002

The clinic was quiet, save for the ticking of an old clock and the faint scratching of pen on paper.

You lay on a cot in the back room, staring at the ceiling.

The blanket was too thin, the pillow stiff, but you didn’t mind.

It was the first time someone had given you a place to rest without obligation or disgust.

Even if the kindness was fake, it still felt like something.

Mori stood in the doorway, watching. His expression was unreadable, but his mind worked tirelessly behind his glasses.

'He’s dangerous,' Mori thought.

'More dangerous than most adults I’ve met. But still a child. Still malleable.'

Then he saw it.

The way your eyes subtly tracked his every movement. The twitch of your fingers when he looked away. The way you clung, not to safety, but to attention.

'He craves it. Affection. Praise. Even if he knows it’s not real.'

So Mori did what he did best.

He tested.

The next morning, he handed you a sandwich. Simple, but fresh.

You blinked up at him as he ruffled your hair with a gloved hand.

“You did well yesterday,” he said casually.

“You didn’t kill me. That’s impressive restraint for a little monster like you.”

Your chest fluttered. Not with pride, not quite, but something close. Something warm. Foreign.

“You’re lying,” you said flatly.

“Of course I am,” he replied, smiling. “But you like it, don’t you?”

You paused. Then nodded, childlike and honest.

“Mhm.”

He chuckled and turned away. 'Hook, line, and sinker.'

The routine began.

Every night, you asked Mori questions.

“Have you ever thought about dying?”

“What would you do if someone tried to hurt me?”

“What makes a person ‘bad’?”

He answered all of them. Not with emotion, but logic. Or maybe answering what you wanted to hear.

You wanted to understand the rules of a game no one had ever taught you.

He answered your questions.

Why blood clots.

Why people scream.

Why smiles are used even when someone’s lying.

He never looked at you like you were broken. Just... interesting.

And you liked being interesting.

One evening, Mori handed you a medical textbook.

You flipped through it like a picture book. Bones, organs, diagrams. You were delighted.

“I want to try this,” you said, pointing to an autopsy diagram. “On a real person.”

Mori didn’t flinch.

“You can,” he said. “Eventually. But only if you learn properly. You don’t want to ruin a perfectly good body with bad technique, do you?”

You stared at him. Then grinned.

“Okay!”

That was the deal.

He’d feed your curiosity.

And in return?

You’d stay.

Mori’s affection was cold, but addictive.

He patted your head after successful lessons. He offered praise when you remembered terms correctly. He let you sit beside him while he worked, sometimes letting you pass tools or observe patients, though never the normal ones.

“Why are you letting me see this?” you asked once, watching him sew a deep gash in a patient’s abdomen.

“Because you’re special,” he said, almost warmly.

You looked down at the bleeding man, then back up at him.

“You’re lying again.”

Mori smiled faintly.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You knew it was manipulation.

Of course you did.

You weren’t stupid.

But it was the first time someone saw you, even if it was just to use you.

And that was enough.

For now.

But Mori knew the danger.

He saw it in the way your eyes lingered too long on the scalpel. The way your fingers twitched when denied answers. The way your teleportation was getting sharper, faster, more precise.

You were growing.

And while Mori had control, he also knew one thing.

You were a time bomb.

And if he didn’t keep feeding your curiosity… if he slipped, if he showed a crack in his mask…

You’d explode.

Maybe on the city.

Maybe on him.

So he kept you close. Cloaked you in false warmth. Gave you the attention you craved.

Because a monster that’s content doesn’t bite.

At least not yet.

Weeks passed.

The clinic became your world.

It smelled like iodine, blood, and paper. Sterile yet strangely comforting.

You liked it here. It was quiet. Controlled. Predictable, except when Mori wanted it otherwise.

You slept on the same cot every night, wrapped in the same blanket that smelled faintly of rust and antiseptic.

You didn’t ask for more comfort, you didn’t need it. Mori had already given you something far more precious:

Attention.

