Dr. Michael Jones adjusted his glasses, pressing them firmly against the bridge of his nose as he wrestled with how to respond to his client’s extraordinary case of psychosis. In all his years of practice and study, he had never encountered anything like this—a client who seemed to exist at the farthest edge of the psychological bell curve, beyond even the most obscure case studies.

And yet, she was a lucid, functioning adult with a career. She presented no obvious signs of instability in her professional life. How had her condition gone unnoticed for so long? Was it sheer resilience? Or had she become so adept at masking her struggles that even those closest to her failed to see the cracks?

Dr. Jones pondered this, feeling both intrigued and unsettled. Her case defied easy categorization, and for the first time in years, he found himself truly at a loss.

He allowed himself a brief pause, hoping to draw on the vast reservoir of knowledge gained during his twelve years at Yale. His fingers absentmindedly nudged the corner of his family portrait, a subtle reflection of his growing frustration at the lack of answers.

“Dr. Jones?” Cedar Wells’ voice broke the silence, tight with anxiety. She shifted uneasily in the worn leather armchair, her fingers gripping its armrests.

Dr. Jones straightened his posture, mirroring her tension. Replaying her words in his head, he repeated them aloud in a contemplative tone, his fingertips pressed together. “You believe none of this is real.”

“Nothing is real,” Cedar insisted, her voice rising. “This is all just one big movie prop. Nothing has substance. And I’m freaking out, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He noted the sheen of perspiration on her hands as she tightened her grip on the armrests. For a moment, he found himself at a loss, his mind scrambling for the right approach. Clearing his throat, he glanced at the polished APA plaque on the wall, searching for inspiration. Then, as though struck by an epiphany, the words came to him.

“Miss Wells,” he began, his voice measured, “as a clinical psychologist, I prefer to start with a medical approach when assessing these experiences. First, we’ll rule out any medical factors—things like infections, inherited traits, or even minor head injuries you might have overlooked. Once that’s done, we can explore emotional traumas that might be contributing to your state. And after that, we’ll consider psychodynamic therapy as part of your treatment plan. How does that sound?”

Cedar’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds great, but right now, can you at least tell me why the freaking sky is red?”

Dr. Jones offered a warm, steady smile, leaning forward slightly as he said, “I assure you, Miss Wells, we’ll figure this out together. We’ll understand why you’re seeing the sky as red.”

“Well?” Cedar pressed.

“I’m sorry?” Dr. Jones blinked, startled by her abruptness.

“Why is the sky red?”

The rhythmic ticking of his vintage pendulum clock filled the room as Dr. Jones searched his mind for a plausible explanation. He felt a warm flush creep into his ears. “No psychosis exists in a vacuum; there’s always an underlying cause. We’ll find it by asking the right questions and exploring all possibilities. It could even be something as simple as a form of color blindness, which we can test with an Ishihara—”

Cedar shot to her feet, cutting him off mid-sentence. She strode across the room, yanking the curtains open with a sharp tug. “Does this look like color blindness to you?” she demanded, gesturing toward the window. “Is this not red?”

Dr. Jones rose from his chair and walked to the window, his expression carefully composed. Outside, the sky was a perfectly normal shade of bright blue.

“The sky is blue, Miss Wells,” he said gently, though his voice carried an edge of caution. “I understand this isn’t the answer you want, but that is what I see.”

Cedar’s face contorted with frustration. She turned abruptly, snatching a random book from his neatly arranged shelf. Flipping through it, she thrust it toward him.

“And what about this? What about these books?”

“What about them?” Dr. Jones asked, his tone calm but wary.

“Have you read them? Are they even yours? Do they belong to you?”

Recognizing her growing agitation, Dr. Jones attempted to redirect her focus. “Miss Wells,” he said softly, “let’s set the books aside for now and concentrate on the task at hand. Have you experienced any recent head injuries or psychological traumas?”

