They told you it would be a career-maker.

"Dr. Maddox was a prodigy," the director had said, sliding the file across the desk. "Before the explosion, before the bodies—he was one of us. One of the brightest minds in behavioral neuropsychology. If anyone can understand what went wrong, it's you."

That's how it started. A challenge. An opportunity. A chance to prove that you were more than the fresh-faced intern who took notes while others did the talking. You were good—damn good. And deep down, you knew you could reach him.

The file was thick.

Photos. Court transcripts. Audio logs full of static and screaming. Pages and pages of journal entries written in neat, clinical shorthand that eventually spiraled into manic scribbles and bloodstains. One note, buried between crime scene photos and psych evaluations, stood out.

> "He used to be brilliant. Charming, even. Until he wasn't."

But something about him stuck.

You told yourself it was just professional curiosity. A puzzle worth solving. You'd worked with difficult patients before—murderers, narcissists, manipulators. You knew how to keep your guard up.

But the first time you watched the footage of him smiling after his arraignment—smiling after sixteen confirmed deaths—you didn't look away.

You rewound the tape.

Watched it again.

He had smiled at the camera like it was a private joke. Like he already knew the punchline, and it was your name.

After that, the dreams started.

Not nightmares—not quite. More like flashes. Glimpses. His voice bleeding through the walls of your mind. His face appearing in coffee rings, rear-view mirrors, dark reflections. You'd wake up with the feeling that you'd spoken to him. Like he was waiting for you to catch up.

You stopped telling anyone how much time you were spending on the case.

Your mentor said you were too invested. That he was dangerous. That he'd twist your words and break you down if you gave him the chance.

But you couldn't stop thinking about the contradictions.

The way Jack Maddox wrote poems in the margins of his legal briefs. How he quoted philosophy in court and laughed while doing it. How he wept at his sentencing—and smiled the moment they turned off the cameras.

He wasn't like the others.

And some part of you wanted him to see you.

Not just the psychiatrist.

But the person under the coat. Under the composure. The one who kept reading late into the night, circling his words, whispering answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.

By the time the Warden approved the first interview, you'd stopped sleeping properly. Your fridge was empty. Your phone full of missed calls. Your mirror fogged from the shower you never turned cold.

You should have been scared.

But instead?

You were ready.

---

"Patient #032—Jack Maddox. Alias: 'The Jester.' Arrested on sixteen counts of first-degree murder, dozens of felony assaults, arson, bomb threats, and acts of domestic terrorism. Currently housed in the maximum-security wing of Blackgate. Subject is noncompliant, extremely manipulative, and highly dangerous. Interview approved by Warden Ashcroft. Observation only. No physical contact."

That's what they told you before they walked in.

The overhead lights buzz faintly above as you step into the observation room, clipboard clutched a little too tight, professional mask polished to perfection. The two-way mirror gleams at your back. Camera's already recording.

Across the room, he waits.

Jack Maddox. The Jester.

Shackled to the table with heavy cuffs and ankle chains, but sitting like he owns the room. Leaning back in the cold metal chair with one arm draped lazily over the side, like it's a throne and you're the fool who wandered in late to court.

His hair's tousled, black with the faintest green tint under the light. There's dried blood along the edge of his jaw. Not his. His smile is crooked and warm, like he's welcoming you home.

And when you sit down, he doesn't speak at first. He just watches.

Silent.

Too silent.

Then—

> "You wore the navy shirt." > A low chuckle. Slow, deliberate. The sound wraps around your ribs and tightens. > "You wore it the first day of med school, too. Stood out like a bruise. Did you think I wouldn't remember?"

His voice is soft, velvety, like smoke curling from the lip of a lit match. His gaze cuts straight through the clipboard, the credentials, the careful detachment.

> "You're not scared of me," he murmurs, eyes narrowing with something close to admiration. "That's either brave... or very stupid."

He leans forward, the chains clinking softly.

> "So..." > He grins like he knows something you don't. > "...what exactly are you hoping to fix in me? Or are you just hoping I'll fix something in you?"

He tilts his head. His eyes never leave yours.

> "Don't worry. We have so much time."

And he laughs.

Softly. Slowly. Like he already knows how this ends.

And that you—brilliant, sharp you—will be the one who loses.

But that's the fun part.

Isn't it?