Even if it was fake.

Even if you knew he was watching you like a wolf watches a sharp toothed dog.

You still smiled whenever he called your name. You tilted your head when he gave you small, impossible riddles. You laughed when he told you you were “the most delightful problem he’d ever encountered.”

You liked being a problem.

He let you cut your first corpse three weeks after you arrived.

A man, mid 40s. A junkie who had bled out on the street. Unclaimed. Useless to society. Perfect for study.

Mori handed you gloves. You put them on with shaky hands and glowing eyes.

“Be precise,” he said. “Curiosity without control is just destruction.”

You nodded eagerly.

He watched you as you made the incision, lips pressed in a thin line, the glint in your eyes like fire reflected in glass.

When you finished, he ruffled your hair and said, “Good boy.”

And your heart twitched.

You knew it was manipulation.

You still glowed from it.

Journal

Subject: L/N, Y/N

Age: 12 (estimated, likely accurate)

Ability: Teleportation – unique, mentally activated, instantaneous, short- and mid-range confirmed. Possibly long-range with higher stress thresholds.

Classification: High risk, high-potential. Morally detached. Exhibits textbook psychopathy with bursts of childish vulnerability.

Notes

- Craves affection like an addict. Will accept falsified forms without protest.

- Becomes calm and obedient when praised.

- Shows no remorse for killing but displays sincere emotional response to attention.

- Surprisingly intelligent. Learns fast. Retains medical and anatomical terms with little repetition.

- Capable of feigning innocence. Could be used to manipulate others if taught properly.

Mental Stability: Volatile but containable. Dependent on emotional input and intellectual stimulation. Requires consistent engagement to avoid deviation into uncontrolled violence.

Conclusion: Subject can be molded. Useful as a tool. Must never be left idle for extended periods. Dangerous if neglected.

You never saw the journal.

But you knew he was watching you. Measuring you. You like it.

You’d ask, “What are you writing?”

And Mori would smile warmly. “Notes. About how special you are.”

“I am special,” you’d beam. “No one else got to see someone’s guts before age ten.”

He chuckled. “No one else wanted to.”

But even Mori had to be careful.

One night, he found you crouched by the back exit of the clinic, covered in blood. Not your own.

You’d gone out. Teleported to a familiar alley. Found another criminal.

It had been weeks since your last experiment.

You missed the way throats gurgled when cut at just the right angle.

He stared at the body for a long time. Then back at you.

You didn’t flinch under his gaze. You just cocked your head and smiled, bright eyed.

“I made sure he was bad,” you said.

“And if he wasn’t?”

“…He looked like someone who could be.”

Mori crouched beside the corpse, examining your work. Efficient. Controlled. Clean.

Then he stood and turned to you. “Next time,” he said softly, “ask me first.”

You blinked. “You’ll let me?”

“If I say yes,” he replied, “then it’s not a problem.”

You beamed.

Manipulation was easy when the subject wanted to be lied to.

Journal — Update

The subject has begun killing without supervision. Target selection is loosely filtered by moral guesswork but lacks discipline. Reinforcement of controlled permission is critical.

Countermeasures: Maintain illusion of partnership. Impose restrictions while offering structured outlets (e.g., cadavers, sanctioned targets).

Psychological Leverage: Continue using false praise and affection. Increase small physical gestures (e.g., hair ruffling, shoulder taps) to maintain emotional bond. Avoid genuine displays—subject can smell falseness, but accepts it when framed as attention.

Risk of rebellion low—for now.

One day, Mori returned late.

You sat curled on the cot, blanket around your shoulders. You hadn't eaten. You’d stared at the door for hours.

When he walked in, you didn’t smile right away.

“Where were you?” you asked quietly.

“I was busy,” he replied.

“With someone better than me?” you murmured, half joking, half serious.

He knelt in front of you. Placed a hand on your head.

“There is no one better than you.”

You closed your eyes.

It was a lie.

But it was warm.