“Yes! This is psychological trauma. I’m experiencing one right now!”

“Experiencing distress like this can certainly feel traumatic,” Dr. Jones acknowledged, keeping his voice steady. “But if we remain calm, we can work through it together.”

Cedar wasn’t listening. She thrust the open book toward him. “Look at it. Just look at it and tell me it’s not blank,” she demanded, her voice shaking as her hands trembled.

Dr. Jones leaned forward, peering at the pages. Black text was clearly printed there. “It’s not blank, Miss Wells. I see words.”

“Then read it!” Cedar snapped, pushing the book closer to his face. “Read what it says.”

He squinted, adjusting his glasses as he tried to focus on the words. But to his shock, the text refused to come into focus. The letters blurred, smearing across the page like ink bleeding into water.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Dr. Jones blinked rapidly, then leaned in closer. His reassuring smile faltered, replaced by a look of genuine confusion. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” he said lightly, attempting to downplay his struggle. “Let me take a closer look.”

The harder he tried, the more indistinct the words became. In his peripheral vision, he could vaguely discern black marks on the page, but when he tried to focus, they dissolved into an empty haze. Frustrated, he snatched the book from Cedar’s hands, the abruptness of the motion surprising even himself.

“Is this some kind of trick?” he demanded, his composure slipping. “What is this?”

“Finally, you see? I’m not crazy,” Cedar declared, a triumphant edge in her voice.

Dr. Jones, still grappling with the situation, adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the book in his hands. He scrutinized its binding, front cover, and back cover—everything appeared perfectly normal. Yet, the text remained maddeningly elusive.

“There has to be an explanation for this,” he muttered, his tone a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “The words won’t stick. They seem to… fly away from me.” With a defeated grunt, he placed the book down and reached for another from the top shelf. The layer of dust coating it suggested it hadn’t been touched in years.

“Let’s try this one,” he said, hesitating. Part of him felt that indulging Cedar’s claims would only deepen her delusion, but his curiosity got the better of him. He flipped it open, preparing to inspect the first page.

Before he could begin, a loud knock at the door startled him. He nearly dropped the book as his head snapped up, irritation flickering across his face. Interrupting a session was unprofessional, and he bristled at the intrusion.

“Who are you? What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, expecting to see a maintenance worker—or worse, a camera crew pulling a tasteless prank. The thought of someone exploiting mental illness for entertainment made his blood boil.

Instead, two figures entered the room. One was a young man of Middle-Eastern descent, short but confident, holding himself with a casual ease. The other was a tall, severe-looking woman with blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. Neither offered an introduction, nor did they acknowledge Dr. Jones. Their focus was fixed entirely on Cedar.

The woman strode forward, grabbed Cedar’s wrist, and cuffed herself to her without hesitation.

“Excuse me! You can’t just barge in here and manhandle my client. Identify yourselves immediately!”

The woman’s expression didn’t waver. “Cedar Wells, we’re here on behalf of the judicial court. We’re taking you home.”

The young man flipped open a badge, nodding toward Dr. Jones apologetically. “Sorry for the disruption, Doc.”

“This is completely unacceptable,” Dr. Jones snapped. “You’re interrupting a medical session. She’s unwell and needs professional care. What is this about? What has she done?”

Before either could answer, Cedar broke in, her voice sharp. “I haven’t done anything. I’m innocent. And I want a lawyer.”

The young man raised his hand, calm and placating. “We know you’re innocent. That’s why we’re here. I am your lawyer—want to see my badge again?”

“You’re not in any trouble,” the woman added, her tone clipped but not unkind. “This will go a lot smoother if you cooperate.”

Cedar, clearly not convinced, yanked her wrist, pulling against the cuff. “If I’m not in trouble, why the hell am I cuffed?”

Dr. Jones, meanwhile, turned his attention back to the book still clutched in his hands. Its aged, weathered exterior bore no title or markings. It reminded him of an old encyclopedia, its thin pages fragile and delicate. Fixing his gaze on the text, he tried once again to read it.

