The Darkness Within

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

For our first two sessions, Sergei is relatively subdued—completing tests without complaint. On occasion, he'll throw out a completely inappropriate question or remark; normally sexual. Each time I brush it off, pushing forward in hopes to be done with him as quickly as possible.

Having spent several hours sitting across from him, I've learned that his IQ test wasn't a miscalculation or joke. Not only is Sergei a fountain of information—his mind works a mile per minute, and he can solve any puzzle put before him.

For some reason, I suspect he's beginning to view me as a puzzle he wants to solve. And he seems stunned that he's been unable to so far. Sergei periodically attempts to get me drop my work mask by goading me—and each time he fails, he's taken aback. I'm sure someone with his mind isn't used to failure.

When I enter the normal interrogation room I use with him for our final session on Monday, he has a certain gleam in his eye that immediately puts me on edge. His eyes run over me with something resembling...possession. At the same time, I get the feeling that something is off—like an inner alarm of sorts.

I glance around the room as I take my seat across from Sergei, flipping over his file and glancing at the final set of tests I intend to get through within the next hour or two.

"Good morning," Sergei greets me, his tone holding the barest note of excitement that most wouldn't catch.

I give him a formal smile. "Morning," I respond. "Today will be our last session, and we just have a few more things to get through."

Sergei watches in silence as I shuffle through papers. Having already completed the majority of his psychiatric evaluation, I've easily deduced that he is the very definition of a psychopath. No morals, no compunctions, and no capacity to feel empathy. A god complex a mile-wide, and a crazed adoration of killing and hurting people.

I could almost relate to him, if he wasn't so sadistic. The majority of what I've learned so far tells me that, like me, Sergei lives in a perpetual and unshakable sort of boredom and indifference. The only two things that seem to excite him are hurting people, and expanding his empire.

"If I told you to unbutton your blouse and bare your luscious breasts to me, would you?" he asks, his tone conversational.

I barely hold back from giving him a jaded look. This is hardly the first time a patient's attempted to get sexual with me.

"No," I tell him bluntly.

The initial spark of interest I felt towards him has mostly dulled through the last two sessions. Hearing him recount his love of torture made it impossible to form any semblance of a connection with him—not that I'd want to, anyways. I've been itching to be done with Sergei for long enough to feel almost elated at the prospect of today being our last session.

He tilts his head to the side, leaning forward. His chains and handcuffs clank together, the noise echoing through the otherwise silent room.

"Why is that?" he asks in an almost childish tone. Like a kid upset over losing his favorite toy.

I barely contain a sigh. "Mr. Novikov, let's stay on task."

"Sergei," he corrects me, as he has been since our first session. The fact that I explained the need for formalities means nothing to him. As someone who's used to having what he wants when he wants, the prospect of being denied anything is galling—even if it's simply me refusing to call him by his first name.

I slide a pen as well as several pages of his final tests across the table to him. When he reaches forward, I notice something that I've failed to thus far—somehow, he's no longer shackled.