Sully's Secret is going to stay untouched for a bit. I'm expanding my skills a bit and writing something for my English class that I thought I'd change up a bit for you guys. Assassins Creed is another love of mine as of lately so…enjoy what my imagination creates. I own nothing.

Preface

"Every time I close my eyes, I see things I wish would be erased. But they never stop. All the chaos and blood and HORROR I saw are burned behind my eyelids. When I sleep, I don't dream. I just…relive it."

"Every time?" Those piercing brown orbs snap right to me and rack a chill down my spine by its intensity. I see the insanity, I see the fear, but I don't see the hopelessness I did the first time I visited.

"Every single time." He whispers. For some reason, the fact that his face is so calm is what shatters my heart.

XxX

"You're mad!" I grate out through clenched teeth, seething in my own rage while Mr. Vidic-my boss- merely studies my contorted face. He spins in that insufferable chair of his so he stares out at the landscape of New York. Always lovely, but that's besides the point. I've never wanted to hurt someone so much in my life! Egotistical didn't fit him; no, pompous was closer. Lack of humility was an issue, but not as terrible as his lack of understanding in the counseling field.

"Mister Hastings, you've become a highly recommended physiologist in very little time. You're considered one of the best in the building next to Miss Stillman. I'm sure you can handle this." I inhale through my nose and unconsciously push up my glasses, calming myself down. This man is mental, if not just a right out asshole. Either one he's pulling all my strings the wrong way.

"Sir," I nearly growl, "You're asking me to visit a man who is locked in his own apartment due to requests from his landlord! He's more than just uncertain of something! He could kill me!" My voice rises slightly as I set my hands firmly on his desk, drilling a hole through that leather seat with bitter annoyance. I've never refused a client. Never. But something about the profile Vidic gave me isn't right. The man's younger than me and he's labeled as some sort of sociopath. Endless domestic violence orders, loud noise complaints… He apparently served in the army, which equals post-traumatic stress disorder, or worse. All this sums up into one big stamp that says 'death wish.'

"Why don't you just have Stillman do it? She's always so willing to take jobs that'll kill her." Lucy Stillman, my frenemy that knows how deeply I despise her careless riskiness in our line of work.

Vidic turns in that chair, his surprisingly tired eyes meeting mine in a challenge. I won't do it. This bloody man could kill me and my boss wants me to go to his apartment. Alone. He sighs, and at first I believe I won until he slides the documents back over to me, his look softer for some unknown reason. I'm about to throw another angry rant in his face when he murmurs something that makes me pause.

"He needs help just as much as anyone, Mister Hastings." Guilt stomps on me stronger than I've ever felt. Damn it. I let my eyes roam down the papers, some words catching my attention. Highly unstable. Unpredictable. Not to be around firearms. What am I getting myself into?

No pictures. Just his information. I think Vidic senses my falter; I feel the papers slip underneath my fingertips and I'm forced to read over them again. I'm not actually considering am I? This man lives in the grittiest part of the city, could possibly kill me, and has a tendency to frighten those around him! And here I am, in my boss's office bloody thinking about seeing him! Forget Vidic, I think I'm the one that's gone mad. I've dealt with plenty of patients that can't deal with society, but this one seems to have chosen isolation. I sigh; I stamp my foot, and then sigh again. God this is hard. Risk my safety and see this guy, or decline and let Stillman take over? Tough choice. Mr. Vidic just watches me go through my turmoil, patiently waiting for my answer.

I raise my arms and let them drop back to my sides. He wins.

"Alright. When do I see him?" I relent, lifting the papers to seriously examine them.

Vidic sets his chin on the back of his hands, leaning closer.

"Tomorrow." The asshole knew I'd take the job.

XxX

"This doesn't sound very pleasant, Shaun." Leo confides while he sketches on his canvas, his little paint shop an absolute mess as always. Messy or not it was always a nice place to go after work. I groan and swirl my coffee as I examine the papers for the millionth time. Every time I look at them, my eyes find something new. Like the world keeps finding reasons for me to retreat and let Stillman have this one. This time it's family issues. The list never ends, does it?

"Tell me about it. It's not even the fact he's a possible sociopath. He's a former military member Leo! Do have any idea what they train those people to do?" I give myself shudders thinking about the possible skills and brutal ways those men work for hours. They become professional survivors with amateur labels. Leo reties his hair, scooting on his stool to focus on me.

"Do you have a name?" Of course I do. I already have it singed into my head. I already imagine a face to fit the name, I already dread walking to his door and saying, 'Are you Desmond Miles?' I swallow a mouthful of coffee to nod, far too conscious of my jitteriness. God, no pictures doesn't help. For all I know- this Desmond could be every smaller man's nightmare, massive, hulking anger ready to snap my neck like a twig. I'm not thinking professionally at all. I'm thinking like a teenager waiting for his bullies to come pick on him after school. I rub the bridge of my nose and pour out the rest of latte from my cup. Caffeine will not help my situation.