The letters refused to cooperate. They blurred and shifted, smearing like ink dissolving in water. No matter how hard he squinted or adjusted the book’s angle, the words evaded him entirely.

“Enough of this,” he muttered under his breath, exasperated.

Marching to the door, he slammed it shut with a loud thud. “Who’s responsible for this?” he demanded, holding the book aloft for all to see.

The woman regarded him coolly, arching an eyebrow. “What about it?” she asked, her tone detached, as if humoring him.

“It’s not real, man,” the young man added with a shrug.

Dr. Jones flushed, his irritation boiling over. “Of course, it’s not real! I can’t make out a single word! What’s the meaning of this? How… Where…?” His voice trailed off as a flood of unanswered questions overwhelmed him.

“I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what’s going on,” Cedar declared.

Dropping to the floor, she became dead weight, yanking the woman’s arm into an awkward angle. “You want me to leave with you? Then start talking.”

The woman let out a long, exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes at her partner. The young man crouched down, meeting Cedar’s determined glare.

“All right,” he said. “You were apprehended for grand larceny and placed in virtual rehabilitation so Everly—” he gestured to the blonde woman “—and I could witness your crime. You’re currently reliving the day of your alleged offense. Here. Right now. Everything around you is an illusion.”

Cedar blinked, processing his words. “So it was real.”

The young man tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of mild confusion. “What was real?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze darted around the room as if searching for confirmation in the walls, the furniture, or even the air itself.

Dr. Jones barked a laugh, incredulous. “That’s absurd! Miss Wells, surely you don’t believe this nonsense. Virtual rehabilitation? It’s ridiculous. Pure science fiction.”

Cedar tilted her head, “It’s true, it’s gotta be.”

The young man nodded. “And since Everly nor myself failed to witness a crime, you’re free to go. We’re here to get you out of the program safely.”

Dr. Jones opened his mouth to protest, but Cedar was already on her feet.

“Okay,” she said, “and why am I cuffed?”

“Some people don’t believe us,” the young man said with a shrug. “Everly, can you remove the cuffs? You’re the one with the keys, key lady.”

“Wait now, just wait a minute.” Dr. Jones moved to block the doorway, his large frame standing firm. “This is nonsense. Miss Wells, these people are taking advantage of your . . . well, your condition.” He turned to the woman, his tone sharp. “If this is all fake, if it’s just an illusion, then who am I? I have a family. There’s a picture of them on my desk. I have memories.”

Facing Everly, Dr. Jones squared his shoulders and puffed his chest, his voice steady and commanding. “I can’t in good conscience let you leave here with my client. She’s been entrusted to my care.”

Everly’s expression didn’t waver. “I really didn’t want to use this,” she said, pulling a gun from her purse with practiced ease. Her pale hand gripped the weapon firmly, the barrel leveled directly at Dr. Jones’ chest.

The young man blinked in surprise, shaking his head in amazement. “You really have to tell me how you do that.”

“Cedar,” Everly said evenly, her gaze never leaving the doctor. “Will you please come with us?”

“Don’t shoot him,” Cedar yelped, “You don’t have to shoot anyone. I’ll come. Just—please, put the gun away.”

Everly handed Cedar the key to unlock the cuffs, her other hand keeping the gun trained steadily on Dr. Jones.

His jaw tightened, but he stepped aside, his voice cold and resolute. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

The pair stepped out of the office, moving cautiously, with Cedar following behind. Her gaze flickered between the gun and the doctor, uncertainty written all over her face.

Dr. Jones called after her, his tone protective and steady. “Miss Wells, help is on the way. Stay calm, and do as they ask.”

As soon as the gun was no longer pointed in his direction, Dr. Jones spun toward his desk. With shaking hands, he grabbed the phone and immediately dialed the police.