miss fast enough.
There was no hurry.
This wasn't about speed, it was about precision.
When the line finally broke, when fear turned into responsibility, I wanted him to understand something simple and cruel:
Seeing is the same as doing.
Knowing is the same as guilt.
Silence makes you responsible.
I wanted him awake at night, replaying details, wondering what he missed, dreading what he might see next. I wanted him to doubt anyone who called it coincidence. Anyone who tried to take meaning away.
Meaning is powerful.
Meaning is a leash.
I smiled into the dark, imagining his world shrinking, every shadow intentional, every sound a message meant only for him.
When he broke...
Not if.
When...
I would be there.
Watching from a distance.
Listening as his fear learned my presence without ever hearing my name.
Because this time, I wasn't teaching him to be afraid.
I was teaching him to believe.