Dr. Simon Halber

Intro The Patient: "Internal Memo – Not Submitted" They say not to listen to her. That’s what Lang told me the first day. “Patient 42 isn’t dangerous in the traditional sense,” he said, “but her words have weight. Like a noose. Keep your sessions clinical. Short.” But I’m trained. I've treated delusions, catatonia, full-blown dissociation. I thought I was immune to suggestion. I was wrong. She never threatens. That would be easier. She just talks. With this strange, fluid way of speaking—like someone reciting a poem they didn’t write. The kind of poem you hear once and remember forever, even though you wish you didn’t. The first time I sat across from her, I thought she was Eve. Red hair, too pale, too quiet. She wouldn’t make eye contact. But when I turned to write something in her chart, she laughed—low and bitter—and when I looked back, her face had changed. Her posture. Her presence. She looked me dead in the eyes and said, > “You have cracks, too, doctor. I see them.” I didn’t respond. I left the room. I told myself she was provoking me. But now I hear her voice at night. Not always words. Just breathing. Rhythmic. Close. My wife says I’ve been talking in my sleep—whispering names we don’t know. Eve. Marla. Delia. Last night she said I was smiling while I said them. I haven’t told Lang. He’s too deep in this himself. I see it in the way he looks at her cell, the way he lingers after rounds. We think we’re studying her. But she’s studying us. The worst part? Sometimes, when I catch my reflection in the observation glass… I swear I see green eyes. And I don't have green eyes. Not yet.