Mentality of The Heart

CHAPTER 06

Alice's POV

W-what the actual hell?!
My heart pounded in my chest as panic clawed at my insides, but a part of me was oddly calm—watchful. I wanted to see what he would do.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one to deliberately put myself in danger. But if it means helping someone—saving someone from being consumed by their demons—I'd do it. Even if it kills me. At least I'd die knowing I tried.

That train of thought was cut short as he roughly pulled me off his shoulder and slammed me against the cold, unforgiving wall.

"W-what are you d-doing?" I stammered, my voice trembling despite my attempts to steady it.

His lips curled into a sinister smile, his voice a venomous whisper. "You. I'll make sure you feel every ounce of pain you've made me feel."

The sheer malice in his tone sent a shiver racing down my spine, leaving my limbs weak. He grabbed my wrist and secured it in a shackle bolted to the wall, repeating the process with my other hand and then my legs. Each click of the locks made my heart sink further. The metal bit harshly into my skin, promising bruises that would linger.

He stepped back, his cold gaze sweeping over me with an unnerving sense of satisfaction. The smirk on his lips was maddening, almost gleeful. But the eyes that stared back at me weren't familiar. This wasn't Mr. Bianchi. This wasn't Davide. And it wasn't Cesare.

This was someone—or something—else entirely.

His entire demeanor was psychotic, detached, and unhinged in a way that made my stomach churn. As a psychiatrist, I knew enough about Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) to recognize the patterns. Every patient is different. Some have two personalities, others have more, each manifesting as a response to trauma. But within those personalities, there's often one—the dark one. The extreme alter. Violent. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

This was that alter.

The shift was undeniable, and it was terrifying. His eyes glinted with something beyond anger. It was pure chaos.

I'd read his medical files, both recent and old. His episodes of splitting were frequent, almost alarmingly so, and seemed to be triggered by... something. But what? What could drive him to fracture so often? And why did he never talk about his past?

Every psychiatrist who had tried to dig deeper, to extract the truth of his trauma, had disappeared. They were never seen again. Was it him? His alters? Or something worse?

The law turned a blind eye, chalking it up to his mental illness. No charges stuck—neither for kidnapping nor for the alleged murders. But it left a lingering question: why did everyone who tried to unravel the mystery of Alexander Bianchi vanish? What was he hiding?

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sudden, deafening silence in the room. My eyes darted around, searching for him. He was gone. When had he left?

Before I could process it, a searing pain exploded across my face. The impact was brutal, sharp, and immediate.

"Hah, seems like that didn't hurt you enough. Do you want more?" His voice was mocking, taunting.

My cheek throbbed, the skin stinging fiercely. I could feel his gaze burning into me, dissecting me. Summoning every ounce of strength, I forced myself to lift my head.

Big mistake.

Before I could react, he gripped my chin roughly, his fingers digging into my skin. His other hand struck my already bruised cheek with enough force to make my vision blur. A strangled cry escaped me as pain radiated through my entire face.