The atmosphere is heavy, strangely electric. Maya sits at the end of one of the sofas, tucked near the fireplace. Fred has taken a seat beside her, offering a reassuring presence. Camille, quieter than ever, sinks into the cushions to her left, her eyes cast downward, her posture withdrawn. Maya feels a pang of sympathy for her, unable to stop herself from seeing echoes of her friends in Camille's pain.

Across from them, the priest, whose name Maya has learned is Elias, holds a neutral position, both physically and symbolically. He sits between Harriet and Simon, a silent buffer. Harriet watches Ashford with open curiosity, though her irritation with Simon remains intact. Simon, for his part, seems entirely indifferent to the atmosphere or any semblance of decorum. Slouched in his seat, a cynical smirk fixed on his face, he fidgets idly with a cufflink.

Ashford, meanwhile, looks regal, perched in an imposing armchair at the head of their odd gathering. The tall windows behind her frame her figure, haloing her in cold, gray light. She appears entirely unaffected by the mood in the room, her enthusiasm almost jarringly at odds with the desire to be anywhere else that Maya reads on the others' faces.

The young woman cannot escape her own thoughts, which whirl at a dizzying pace. The ancestral Hall estate. Of all places, why here? Ashford had mentioned that the owner had been "supportive" of Phoenix's mission. Was this his way of atoning for Jimmy Hall's sins? Was he even aware of his existence?

Her eyes flit briefly to the details of the sitting room, this colonial opulence steeped in India, mingling relics of another century with the ghosts of long-faded lives. A detail she had nearly forgotten surfaces again: a document she had found at the Sea View Hotel, mentioning that Jimmy's father, Hugo Hall, had been born in India. A celebrated magician of his time, according to what Rose had "told" her. It was no wonder Hugo could afford the Sea View Hotel, given the wealth this family estate suggests.

Maya takes a deep breath, trying to quell the simmering anger rising within her. Why hadn't Dr. Leclerc or Dr. Ashford thought it necessary to share this information before bringing her here? She feels as though she's been kept in the dark. A troubling thought creeps in: had they decided she couldn't handle the truth? Was this their way of "protecting" a fragile patient, or merely professional negligence?

Her gaze shifts to the others. So, all of these people have encountered Jimmy Hall, and clearly, their experiences were no better than her own. Maya looks away, feeling her stomach knot.

Ashford adjusts her posture in the armchair, folds her hands neatly on her lap, and sweeps the room with an encouraging gaze. A warm smile lights her face as she begins to speak, her voice soft but firm, rising above the quiet crackle of the fireplace.

"Thank you all for being here today. I know it's not easy for many of you. However, I firmly believe that something truly positive will come from this week we are spending together. We are here to move forward, to rebuild, and to find some measure of peace."

The words fall softly, hypnotic. Maya can't stop a shiver from running down her spine. Ashford pauses, letting her gaze travel from one face to the next, ensuring their attention.

"You've likely already gathered, through your conversations, that each of you has experienced something difficult—something that has profoundly marked you and that you still carry with you today. This event, as you may also have realized, is connected to James Hall."

Maya tenses almost imperceptibly. James Hall. The name hits her like a blow. She's never heard it phrased like that before. James. It almost sounds… normal. Human. It's not the "Jimmy" she knows, that nickname evoking a smiling monster and cruel laughter echoing in dark hallways. James Hall. For one disorienting moment, it's as if they're talking about someone else entirely. Ashford continues, unflinching.

"Before we go any further, I'd like to invite each of you to introduce yourselves briefly and share whatever you're comfortable saying about what brought you here. There's no obligation, of course, but I believe it will help us begin on a foundation of openness and trust. Harriet, perhaps you could start?"

All eyes turn to the journalist, who tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and crosses her legs with composed elegance. Her voice comes out steady, professional, but Maya detects an underlying tension—a mix of anger and frustration that leaks through her words.

"I met Jimmy Hall when he was starting out as a performer. He had a recurring act at the Sea View Hotel, which still belonged to his mother, Rose Hall, at the time. To be honest, he was talented. Very talented, even. His character, Hugo Punch, was a genuine hit. A comedian with dark, biting humor—unsettling but incredibly captivating. People would travel from far and wide to see his shows. He was spoken of as a potential big name in stand-up comedy—possibly even a national or international career."

A joyless smile flickers briefly across her lips before vanishing.

"Of course, it didn't last. Jimmy wasn't... stable. Things quickly spiraled. One night, he started insulting the audience. Not just a few provocative remarks to get a laugh—no, real personal attacks, sometimes violent. And he kept at it. Night after night. Naturally, the customers stopped coming. And then, it escalated. A guest—a woman unlucky enough to voice her opinion about his behavior on stage—ended up locked in a room. He tied her up to... God knows what purpose. The story broke in the press, of course. A scandal."