"If this is bothering you so much, why accept? You're always so quizzical when it comes to patients." Leonardo mentions before he turns back to his painting, as if everything was alright. As if he hadn't just proved a point. Why did I take the job if all I was going to do was moan about it? Truth be told I didn't know. I never had any deep motivation to study physiology in school. I just studied and ended up a therapist. I hadn't been the best in the beginning, being raised in a home where 'Your problem not mine' was a motto. I had grown to taking it seriously though. People trusted me with their thoughts, their fears. I guess I actually grew sympathy and understanding of other's struggles…

This Desmond Miles was struggling, or someone thought he was struggling. Whether he kills me or not, I need to suck it up and see him. Talk to him. Do what I've come to know as a career and lifestyle. I watch Leo for a bit longer, the silence giving me a heavy feeling of awareness. I was going to see Desmond, whether I wanted to or not.

Like Vidic said, 'He needs help just as much as anyone.'

XxX

"Ten-fifty." The greasy, intimidating cab driver slurs, taking my money without glance. I feel just a bit of dread when he speeds away as soon as the door thunks shut. I puffed a breath and examined the apartment address I had memorized for my visit. The building itself looked like it hated existence, covered in water stains and graffiti that made absolutely no sense at all, not to mention almost unnoticeable blood stains. Is that broken glass? I flinch as distant gun shots echo down the street. What was I doing here? Oh, right, there's a patient inside. I stand there for a good five minutes, throwing possibilities around my head and scenarios from which it could happen. I don't really get to see if there are alternatives when shouts of outrage and more gunshots hit my ear drums uncomfortably close.

I rush in like the apartment is a bloody safe haven.

The inside is just as much of an eyesore; ruined carpet, destroyed ceiling, dirt and grime on every surface possible. Somewhere in the building, awful rap music is thumping into the foundation and making old migraines resurface. It's depressing and keeps me on edge as I search every door for 33-B, having no luck. Even thought there's practically no one in the halls, it feels like I'm being watched from every angle. And I have serious doubts the place has security cameras…probably just has one bloody pit bull. A couple of shady children appear to be silently judging me as I search for the apartment door.

Of course they would be. I stick out like a sore thumb in this area; my black slacks and work shirt fitting and appearing clean, the young boy harboring jeans so baggy it's a miracle they're not at his ankles. His hat is worn backwards and he looks at me as if I'm some sort of prey. The girl-most likely his sister- has a raggedy double layer shirt and ripped up dark wash jeans, her interest in me more curious than threatening. I stop me trek in front them. The boy rises in eyebrow as if daring me to provoke, while the girl rests her cheeks on her knuckles and continues her study of me.

"Um, good afternoon; could either of you happen know where 33-B is?" The pair I've deemed siblings throw glances at each other, the cocky expression that had been on the boy's face gone. His eyes come back to me, all seriousness.

"You talking about that Miles psychopath?" The way he spits the words off his tongue like some bad meal turn my stomach in uncertainty. What could he possibly have done to anger children? Or is it their parents warning them about him, filling their heads with assumptions? My uncertainty is put to rest when the girl speaks up.

"Oh quit acting so goddamn tough, Tosh! I oughta tell Des you said that." Quite a mouth on a girl so young looking. The boy recoils from the threat and shuts his mouth, avoiding eye contact and pulling out a sucker.

"It's true, thought." He mutters grumpily and fully turns away from us. She turns back to me, no hardness in her eyes and stands. She's awfully short, her pixie-like haircut framing her face in complete openness.

"You're on the right track Mister; he lives just down the hall. But he might not answer because he's usually still asleep around this time. If you want though, I can wake him up." Asleep? Bloody asleep at two in the afternoon? Lovely. Strange sleep patterns mean complicated schedules. I throw a glance down the hall, back to the girl. Why not, today's already been jarring and it's not even into the session yet! Why not let a possible ten year old girl wake up a rumored psychotic former soldier for me? I open mouth and shrug, not having a word for objection or agreement. The girl smiles anyway and takes my hand, leading me down the hall.

"I'll be right back Tosh." She calls to her brother. He only grunts and shifts to watch us. Far too soon we're at a door at the very end of the hall, the numbers I was hunting for right in my face in faded artificial gold. The girl tries the door first. Locked. I'm about to send her off back to her brother and knock when she starts mercilessly banging on the door.

"HEY DES! WAKE UP! "She continues the banging even as shouts of anger come from doors all through the hall. I even here a faint 'shut up!' I urgently grab her shoulder as an ask of silence. She ignores me. "C'MON DES, I KNOW YOU'RE HOME." Is she mental? This man is labeled absolutely crazy and she's banging on his door as if it called her a name! Not mention shrieking through the door.

"Sweetie I don't think you should be doing-"I don't finish my sentence. A voice, groggy and just as angry as the others responds to the beat down of the wood.

"JESUS CHRIST, ALRIGHT!" Heavy footsteps come close, the sound of a latch being released right after. The door creaks open and I let my hand drop of the girls shoulder. Well, not at all what I expected.

