Part 5

The days in the holding cell blurred together. I was surrounded by the sounds of other prisoners—shouting, crying, the occasional banging of fists against metal bars. But none of it fazed me. I had been in much darker places before, places where the walls were made of my own mind.

I had been placed under observation, not just for the crimes I'd committed but for what they believed was a deeper psychological issue. They couldn't understand me, and they never would. No one could.

My mother came to visit me once. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and the tremor in her hands was impossible to miss. She sat across from me, staring at the table between us as if she couldn't bring herself to look me in the eyes.

"Psychobi," she whispered, her voice breaking. "What have you done?"

I felt a pang of something—guilt? No, not guilt. It was more like a fleeting discomfort. I had grown accustomed to lying, to pretending. But looking at her, her face twisted in pain, it almost made me want to show her the real me. But I couldn't. I wouldn't.

"I did what I had to do," I said calmly. "You don't understand, Mom. But I had a purpose."

She shook her head slowly, tears streaming down her cheeks. "A purpose? This isn't you! This isn't who you are. You're my son."

I stared at her, my gaze unwavering. "I am who I am," I replied. "I was born this way."

Her sobs grew louder, but I didn't react. I knew what she was feeling—betrayal, fear, confusion. But it didn't matter. I was beyond the point of redemption. And so was she, whether she realized it or not.

"I don't know what happened to you," she whispered, her voice strained. "But I'm going to get you help. You need it."

I didn't answer. There was nothing to say. I could see the way she tried to hold on to the version of me that once existed, but I was already slipping further away from it.

The guards escorted her out, and I was left alone again, the heavy silence pressing in. My thoughts turned inward, swirling with ideas and plans. They thought they had me, but they were wrong. This was just another stage in my journey.

They kept me in the cell for weeks, running tests and trying to break me down. But I remained calm. Each question they asked, each evaluation they conducted, I simply nodded or gave brief responses. I wasn't afraid of them. I was playing a game, and I knew exactly how to win.

Then, one day, I received a letter. It wasn't from my mother, though. It was from someone else. Someone unexpected.

The envelope was thick, the handwriting on the front precise and careful. I opened it slowly, curiosity building as I unfolded the pages. The letter inside was short, but it carried weight.

**Psychobi,

I've been following your case closely. Your actions intrigue me. I believe you have potential.

If you're interested in taking the next step, I can help you.

A friend.**

I read the letter again, and then a third time. A rush of excitement flooded through me. This was it—the opportunity I'd been waiting for. Someone had noticed me. Someone who understood.

Whoever this "friend" was, they had no idea how much their words meant to me. I wasn't alone anymore. And this wasn't the end of my evolution. This was just the beginning of something far greater.

The game had just begun.

..........................

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