Maya doesn't react. It feels strange to hear the story recounted this way, when she's already "seen" it through spectral memories, fragments of the past trapped within the hotel's walls. It makes something she'd prefer to keep as a nightmare feel all too real.

"I was just starting out. I wrote a few articles about it, nothing remarkable. But... after the dust settled, I started looking into the story more closely. Rose Hall, his mother, died in a fire not long after. Jimmy inherited the hotel. That's when I wanted to dig deeper. As a journalist, it felt natural. A place shrouded in mystery, a man with a scandalous reputation... it was a story worth investigating. I requested an interview. Jimmy agreed. At first, everything seemed... almost normal. He was even charming, in a way. But clearly, my questions started to bother him. Or maybe he planned it from the start, I don't know. Either way, he locked me in the hotel's walk-in freezer. Can you imagine? A freezer. He left me there, alone, in the dark. For hours. I thought I was going to freeze to death."

She straightens up, reclaiming her detached demeanor, but Maya notices the flicker of anger in her eyes.

"Of course, by the time I got out, he already had his story prepared. He claimed I'd entered the hotel without his permission, that I'd been snooping where I shouldn't have, and locked myself in like an idiot."

She lets out a bitter laugh.

"Naturally, people believed him. They accused me of professional harassment. And I had to live with that. So, there you have it. That's why I'm here."

Harriet finally falls silent, folding her arms across her chest. Ashford claps her hands enthusiastically, her smile wide and encouraging. She glances around at the others, hoping to inspire them to join in.

"Come now, let's show Harriet some support! That was brave, wasn't it?"

But her attempt falls flat. The priest offers a polite nod, Camille lowers her eyes to her hands, Fred watches the scene with a neutral, almost professional expression, and Simon chuckles softly under his breath. Undeterred, Ashford shifts her attention to the clergyman.

"Elias? Would you like to share next?"

The priest sits up slightly, and for the first time, Maya hears his voice—soft and deep, with an accent that hints at rural origins.

"My experience is likely quite different from Harriet's... and, I believe, from all of yours." He pauses, his gaze drifting briefly toward the fireplace, as though searching for the right words. "I knew Rose Hall very well. And Jimmy too. They were a family... that endured much suffering."

Harriet's sharp click of the tongue cuts through the silence, her irritation obvious, while Simon rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. Elias raises a calming hand, seeking to defuse their reactions.

"I'm not saying this to excuse anything. The things that happened in that hotel... they're inexcusable. I know that. But... I believe it's important to understand. To understand where the darkness inside a person comes from."

His gaze sweeps across the room, lingering briefly on Maya.

"That's why I'm here. Because I've never gotten over the failure of being unable to help a soul in pain."

He falls silent, his statement hanging in the air like a confession. He doesn't seem inclined to elaborate further. Harriet shakes her head slightly, as if unsure whether to feel anger or exasperation. Ashford, however, tilts her head respectfully, thanking the man with quiet sincerity.

"Thank you, Elias," she says softly. But this time, she doesn't attempt applause, sensing the mood in the room isn't suited for it.

She turns toward Simon, her kind smile still intact.

"Simon, would you like to add something?"

Slouched on the couch, Simon rolls his eyes and folds his arms.

"Nope. Nothing to say."

"You're here for a reason, Simon." Ashford remains patient, tilting her head slightly. "Sometimes, starting to talk can be freeing."

"I'm here because my probation officer said it'd look good on my record," he says with a soft laugh, dripping with contempt. "There, that's my reason. Happy now?"

"Perhaps you could tell us what you think of Jimmy. What he represents to you?"

"What he represents?" Simon arches an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "A nutjob. Completely cracked. A guy who didn't have all his lights on. He used to claim it was his crappy comedic alter ego, Hugo Punch, taking over. Can you imagine? Honestly, I don't care what he did to other people. He was a lunatic. He's dead now, right? End of story."

A heavy silence follows his declaration. Maya wonders how someone like Simon could have never heard Jimmy talk about Hugo Punch like that. She herself never quite knew what to make of the story of the alter ego—this idea that Jimmy Hall and his comedic persona weren't just different roles but almost distinct entities, one the antithesis of the other.

She recalls her "conversations"—if they could even be called that—with the ghost of Rose, through the old spirit box she found at the Sea View Hotel's reception. Rose's ethereal voice had explained that Jimmy and Hugo were as different as oil and water. That it wasn't really Jimmy committing those horrible acts, but Hugo Punch, as though another personality took over him at times, like those sordid tales of multiple personalities getting the better of their host.