"Lori, I'm tired as hell what is so important that you have to assault my fuck-who's that guy?" The man that answered the door was not at all what my mind had conjured up. He was no hulking, bald headed mass of muscle with beady eyes and unsightly tattoos marred by scars-no, he was rather young looking, fit but not massive, shockingly soft brown eyes and one pale scar slashing vertically up his lips, two dog tags resting on his chest while a simple chain holds them. He holds zero features of a person needing help. Lori perks at his presence, ushering her hand towards my off guard form.

"This guy was looking for you, so I helped him!" The brown eyes lock on me, then I see it, small but noticeable. Something disconnected, frightening in his eyes that held the definition of insane. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes held everything. Brows clench together, scarred mouth lifts into a sneer and one hand gently rests on Lori's face. She giggles and grabs his wrist. I see the tone difference; tan against the soft peach of children's skin. Though he's picking on Lori, his eyes stay on me and I suddenly feel very naked in my two shirts and slacks.

"Nice, squirt. Now scram, I'll see you later." Without objection, Lori scampers off to her brother, the ladder now standing up awaiting her return. Awkward silence swirls in between us, his eyes making me sweat under how inflamed they are, prepared. I clear my throat, pull out my work board.

"Um, you're Desmond Miles correct?" He moves to lean against the door frame, exposing one tattoo that curls menacingly from wrist to bicep on his left arm. I believe he notices my flickering gaze, so he uses that exact arm to hold his drink that seems to have come out of nowhere.

"Depends who's wanting him." I suck in a lungful of air and jut out the papers that hold all the official notifications that I'm his therapist, one brow raising and an unmarked hand reaching to take them. I watch him read, absorb, scoff and mutter angrily.

"You never listen do you, Jean?" Said Jean is most likely the one that called the request. "He's already paid hasn't he?" I see no point in lying to him. I feel that he already knows the answer and merely wants confirmation.

"Two thousand dollars towards my boss-Mister Warren Vidic. He assigns us." He groans, scuffing a booted foot against the carpet. Those disconnected eyes come to me, and it's like I'm being stripped again, like he's thinking of whether I'm worth any trouble or not. I've never felt open to a client before. He makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat, kicks the door back so it's wide open and motions with his glass clad hand into the room.

"Might as well come in." The invitation is full of distaste, anger. I breathe and push myself in. The place isn't at all messy; granted a few forgotten take out boxes and haphazardly strewn clothes, but it was tidy enough to be respectable and held a the scent of old spice. Strange. His back is turned to me as he stretches out, several pops and relieved groans coming from him. How old was he again? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Not nearly old enough to need my help! Yet…the history of trauma and mile long list of quit prescriptions says otherwise. A medium sized T.V shouts adds while I continue to watch him trudge around his home, ripping open something with his teeth and pouring what looks like cereal into his mouth.

"Whatever it is you're here for," He manages through a mouthful of cereal, "I'm sure as hell not going back on any meds. My last set made me taste colors." I can't tell if he's being serious, but I don't push the subject. I really don't want to. I slowly slide into the spot of my brain that knows exactly what to say.

"No. You won't be put onto any medications. You're medical records shows too many negative reactions. I'm here as support, a helping ear." Those eyes come back to me for the fourth time that day, a smirk just slightly cracking that emotionless mask. He shakes his head and turns away from me, drinking milk straight from the jug.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Snarky remarks aside, he comes back into the living room, where I haven't moved an inch and drops down onto a couch that looks worse than the building. He lounges with a content sigh before he nods his head to the lazy chair closer by. "If we're gonna do this let's get a move on. Lori only stays away so long." I sit down, my clipboard in hand as he stretches out again.

"So how's this going down?" He mutters, taking a large gulp of his drink and setting it in his lap. I purse my lips, push up my glasses and tap my pen again the board. I feel able to focus on him now, inside his home and seeing him for myself. From years of experience I see the same thing lacking in his like many other patients. Hope. That's the word. His eyes are hopeless. Eyes that have seen too much and don't want to see any more, are done with processing, just letting it pass by. No more interest in what happens. Disconnected. Some words fit descriptions just right.

"You were in the army, am I right?" he freezes, his free hand slinking up to the dog tags to clutch at them like some sort of lifeline. Any sign of emotion drains away as he slowly turns to burn those brown eyes into me again. Oh yes, there it is, pointless anger, paranoia, and fear rolled into a sneer that broke the poker face, but did nothing for vacancy in his irises. Tendons in his hand became very defined and I feel an unhealthy amount of chills when he takes in a breath harshly.

"Yes, I was." He chokes, fingers stroking the indented text across the tags tentively.

"Would you mind telling me your experience?" That's the first time I see dread in his gaze. It's the moment I know this will be a very, very long session.

Well, certainly larger than I intended but, hey, if it fits. Give it a shot, yeah? Took me a bit to grow enough balls to do something as strange as this. Next chapter will be stranger. If you like review or give me follow. buh-bye!