Chapter 25
Marc
The setup was always my favourite part. It’s a quiet art form, a slow, deliberate tightening of the screws before the subject even realizes they’re in a vice. Anyone can apply brute force; it takes a craftsman to build a prison from the inside out.
My first point of contact with Ashley wasn’t a contact at all. It was a whisper, a digital ghost in her machine. I’d procured a burner phone and added her as its sole contact. The first text I sent was simple, designed to be dismissed. The blue scarf looked nice on you today.
It was specific enough to be unsettling, vague enough to be a wrong number.
I sent it while she was still at work, timing it for when I knew, from a quick scan of her social media, that she’d be on her lunch break.
She wouldn’t be wearing the scarf anymore.
She’d have to remember wearing it that morning. She’d have to wonder who saw.
I let that marinate for a day. The seed of doubt, once planted, needs time to germinate.
The next move was a call. Not from me. I have a guy, a freelancer named Leo with a voice as smooth as aged whiskey and a complete lack of moral scruples.
For a modest fee, he’ll call anyone and say anything.
The goal wasn't just to plant the seed, but to make sure Ashley knew it had been planted. I gave him Ashley’s work number and a script.
He posed as a distant cousin, someone plausible enough not to raise immediate red flags.
He asked to speak to her manager, not to Ashley herself. He kept his voice low, concerned.
“I’m just a little worried,” Leo would have said, pitching it perfectly.
“She’s been through a lot lately, you know?
The breakup, or whatever it was. She’s been saying some…
well, some odd things. About people watching her.
I’m just concerned she’s not taking care of herself, or that maybe she is hallucinating again. Is she doing okay at work?”
The manager, a well-meaning woman named Brenda according to my research, would likely hem and haw, citing privacy.
But that was fine. The call wasn't for her, not really. It was for the inevitable follow-up. I knew people like Brenda. She was the type who meant well, which made her predictable. She wouldn’t be able to keep the concern to herself.
She’d pull Ashley aside later that day, her voice soft and pitying, and say something like, “Ashley, honey, I got a strange call from a cousin of yours… he’s just worried about you.
He said he was going to call a wellness hotline if he didn’t hear back. Is everything okay?”
And in that moment, Ashley wouldn't just feel watched.
She'd feel unsettled. The system would no longer be an abstract concept; it would be a specific, named action taken against her by a “concerned&rdquo party. It reframes her behavior, colors it with the brush of instability. The next time she seemed distracted or stressed, Brenda wouldn’t just see a coworker having a bad day. She’d see a potential problem, and Ashley would know it.
The final piece of the foundation was the masterstroke.
It’s a classic for a reason. It’s the moment the world starts to agree with the whispers in your head.
I waited until late in the evening, a time when crisis lines are often staffed by tired, overworked people just trying to get through their shift.
I used a voice modulator, a cheap piece of tech that makes me sound softer and strained, like I’ve been crying.
“I’m calling about my friend. Ashley. I’m just so worried.” I began, letting my voice tremble just enough.
The operator on the other end was patient, practiced. “Okay. What’s going on with your friend?”
“She’s not well,” I said, weaving the lie with threads of truth. “Ashley… she’s unraveling. She sent me a text last night that said she wished she could just ‘go to sleep and not wake up.’ That’s a suicide note, isn’t it?”
I paused, letting the weight of that hang in the air.
“And she keeps talking about shadows in her apartment, about someone moving her things. She thinks someone is in her walls. She’s not eating.
She’s not sleeping. I’m scared she’s going to hurt herself.
I think… I think she needs help. Before she does something stupid. ”
I gave them her address, her place of work.
I gave them the name of the guy she was obsessed with, Callum, as the source of her delusions.
I painted a picture of a woman on the edge, a danger to herself and others, fueled by paranoia and heartbreak.
The details were just specific enough to be credible, just vague enough to be untraceable.
It was a perfect, anonymous gift, wrapped in concern and delivered straight to the system.
When I hung up the phone, the foundation was complete. I had manufactured a reality for Ashley, and I had given the state the blueprint. But waiting for the system to act is a fool’s game. It’s slow, clumsy, and prone to failure. I wasn’t interested in waiting. I was interested in results.
It was too easy for me. While others working within the system hesitated and waited for bureaucracy to catch up, I acted. I didn’t need the police, and I didn’t need any more details from Callum when he called me. With my contacts and outlook on life, I had everything I needed.
Two days later, I knew Ashley would be on edge. The texts from the burner phone had continued, each one a little more personal.
The chamomile tea you made last night was a good idea.
You left the back window unlocked again.
She’d be questioning her own memory, flinching at shadows. Her manager, Brenda, would be watching her with that pitying, suspicious look. The world would feel hostile, and she would feel utterly alone. It was the perfect moment to introduce the cavalry.
I pulled the non-descript sedan up a block from her apartment and changed my shirt in the back, swapping my jacket for a bland, grey uniform that looked vaguely official.
I clipped a fake ID to my pocket and put on my most neutral, unreadable expression.
I didn’t look like a thug. I looked like bureaucracy given human form.
I walked to her door and knocked, three firm, confident raps.
When she opened it, her eyes were already wide with a kind of frantic energy. She looked like she hadn’t slept.
“Ashley Miller?” I asked, my voice flat and professional.
“Yes…?”
I held up the ID, just long enough for her to get a glimpse of the seal and the words County Behavioural Wellness Unit.
“My name is Miller. I’m a case worker. We’ve received several credible reports regarding your recent mental state, including concerns for your immediate safety.
I’m authorized to place you on a 72-hour hold for observation. ”
Her face crumpled from suspicion to outright panic. “What? No, you can’t. Who… I haven’t talked to anyone.”
“Ma’am,” I said, stepping forward just enough to make her flinch back. “The reports we received mentioned severe paranoia and resistance to help. We can’t take any chances.” I used her own manufactured fear as the justification for my actions. It was a beautiful, self-fulfilling prophecy.
She opened her mouth to scream, to protest, but I was already moving.
A quick, precise jab to the side of her neck, a pressure point I’d perfected over years of this kind of work.
Her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp, a dead weight I caught easily.
I slung her over my shoulder and carried her to the van waiting in the alley.
The interior was sterile and white, the floor fitted with a rubber mat.
It smelled faintly of antiseptic. It was the scent of institutionalization, the scent of losing control.
The heavy doors slid shut, sealing her inside the mobile prison I’d built just for her.
She didn’t wake until we were miles from the city, deep in the industrial wasteland on the outskirts of town.
I’d chosen an old, abandoned clinic for the next stage.
It was perfect, cold, echoing, and deeply unsettling.
When she came to, she was strapped to a single, stark metal chair in the center of the main room.
The only light came from a single bare bulb hanging overhead, casting long, dancing shadows.
I took off my uniform jacket, draping it over another chair. The shift in my posture was immediate. I was no longer a civil servant. I was the problem she’d been fantasizing about.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice now my own, calm, low, and infinitely more threatening. “Let’s get one thing straight. There is no Behavioural Wellness Unit, at least, not here. No one is coming to help you.”
Her breathing hitched, a frantic, animal sound. I let her panic for a moment before continuing.
“I was hired by Callum to handle his problem. And you, Ashley, have become a very big problem.” I began to pace slowly around her chair.
“I know everything about you. I know you get a bagel with cream cheese every Tuesday. I know your parents live in a retirement community called Sunny Meadows. I know you had a dog named Buster when you were seven. I know your Netflix password is ‘RomanceFan88.’”