Maya can believe the idea of two personalities coexisting within him. The notion of a fractured mind, a man lost between his two faces, both disturbs and fascinates her. But another part of her rebels against this explanation. It sounded more like a Hollywood script than reality, strange as hers had been. And what wouldn't a mother say to protect her son, after all? She remembers the almost desperate tone in Rose's voice when she spoke about Jimmy. Maybe it was her way of comforting herself, convincing herself that her son wasn't entirely to blame for his actions. Maybe Rose was just trying to shield herself from the guilt of having let him become what he had become.

"It's not our place to judge what Jimmy Hall did or didn't do," Ashford remains composed. "We're here to explore how you feel about it."

"You want to know how I feel?" Simon chuckles again, shaking his head. "Alright, no problem. My balls itch. There you go. Does that help with your little seminar?"

Fred shakes his head slightly, a faintly ironic smile on his lips, as though observing a lost cause. Ashford stays stoic, though Maya detects a hint of tension in her eyes. She takes a slow breath before responding.

"We'll come back to you later, Simon. Perhaps you just need some time to feel ready to talk."

Simon doesn't reply, simply staring into the fire with a defiant expression. Ashford then shifts her attention to Camille, who looks as though she wishes she could sink into the couch and disappear.

"Camille, would you like to say a few words?"

The young woman shakes her head slowly, her hands nervously twisting together in her lap. She doesn't even lift her gaze. Ashford nods with understanding.

"That's alright, Camille. You don't have to say anything. Being here is already an act of courage in itself. Take your time."

She pivots to Fred now, her smile warmer this time.

"Fred? Perhaps you'd like to share?"

He sits up a little straighter, leaning his elbows on his thighs and tilting his head.

"Sure. My wife and I decided to spend a romantic weekend at the Sea View Hotel. It was... supposed to be a nice break from our daily lives," he sighs, his voice growing heavier. "But there was... an altercation between Jimmy and me. We had an argument. I don't want to get into the details, but... my wife stepped in."

He stops, swallowing hard.

"She fell. And it was a bad fall."

A silence follows, and Fred seems to struggle with the next words.

"I know it was an accident. I do. But... I can't shake this... guilt. It haunts me."

Ashford listens attentively, nodding gently.

"Thank you, Fred, for your honesty. And we'll hold onto that word, guilt, as we move forward. It's very important. Thank you for that as well, Fred."

Maya, however, feels perplexed. She can't help comparing this account to everything she knows about Jimmy Hall. What Fred describes feels strangely... off. It's not that she doubts his story, but... she struggles to imagine Jimmy engaging in an open, physical confrontation that would escalate like this.

Jimmy was nothing like that. He was calculating, cunning, almost theatrical in the way he manipulated and terrorized. He never acted directly. Even at his most brutal, he remained methodical, exploiting every opportunity to surprise and dominate.

Maya's hand unconsciously drifts to her forehead, brushing against the base of her hairline, where she feels a faint scar—a remnant of the blow Jimmy had dealt her with a cricket bat. That strike had been sneaky, coming out of a dark corridor when she least expected it. Not a direct confrontation, but a carefully planned ambush.

So why does Fred's account feel so... different? Maya glances at him out of the corner of her eye, studying the profile of the man sitting nearby. He seems sincere, but something feels off.

"Maya?"

She suddenly starts, realizing that Ashford has been calling her for a while now, and the others are staring at her. The psychiatrist, as calm and composed as ever, smiles at her gently.

"Your turn, Maya."

The young woman hesitates. A fog settles in her mind, a sense of detachment, as though everything happening around her is too distant, too hazy to grasp. She stammers a few words before pulling herself together, her gaze fixed on the floor as if trying to gather her thoughts.

"I came across Jimmy last year, and he... he trapped me and my friends. I..."

"Wait... I remember now!" Harriet's face lights up suddenly, as if something clicks in her mind. "I wrote an article about you! You're the last person to have seen Jimmy before he disappeared in the Sea View fire."

A cold shiver runs through Maya at the sound of those words, as though her whole body recoils inward. She hates the direction this is taking, hates the echo of her own words reverberating back at her. Even more when she sees Simon raising an imaginary glass in a mocking toast, a gesture devoid of respect. A wave of irritation rushes through her, hardening her expression in an instant.

"This isn't a story to take lightly!" she snaps, her tone firm, almost biting.

She briefly closes her eyes, focusing on the faces of her friends as they flash through her memory—the horror of what they endured together... and the one who chose to end her life rather than face those memories.

