Scene 12
Benjamin had too much to process.
Another sleepless night.
It wasn’t insomnia anymore. It was habit. A kind of wakefulness sustained by regret, clinging to him like a second nature.
But that night, there was something else.
Rose.
The past wasn’t enough—everything he’d done, everything he still carried. Now she was there too. In his thoughts. Inside the noise.
Contaminating it.
He had thought stepping out of his comfort zone was the right move. Finding someone different. Someone on his level.
But Rose wasn’t what he wanted.
And when it ended—
it didn’t end.
There was no closure. No clarity.
Just something fractured, still vibrating somewhere in his chest.
He reached his apartment, his body stiff, like he was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet.
Two years.
And the question remained untouched.
Who was he?
He had to make up for it.
At first, it had been an idea.
Then, a decision.
Now—
it was the only thing holding him together.
Make up for everything.
Every mistake.
Every life.
Everything he had destroyed.
He couldn’t erase it.
But he could balance it.
Save more people.
More.
More often.
No mistakes.
That was the only way.
The only way not to be what he was.
A killer.
The hum returned.
Low. Constant. Familiar.
His breathing faltered, just slightly.
He had to move.
He stepped toward his room—
and stopped.
The mirror.
Shattered.
His face, broken into versions that didn’t align. None of them whole.
None of them right.
The monster.
He looked away.
Mistake.
The board.
Pins. Tight threads. Connections crossing in obsessive patterns.
Order.
Control.
His plan.
To die saving others.
To turn every action into a correction. Every day into a debt repaid.
Until there was nothing left.
Until he stopped being.
He had to do it.
There was no alternative.
But Rose—
Rose was still there.
She didn’t fade.
Didn’t file away.
Didn’t obey.
She stayed.
And that ruined everything.
His thoughts began to stack without shape. One over another. Over another.
Too fast.
Too loud.
The anxiety closing in.
Shrinking the space.
Tightening.
Pulling him inward—
and then—
Hunger.
Sharp. Immediate. Real.
His body chose for him.
Kitchen.
One step. Then another.
The door.
His hand stopped just before touching it.
There.
Suspended.
Silence.
He knew this.
The pattern.
The attack was coming.
He could feel it under his skin. Rising. Building.
Imminent.
He waited.
One second.
Two.
Nothing.
Not this time.
He opened the door.
The fridge was empty.