"People died because of him."

Ashford intervenes with a calming gesture before the tension in the room can rise further, her voice soft and steady.

"Again, we're not here to determine whether Jimmy was guilty or not," she repeats.

Simon exhales loudly, his tone almost disdainful. Ashford turns to him and continues, her tone firm yet kind.

"What matters, as Fred expressed earlier, is the concept of guilt. Each of you was recommended for the Phoenix program, either by loved ones or your therapists, because you carry a heavy weight—a suffocating sense of guilt that overwhelms your lives. The purpose of this therapeutic week is to help you free yourselves from that burden. Our program is designed to assist people like you, paralyzed by their pasts, their guilt, their behaviors, their beliefs... all these absurdities."

Maya frowns at these last words, an uncomfortable feeling growing within her. She's not the only one.

"Absurdities?" Elias reacts, not upset, but clearly puzzled.

"My apologies, I misspoke," Ashford says, sensing the unease in the room. She continues her explanation, her tone calm and almost professorial, as if presenting a simple, undeniable truth they hadn't yet grasped.

She stands slowly and walks around her chair, choosing her words carefully as she speaks.

"It is imperative that you understand guilt is not a natural emotion. It is a constructed one, shaped over time. It's a social product, more than a spontaneous reaction of the body or mind."

She lets her words sink in before continuing.

"Guilt originates from various social elements. It is cultivated by educational systems, reinforced by cultural norms, propagated by religious structures, and fueled by mechanisms of social control. It's not an innate response but a construct imposed upon us to maintain order."

Maya feels her frown deepen as she listens. She has to admit she's never thought of guilt in this way—as something forged, passed on like a social virus. Yet something about it unsettles her. Ashford continues.

"Guilt is shaped through psychosocial mechanisms. We internalize it from a young age, absorbing societal rules and the expectations of others. It results from the internalization of norms, moral sanctions, and behavioral conditioning. Often, we act according to what society expects of us, and when we deviate, guilt corrects us. Thus, it serves primarily a societal function. It's a tool of social regulation. It acts as a mechanism to control behavior, a means to maintain collective cohesion. It ensures that individuals don't stray too far from the group's expectations and that they adapt to its norms. It's a sophisticated construct—not an intrinsic emotion, but a way to ensure societal order."

A heavy silence falls over the room. Everyone seems a little unsettled by this perspective, clearly not expecting it. Camille's small voice finally breaks the oppressive quiet.

"And... what if... you have done something wrong?" Her voice cracks, as though the effort to speak is too great.

Ashford smiles, calm and reassuring, as if she had anticipated the question.

"Well, that's the whole point. Guilt has nothing to do with it. But don't worry, we'll start there."

She quickly heads to a door at the back of the room—the bar, if Maya remembers correctly—momentarily breaking the tension in the air. A few seconds later, she reappears, looking slightly more cheerful, carrying a set of small white cloth dolls. She distributes them one by one, her expression filled with satisfaction, as if this marks the beginning of an important ritual.

"These dolls represent you. Specifically, they represent your past self," she pauses, observing the participants' reactions as they take the dolls—some intrigued, others perplexed, with Simon outright disdainful. "You can modify them if you wish, even attach a photo of your younger self if you have one. It might help strengthen your connection to your past."

She smiles as she looks at each person, as if awaiting a reaction.

"Your first exercise will be to spend your day with these dolls. Yes, you heard that correctly. I'm asking you to carry this doll everywhere with you. I want you to spend the day thinking about everything that weighs heavily on you—everything holding you back, everything you'd like to let go of. Let this little doll carry that burden for you, symbolically. What you feel, what you want to release, entrust it to the doll."

She pauses, her expression becoming more solemn.

"Put intention into the exercise. This is your moment to truly reflect on what weighs you down, what keeps you from breathing freely, from letting go. We'll meet again tonight for the next exercise. Take this time to reflect, to accept the idea of letting go of some of what still binds you to the past."

The room slowly returns to calm as each person takes their doll. Maya, examining the small cloth figure in her hands, can't help but feel a strange mix of skepticism and curiosity. The idea of confiding her pain to a cloth doll feels almost too simple, too theoretical. Yet she has no choice but to follow the exercise, just like the others.

Gradually, the participants stand, each leaving the room in a puzzled silence. Maya isn't sure what to do or where to go next. The exercise seems so... disconnected, almost like a child's game. Yet a strange pressure grips her, as if she has just been drawn into a scenario she didn't choose.

Fred passes by her on his way out, smirking slightly.

"Just when you thought things couldn't get any weirder, huh?"

Very true.